Sorry for the long delay. I'm on vacation, so the next one may be late (or absent) as well. I'll try my best to get it in on time.

[Tuesday, November 26, 2019]

Tuesday morning, Chris was the first one down for breakfast. Beating Wyatt wasn't unusual, but Prue, very much a morning person, rarely started her day late. When she did finally make it downstairs, she looked pale, which made the dark smudges under her eyes stand out all the more. Chris and Wyatt were already finishing their cereal and preparing to leave.

Piper frowned at her daughter. "You okay, sweetheart?" She tilted up the preteen's chin and pressed the back of her wrist against her forehead. "You look a bit under the weather."

Tugging out of her mother's loose grasp, Prue shrugged. "M'fine," she mumbled. She had little experience lying to her parents and suspected that one look into her expressive eyes blue eyes would give her away, so to prevent that she avoided making direct eye contact altogether. Instead, she cast a sideways glance at her brother, busily shoveling papers into his knapsack at the kitchen table. "Uh, Chris?" she squeaked, the attempt at casual causing her voice to rise a couple octaves higher than usual, "Can I talk to you?"

Chris glanced up from his knapsack. "Uh… I guess," he said skeptically.

Instead of speaking, Prue hurried out of the room, clearly expecting Chris to follow. Sharing a bewildered glance with Piper, he paced after his sister.

"What do you suppose that's about?" Wyatt wondered aloud.

Once they reached the living room, out of hearing range of the kitchen, Prue spun around to face her brother, nibbling at her lower lip nervously. He crossed his arms and pierced her with his most exasperated look. "Well?" he said.

Prue took a deep breath, as if to steel herself, though for what, Chris couldn't fathom. Then, in one quick exhale, she blurted out, "I had a premonition last night."

"A premonition," Chris repeated, raising his eyebrows. "All right. Is there a reason you're telling me?"

Prue laced her fingers together, staring deliberately over Chris's shoulder at the upright piano collecting several years' worth of dust. "It was about you. I think. I'm pretty sure." When Chris said nothing, eyebrows rising still higher, she shrugged defensively. "I never saw your face, okay? But it was you." She drew in another deliberate breath.

Chris could hear the seconds tick by on the clock stationed behind him on the piano. Turning to stare at it pointedly would have been a bit too obnoxious, even for him, but he couldn't prevent his foot from beginning to tap out an impatient rhythm against the hardwood floor. He watched her shrink back and might have felt a stab of guilt if it weren't mere minutes before he had to head to the bus. "Okay. So what happened?" he wondered sarcastically, "Was I a millionaire? Did Mom and Dad buy me a car?"

Despite her self-consciousness, she glared at him. "Be serious, Chris. This isn't funny."

Unable to conceal his annoyance, he threw up his arms. "Well, you haven't told me what 'this' is," he pointed out with exaggerated sweetness.

With a hard swallow, Prue averted her eyes. "I'm pretty sure I saw you"—she lowered her voice dramatically—"die."

"Die." When she peeked at him through the curtain of hair that had fallen into her face, he looked terribly unimpressed. With a dismissive shrug, he said, "So what else is new?"

"Chris, I'm serious," she insisted, unsure how to convey the gravity of the situation any better than she already had. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the cycle begin fresh. She opened her hands, palms up, in front of her in a desperate bid for him to listen. "It actually happened this time, that's what's new."

She wasn't sure if it was her tone, the pleading in her eyes, or something else entirely, but Chris sighed, letting the irritation bleed out of him. "Fine," he huffed, raking a hand through his hair. "So when does it happen?"

Prue wrung her hands together. "I don't know," she admitted in a tiny voice.

He pursed his lips, closed his eyes for a moment as if staving off a migraine, then said practically, "Well, how old was I?"

"I don't know," she whispered again.

Releasing an exasperated puff of air, Chris rolled his eyes. "Helpful." He took two steps over to collapse on the nearby couch, but Prue marched over to plant herself in front of him once more. Using his new position, he discreetly glanced at the clock now directly past her shoulder. If he didn't leave in the next couple of minutes, he would miss the bus. onto the couch. "So what do you want me to do about it?" he demanded.

