Harriet stuck her head out of her compartment and looked up and down the train carriage, brow furrowed. It was just as she thought, she was the only living being in that carriage-perhaps the only person currently on the train at all. She closed the door of her compartment and sat down with her fists clenched at her knees. She felt uneasy. As she stared out of the window, it seemed that the same scenery was passing over and over, like the train was moving in circles. Harriet slumped over and her forehead pressed against the glass. She'd been hoping for a bit of cool relief but the window pane was maddeningly warm. Her head moved this way and that, as if it were just a matter of getting comfortable, but no such luck. She felt rather like a dog taking a long trip in a hot car-like she had travelled hundreds of miles, but still had hundreds of miles more to go.

Soon Harriet grew sick of it, and peeled herself off of the window, leaving an oily smear where her face had been, and left the compartment. She walked up to the door of the carriage, making out only the sound of her shoes dragging against the carpet, and her own breathing.

Harriet pulled the carriage door open, with some struggle, and immediately was met with a face full of her own hair and an earful of rushing wind. She pulled the door to the next carriage open with frantic urgency. She walked the length of the next carriage, pushing hair out of her face with a hand, and looking around. She exited that carriage, and entered the next one.

Then she had an odd feeling. The first carriage she had been in- the compartment she was sitting in had been the third one from the door. She approached the respective third compartment of the current carriage she was in, and opened the door. There was a rumple in the seat like someone had just gotten up, and a smear on the window like they had had their face pressed against it...

Harriet stood frozen in the doorway, then shook her head and retook her seat. She stared out of the window, where the same scenery as before was passing, over and over...

The door of her compartment slid open with a muffled click, pulling her attention away from the window. In the doorway stood a towering, cloaked figure, like a statue covered in a tarp. It filled the doorway, top to bottom, but at the same time looked slender, almost delicate. The figure was blacker than the night. Despite the fact that the unwavering, afternoon sunlight was pointed directly at it, it was difficult to make out. It was no dementor, the hand peeking out of its cloak-pale and smoky-confirmed that, but still, Harriet felt a slow, creeping dread, as the figure stepped into the compartment, and loomed over her.

"Be not afraid." the figure said.

Harriet only stared.

"You are Harriet Potter." The figure said

Harriet nodded.

"A fifth-year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Fifteen years old."

Harriet nodded.

The figure sat across from her- and this was rather strange-like watching a raincloud sit, and for a while it said nothing. It seemed, almost, to be steeling itself.

"Harriet, there is something I need you to do." it finally said, in a voice that was shockingly gentle.

"What?" Harriet asked, when her voice returned.

"You must defeat Tom Riddle."

Harriet's gaze fell and she actually laughed; a short, sardonic exhale.

"What, have you been living under a rock? Or did you bury your head in the sand until just now like everybody else?" she said, staring straight at the figure, even though it made her eyes water "That was already on the agenda. Part of my five-year plan, see?"

"I already know that was what you intended. What I want to do is underscore the importance of it. To make you aware of problems you had never even considered."

Harriet noticed that the figure, seemed to, for lack of a better word, come into focus. The darkness was ebbing away, slowly but surely, and Harriet was sure she could make out the figure of a woman.

"What do you mean by 'problems I never even considered'?"

"Well, you probably are aware of a few things..." the figure seemed to look at Harriet, maybe waiting for her to contribute, then said, "The odds are stacked against you. Tom Riddle is many times more powerful than you, Albus Dumbledore won't be around for ever, and there are those in your midst who would betray you, if given the chance. That you will win is no guarantee."

"Right, so no more pressure than OWLs..." Harriet muttered," So what about what I haven't even considered?"

"I am sure you understand the concept of alternate realities?"

Harriet furrowed her brow at the figure, nodding.

"Various instances of yourself, spread out, all over space-time, some very similar, some exceedingly different…"

Harriet nodded, wondering where the figure was going with this.

"This concept is very real. Infinite realities exist simultaneous with your own, their scope and number are ever expanding with every choice you make, and influenced by innumerable external factors. There are realities in which you lived a long and peaceful life, there are realities in which you have, by now, already died a violent death—but in this one, your current one, you must defeat Tom Riddle."

Harriet glanced out at the endless scenery. "So what haven't I considered?"

The figure, hesitated.

"The Tom Riddle in your reality is a particularly desperate wizard... This concept I have explained to you. He has gotten particularly interested in it. He is making research, soon he will probably chase down experts in the field, start making experiments..."

"So you think he's going to try hopping dimensions?" Harriet said, incredulously.

"It's likely."

"But-" Harriet shook her head, wondering what sort of strange dream this was. "But that's all bullshit. "Alternate realities" are a fringe theory." Hermione must have given an impromptu lecture on the subject at some point. That was all she could remember of it.

"No, they are very real. I am in the business of managing them."

Harriet's eyes shot up at the woman. Her eyes were nearly visible now, and they looked earnest.

"So what are you, God?"

"No" she said, without elaborating.

"Is that where I am now? Some kind of 'alternate reality'?"

"That's not important right now. What you need to know is what I have to tell you. We're running out of time."

"Time for what? What's going on here-?"

"Just let me explain!" The woman bit out, for the first time sounding agitated.

The woman sighed, and took a moment to collect herself.

"I called you here because I believe that if Tom Riddle keeps pursuing the path he's started on it will spell disaster, not just for you and your loved ones, but for the nature of your world and countless ones like it."

"And how am I supposed to stop it? You said my chances were bad even without the alternate reality stuff-"

The woman put her hand up to quiet her, and Harriet saw her clearly for the first time. Her size had melted away with the darkness-she was hardly taller than Harriet now. And she looked very familiar. Her hair was a nearly white sort of blonde that shone in the sunlight, and her eyes gleamed silver. Even unobscured she was tough to look at, from the unnerving strength of her gaze.

"If you can see me that means I'm very near through here, so don't interrupt me until I'm through." she said, very urgently. Without waiting for Harriet's approval she said. "I called you here not just to tell you what you're in for, but because I planned to help you." Harriet's eyes widened and she continued. Voldemort will have the benefit of experience and free time to do as he likes, but I will give you a certain advantage he doesn't have."

"Foreknowledge." she said, looking Harriet hard in the eye. "I will give you foreknowledge—at least, in a sense. There are several alternate realities that can be considered 'neighbours' of yours, where events line up-not exactly, but uncannily close. Close enough that you could feel safe making bets, if you knew enough about all of them."

"So, you're going to tell me about them?" Harriet said, disbelievingly. It would be an amazing boon. Close to seeing into the future...

"I can't. That would take more time than we have here. What is going to happen is that you will wake up in your own bed, well enough but feeling rather sick, and you will start to have dreams and visions of the alternate lives you lived.

"And that will help me defeat Voldemort."

"It should..." The woman said, a bit to vaguely for Harriet's taste

"Those-Those other…instances—of me…they beat their versions of Voldemort, right?"

The woman faltered. For once it was her who seemed to have trouble making eye contact.

"They-did not..."

"Even after you helped them?" Harriet said, with growing unease.

"I did not help them!" the woman rushed to clarify. "You are the only one I have approached-"

"Why the hell not?" Harriet burst out. "If you could just pluck them away and tell them the future like you're doing with me-"

"It's against the rules!" The woman returned. "Reality Gardeners are not supposed to directly interact with any mortal beings. Our job is strictly to correct major universal anomalies, the rest is just observation. I've ignored a dozen directives to get you here and speak to you, and I did it because I think Lord Voldemort will become a major universal anomaly if no-one stops him, despite what my superiors say."

"You should have done this sooner." Harriet said, feeling disbelieving rage wash over her. "You should have helped those other people. Voldemort wouldn't stop just because he killed me. All those lives lost..."

"I could not help them. I am not all powerful. If at all I was, a gamble like I am taking would be unnecessary. Even the help I give here will not necessarily save you completely—it will require, in large part, your own good judgement."

Harriet sunk low in her seat, air leaving her mouth like a deflated tire.

"My own good judgement—bloody hell…" Harriet looked out of the window for the first time since the figure had entered her compartment. The train chugged along, still passing the same scenery endlessly, rolling mountains and waving tree-tops. "Do you know what happens when I use 'my own good judgement'?"

"Your judgement is…flawed, yes, like any living being's—but it is better than you realize. This foreknowledge you receive can be a great boon."

Harriet put her chin to her palm. The outlines of the tree-tops waved up and down as the train sped through the country. The pattern repeated perpetually, like waves coming to shore and pulling back into the ocean.

"You're not omnipotent, but you know the future don't you? Don't you already know how all of this ends?"

"I do not know the future. I know the past. The lives which those other Potters lived. I know the events of your life up to this point as well, and they line up uncannily with events in the lives of your peers in other realities, so I presume they will continue to line up. I know Tom Riddle plans to upset the natural order because I know he has, already, done extensive research into it, and Tom Riddle is not the sort to research something unless he means to put it into practice. If he means to go as far as I think he will, everything you hold dear will be in grave danger."

Silence reigned. The train rolled on its tracks, rattling intermittently. The mountains and tree-tops continued to pass.

"I can feel myself going." the figure said, and even as Harriet watched darkness seemed to steal over her, as if she had stepped from sunlight into the shadows. "I will give you the memories of your alternate selves. They will come slowly, you won't make sense of them if they come all at once. It will be your choice whether you make use of them or disregard them."

Harriet tried to think of something to say.

"I must go." The figure said. Its voice had shifted, like it had moved away from her. She heard the compartment door slide open.

"Wait-!" she snapped around—but the figure had already disappeared, leaving the compartment door half open.