Finally, Prue felt she was getting somewhere. She launched into the ideas she had mulled over when failing to fall back asleep in the wee hours of the morning. "You could try something, a spell or a potion, that will tell you more about—"

"Oh no, no way," Chris interjected, waving his hands to silence her. "I'm not messing with the cosmos like that." He jabbed a critical finger in her face. "You're the one who sees the past and future, not me. That power's not meant for me."

Scowling, Prue said, "Well, I can ask Mom and Dad for—"

"No." Chris jumped up from his seat, sending her stumbling backward in her haste to avoid collision. "With everything that already happened? They barely let me out of the house these days. Look…" He massaged his temple with two fingers. "I'll figure out some kind of spell to try after school. Just don't tell Mom or Dad. Deal?"

"Okay," Prue replied, mollified.

Chris led the way back to the kitchen, where he grabbed his bag off the chair and shoved the strap over his shoulder. At the two questioning looks from his mother and brother, he rolled his eyes. "Don't ask me, she's crazy."

"Am not," Prue snapped from behind. But neither one said more on the subject.

"Well, can we go?" Wyatt demanded instead of pressing the topic. Chris grunted in the affirmative and followed Wyatt to the front door. He cast one cautionary look over his shoulder, wordlessly warning Prue to keep her silence, before marching out of the house. They made it to the bus stop just as the bus pulled up to the curb.

Chris found it difficult to pay attention in class that day. His mind kept straying back to the bizarre conversation with his sister. Under normal circumstances, he would not have taken it too seriously. How often in their lives did they come close to death? Added to that his sister's propensity toward the histrionic, and he felt more than justified in ignoring her dramatic portents.

But something niggled in the back of his mind, something he couldn't put his finger on at first. It took him until third period for a memory to drift to the surface: a conversation he had had with a mysterious creature while dying of darklighter poison. "We will meet, Christopher Halliwell, but not today." Soon, had been the implication. And with them, too, had been the Angel of Death. Was the man another Angel of Death, preparing Chris for their final meeting?

He couldn't help but turn this brief communication over and over in his mind, but doing so provided no answers. Maybe there was something to Prue's premonition, after all. By the time the last bell rang, a plan had already half-formed in Chris's mind. If he could just talk to that stranger again, he could clear up all the confusion, he was sure. Back at the manor, he dropped his bag by the front door and headed to his room to work on a spell.

A couple hours later, Chris found himself knocking on Wyatt's door. Scribbling busily at his desk, Wyatt flicked his wrist. The door swung open to admit his younger brother. "What's up?" he asked without glancing up from his work.

Chris loitered for a moment in the threshold, but what he had to say he didn't want overheard. Stepping inside, he shut the door behind him. "I need your help," he admitted reluctantly. "And you can't tell Mom and Dad." Wyatt's hand stilled against the page. Finally, he looked up.

"Something magical?" he guessed, and Chris confirmed with a terse nod. Slowly, Wyatt pushed back his chair and wheeled around to face Chris head on. "What is it?"

Chris winced. "It would be helpful if you could, like, not ask questions," he said, looking simultaneously sheepish and guilty.

Wyatt raised an eyebrow. He crossed one leg over the other, the picture of patience. "You gotta give me something to go on."

A mysterious man warning him on his near-deathbed that they would meet again? A vision predicting his untimely demise? The less anyone knew about this the better, as far as Chris was concerned. There was only so much Wyatt would be willing to withhold from their parents. On the other hand, Wyatt was unlikely to help at all if Chris gave him nothing. "There's something about the future I need to find out. About me," he said uncomfortably.

Frowning, Wyatt began to drum his fingers against his thigh. "So ask Aunt Phoebe to read you…"

Chris held up a hand to forestall that argument. "Without involving Mom and Dad," he reminded. As soon as Aunt Phoebe found out, their parents would not be far behind. Even if Phoebe's loyalty weren't to her sister over her nephew, she couldn't keep a secret to save her life.

Wyatt shook his head in what Chris assumed was an expression of the expectation of failure, but he dutifully bounced up from his chair and allowed Chris to lead him to the attic stairs. Chris was more grateful than words that he asked no further questions.

"So I came up with a spell." He spoke softly so no one would overhear on their trek up the steps. "I just need you to provide the extra firepower since, y'know…"

"Since you're messing with the basic rules of magic by trying to tap into powers that inherently don't belong to you?" Wyatt finished for him dryly.