Harriet left her seat and stepped half out of the compartment. She looked up and down the hall, but the train was empty, just as if no one had ever set foot on it but her. She closed the door of her compartment and settled back into her seat, dread mounting as she gazed out the window at the same undulating scenery. The train rattled over its tracks. The rattle was discontinuous, but rhythmic—the sound of the train's wheels passing over joints in the tracks. The rhythm was interrupted by the train suddenly hooting its horn. It was a hoot like Harriet had never heard before. Low and slow and moaning, like the train was in physical agony. The world turned red around her, like the sun was blotted out by a blood moon—

Then her eyes snapped open and she sat bolt upright in her bed. Her nightgown clung to her body with cold sweat. At the same time, she had to throw her blanket off of her for fear of suffocating. She swung her legs off her bed and her feet met the cold floor with a physical shock. It took a while to find her bearings. She was on her bed, in her room, at 4 Privet Drive on a moonless night, and she was nauseous with dread. Her body shuddered and her fists clenched almost painfully.

Here she was, not yet fifteen, not yet halfway through with Hogwarts, not a witch of any competence besides, and somehow, she was expected to carry the fate of the world—of many worlds in fact—on her small shoulders, with tentative help from some alien creature which admitted it was taking a chance.

She got to her feet, legs wobbling, and crossed her room like it was a tundra in a snowstorm. She turned the knob slowly, not from weariness but caution; the Dursleys were not hard to wake, after the incident with Ron, the twins and their flying car in the summer after her first year. She closed the door slowly and leaned on it until it clicked. She moved across the hall, the only sound being her nightgown trailing along the floor, and made it to the stairs. She had to lean on the railing, but got down the stairs quietly, even skipping the creaky stair near the bottom. She had to rest at the felt ill. Was it a fever? Dread was never this physical.

Harriet passed the house phone on the wall before she got to the kitchen and stopped short. She remembered suddenly, that day, two years ago, when Ron had called the Dursley's home remembered his shouting, because he didn't know Muggle phone etiquette, Uncle Vernon's shouting, because he hated wizards…She reached out for the receiver but stopped halfway. She did not know Ron's number, or even if the Weasleys had a phone number—he might have been calling from a payphone on that was no point sending a letter. His replies were crap, when they came.

She entered the kitchen, which was nearly pitch black, only the vague shapes of the drawers and cupboards were visible. No matter—she knew this kitchen like the back of her hand by now. She'd cleaned it from top to bottom for years. She came up to the drawer she wanted and opened it fractionally.

With the tips of her fingers, she pulled out Aunt Petunia's favourite knife. Petunia valued this knife more than her only niece. One afternoon, when Harriet cut herself while chopping onions, Petunia hissed and spat; "Blood, on my best cutlery!" and herded her away, before the onions were dirtied.

Harriet held the knife up to eye level, considering it. Just then a dim light shone through the window, bringing the kitchen into relief and gleaming on the blade. She looked out the window in puzzlement. The kitchen faced away from the street; it couldn't be the streetlights. She looked out the window and saw it was not, in fact, a moonless night like she had thought. The clouds had rolled back, to reveal a full moon. She remembered another full moon, near the end of her third year, when she and Hermione had travelled through time, and ran up and down the Hogwarts grounds, trying to save Sirius and Buckbeak's lives. Time travel was one thing,she thought, but Harriet wondered what Hermione would think of alternate realities. She realized she would never know.

Suddenly the weight of what she wanted to do hit her in a shuddering gasp—but what did it matter? What chance of survival did she have anyway? Several versions of herself had failed to defeat Voldemort, and that was without the reality hopping agenda he apparently had in her world. That creature on the train said it would "help" her, but that help was probably dubious, that help relied on her "own good judgement". So far, her own good judgement had gotten one innocent boy killed. How many more would be next?

If she just removed herself from the equation, things would work out. The creature said Voldemort was desperate, but for what? To see her dead, obviously. Voldemort was arrogant. With his greatest enemy dead, his desperation would subside. He would rest on his laurels. The creature said Dumbledore's days were numbered, and yes, the man was old, but he could do quite a lot before his time was up. And a traitor in their midst? That had to be Snape, anyone could tell you that. Dumbledore made a show of trusting him fully, but surely he couldn't be so naïve?

Her mind was set. Harriet brought her left arm up, the sleeve of her nightgown dropping easily down to her elbow. The nightgown was a cast-off from Petunia, but so incredibly baggy that it was Harriet's private joke that they must at first have bought it for Dudley. Harriet brought the blade of the knife to her wrist. It gleamed in the dim moonlight, shining against her pale skin— the power of stainless steel. She pressed the blade to her skin, lightly at first, then dragged the knife savagely across her skin. She felt the stinging pain of her blood vessels exposed to air, as her blood splattered onto Petunia's gleaming tile floor. Her arm throbbed—the pain was incredible—but it wouldn't work with just one cut. She pressed the blade to her skin again.