Chris inclined his head, grinning. "Knew you'd understand," he remarked cheerfully. They reached the attic and carefully slipped the door shut behind them, making as little noise as possible. "It's really more of a conversation," he insisted as they crossed to the center of the room, an open space that would give room for the arrival of the man Chris planned to summon. "Just someone I need to talk to."

"Uh-huh," Wyatt scoffed. "Let's just get on with it, shall we? I've got calculus to finish."

Chris unfolded a piece of lined paper with his messy scrawl and held it out for them both to read. "To help me clarify my vision / And show me the correct decision / Bring to me one who knows / What the premonition shows."

White flecks of light swirled down from the ceiling to dance around Chris, whose eyes widened in confused surprise. They multiplied, whirling faster and faster, like a tornado, until Wyatt could barely see past them to his brother's face. Chris had just enough time to say, "Uh, I don't think…" before the flecks overtook him completely and his voice when concerningly silent.

"Chris…?" Wyatt said, but he got no response.

As suddenly as they came, the lights flickered and vanished, leaving Wyatt's eyes rounder than ever. Before him in his brother's place stood a man in his early twenties. He wore a pale yellow t-shirt and dusk-gray zip-up sweater, looking entirely too normal for the circumstances. Was this the person Chris wanted to talk to? More importantly, where had Chris gone?

Wyatt took a step back, easing his body into a familiar and reassuring fighting stance. "Who are you?" he demanded, "And what did you do to my brother?"

The man remained silent, face thoughtful as he eyed Wyatt up and down. When he frowned, appearing to mull something over, the expression seemed to Wyatt familiar in a vague sort of way, as if he had previously encountered that dark hair with short, unruly locks that fell across his forehead. He had seen those thick eyebrows somewhere before. But Wyatt couldn't settle on how he recognized him. This eerie half-familiarity, along with the man's unnerving silence, disconcerted Wyatt greatly. He did not like not knowing.

More menacingly, he growled, "I said—"

The man cut him off with a sudden gasp. Voice soft with disbelief, he asked, "Wyatt? Is that you?"

While his eyes went wide, Wyatt's only narrowed further. "Yeah, it's me. Who are you?"

Still, the man didn't answer, though the oversight seemed less an intentional refusal and more a stunned silence. His gaze flitted around the room, seemingly searching for answers of his own; it lingered on the triquetra permanently chalked on the far wall. "How…" He sounded as if he spoke to himself more than to Wyatt. "How did I get here? The last thing I remember…" His eyes snapped back to Wyatt, and his voice trailed off.

"For the last time," Wyatt snarled, balling his hands into fists, "Who are you? Where is my brother?" In truth, he didn't love the idea of starting a battle with someone of unknown abilities, but he was rapidly losing his patience.

The man seemed to sense this because his eyes softened. He held up his hands, palms out, to Wyatt in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. "I'm not a threat," he assured.

This meant exactly nothing to Wyatt. A useless statement, empty words. "Not what I asked."

The way the man remained so relaxed while Wyatt's mind raced to identify an exploitable weakness infuriated Wyatt.

"I also don't know anything about your brother's whereabouts. How old are you?" he asked abruptly.

"Old enough," Wyatt grunted, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. His body hummed, his magic prickled at the tips of his fingers.

The man's gaze dropped briefly to Wyatt's fists, hovering at chest height, then back up again. "Really," he said calmly, "I'm not here to harm you. I'm from the future." He paused, frowning in consideration. "Or, well, I was. I guess I'm not anymore, not really."

Wyatt's subconscious seemed to put the pieces together before he did because his ears began to ring and heart began to race. He started to feel light-headed. Because the man looked familiar in a very particular way, didn't he? As if, in some sense, Wyatt had known him his entire life. "You… you're…" He felt his knees go weak. "You're the other one. Aren't you."

For a moment the man appeared taken aback. "They told you?" he demanded, "About me?"

Numbly, Wyatt nodded. "You're Chris," he murmured, staring at this future version of his brother. This felt too surreal to be happening. "You went back. When I was a baby."

Adult Chris shoved his hands into his sweater pockets, scrutinizing Wyatt's face. "Did they tell you why?" he asked carefully.

Again, Wyatt nodded. "I was evil. I ruled the world or something." He realized his fists were still up in a fighter's stance and let them fall limply to his sides.

"Well, North America," Chris corrected somewhat flippantly. His brow furrowed when Wyatt, without seeming to even notice, stumbled back a step or two. He couldn't be sure he would even remain upright for much longer. How was this possible? A grip fastened on his arm, anchoring him back to the present. "Easy," Chris said, one arm up to steady his—younger?—brother. "Sorry. I tend to have that effect on people." He offered an apologetic grin.

Wyatt let Chris steer him to the couch and dropped onto it with a solid thud. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

Chris stood in front of the couch, gesturing toward him. "I was going to ask you the same thing. I was in the past, and then suddenly…" His fingers gave a flourish as if to say, Voila! "Here," he finished. He shot a quick glance down at his own abdomen and added, as if an afterthought, "And healthy." Gaze returning to Wyatt, he shrugged. "I kind of figure this happened on your end."

Wyatt squirmed uncomfortably under that piercing stare. Did his Chris's eyes turn on people with that much intensity? It seemed impossible to fathom the two were truly the same person. Pinned under that expectant look, he was forced to admit, "Chris and I—the other Chris—we cast a spell."

Somehow, this Chris didn't sound too surprised by that. Then again, his expression remained so closed Wyatt wondered if he'd even recognize surprise on his face. The man said only, somewhat humorously, "Uh-oh. What for?"

Wyatt fiddled with his fingers in his lap, staring at them to avoid looking up. "Chris didn't exactly explain. Something about a premonition, I think. All he said was that he needed to talk to someone." Sighing, he rested his head against his palms, pressing them into his eyes. "This is too weird. You know"—he glanced up—"I think I remember you. Not much, but—did you used to play trucks with me?"

A voice from downstairs cut through their conversation. "Wyatt! Chris! Dinner!" Piper called.

For just a fraction of a second, a painful look cracked through Chris's careful façade, but Wyatt caught the blip before it vanished. He also heard the quiet intake of breath. "You missed her," he observed.

Chris looked away with a shrug. "She was there, back in the past, but… it wasn't the same." He seemed to take a moment, eyes closed, to collect himself. "But your mom isn't really the same either. I guess she'll never be now."

Wyatt tilted his head to peer up at his brother. "Isn't that a good thing?"

Chris smiled, a mix of emotions hooded behind the expression. "Of course," he said, "But it's still…"

"Hard?" Wyatt supplied. Chris inclined his head.

"Boys!" The voice was closer now.

Chris's eyes darted nervously toward the closed door. "We should get out of here. If Mom sees me…"

Wyatt wasn't so sure he understood the problem with that, but he nevertheless responded promptly to his brother's agitation. "We could orb to the Golden Gate Bridge?" he suggested.

"No good. Isn't that Dad's usual hangout?"

Wyatt nearly laughed. "Wh—not likely. How would he even get up there? He's been mortal since we were toddlers."

Chris's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "That's new," he remarked.

"Boys!" Piper sounded exasperated now. More importantly, she sounded as if she stood just outside the door. Time seemed to slow to an eternity as the two watched the knob twist. The creak of the hinges eked out, impossibly long. "Didn't you hear…" The moment she entered the rom, her voice petered into silence. Neither Chris nor Wyatt spoke. Piper stood frozen, one hand on the doorknob, the other limp at her side. At last, breathless, she whispered, "Am I dreaming?"

Chris's smile was hesitant, almost shy. "No," he answered, "It's not a dream."

She stepped closer, holding her breath as if afraid he might disappear if she released it. "H-how is this possible?" She came near enough to touch him now, even raised her hand to do so, but stopped short, her fingers hovering in the empty air between them. "I tried so many times—to summon you, but they said you weren't there, that you ceased to exist."

"I think that's true. At least, I don't remember being anywhere." Finally, her hand crossed the distance, grazed his arm. The scant contact seemed to propel her into action, and she tugged him forward, her arms sweeping around him. Chris tucked his arms around her back and sighed into the familiar embrace. No matter the timeline, her hugs stayed the same. "I'm sorry for what happened, Mom," he whispered into her hair. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"I'm just glad to see you," she murmured. It took a while for them to pull apart. When they did, Piper was staring at Wyatt, who had been viewing the interaction, feeling a keen sense of intrusion. "So," Piper said, significantly more sternly, "How did he get here?"

Wyatt's shoulders rose defensively. "Don't ask me. It was Chris's spell."

"Which he conveniently took with him when he disappeared," Chris observed with dry humor.

Piper's eyes narrowed at Wyatt's attempt to deflect blame. "'Disappeared'?" she repeated. "Excuse me?" Her hands, still resting lightly on Chris's forearms as if reluctant to break contact, tightened a fraction, the only tell to her spike of fear.

"Don't worry," Chris assured, flipping his arms so his hands could grasp hers. He gave them an encouraging squeeze. "My guess is he'll return as soon as I help him answer his question."

"Whatever that is," Wyatt grumbled under his breath.

"Yeah," Chris agreed, glancing over Piper's shoulder at his brother with half a grimace, "And we better find out fast before my presence begins to alter the timeline."

"What is it with you?" Piper said with exasperation, and swatted him on the arm. "If it's not 'future consequences,' it's 'altering the timeline.'" She propped a hand on each of his shoulders and met his gaze sternly. "What about saying hello to your father, hm?"

Though he tried to sound sure of himself, the hesitation in his expression, in his slightly more rigid stance, betrayed him. "I don't think that's a great idea…"

Piper arched a single eyebrow, making him feel five years old again. This was not the Piper of the past, a woman who scrambled to become someone's mother twenty-two years too early. This Piper had had years to perfect that look, could brandish it on a moment's notice. "Too bad you've been overruled," she announced. Linking her arm with his, she started to march him toward the door. With a snicker, Wyatt trailed after them.

Piper had Chris wait on the landing so she could ease Leo into the news, but Leo didn't seem interested in being eased into it. "What?" Chris heard him shout, "Where is he?" He was still wearing his Magic School robes. When he came swooping around the corner, his robe billowed behind him. He stopped short, if only briefly, when he caught sight of Chris's face.

Chris grinned a bit sheepishly. "Hey, Dad…"

Leo launched himself up the few steps and pulled his son forward, one hand against the nape of his neck, resting his chin against the young man's head. "Oh, Chris," he breathed. It took a while for Leo, shoulders shaking, to let go. When he did, he just stared, tears blurring his vision. "I can't believe you're here," he whispered in awe. He couldn't look away. "I tried to save you."

Chris dropped his gaze. For them over a decade had passed. Fifteen years to heal the painful memories that for him had occurred moments ago. And yet his presence clearly reignited that pain in both his parents, and processing that guilt seemed itself insurmountable. "I know, Dad. I'm sorry."

Leo's tears spilled over at the gentle declaration. "Don't apologize. Don't ever apologize." At a loss for words, he tugged his son back to his chest.

After quite some time, the four of them sat down to dinner. (Prue had gone to a friend to study for an upcoming test.) Piper had fretted about whipping up a special meal last minute in Chris's honor, did he have a favorite dish and how could she never have thought to ask that when he was still with them? Truthfully, it would not have mattered. His mother had died so long in his past that he could hardly remember any specific preference he used to have, consumed instead by the memory of watching her lazily from the table as she dashed to and from the stove, creating something amazing every time. Whatever she had made tonight, he assured her, would be perfect.

Afterward, Leo was reluctant to let Chris out of his sight, but eventually he had to relent and let both boys head upstairs. Wyatt followed Chris to his bedroom.

Chris stood in the open doorway for a moment, eyes roving from the band poster on the wall to the clothing strewn across the carpet to the disaster area that was his desk. "Well," he said at last, "His taste is definitely… different."

Wyatt shouldered past him to plop down on the unmade bed. "Why? How did you decorate?"

"I didn't, not really," Chris admitted with a self-depreciating grin. "I was always very… focused. And neat." He wrinkled his nose. "Didn't want to give Mom more trouble."

Wyatt's face became shadowed; he averted his gaze. "You mean more trouble than me," he said darkly. Chris said nothing. With a loaded sigh, Wyatt forced himself away from the subject to deal with their current problem. "Look, I've been thinking. We might be able to ask Prue for details. Chris didn't say, but I assume she's the one who had the premonition. If it were Aunt Phoebe, no way she wouldn't go straight to Mom."

Chris stared at him blankly. "Prue?"

"Yeah. You know. Our sister." He leaned back on his elbows, head cocked to one side as he watched Chris.

Finally, Chris set foot in his alter-ego's room. It felt strange to be back here with things so similar to his own childhood and yet, at the same time, so different. Like Prue. "We have a sister?"

Bolting upright, Wyatt said in surprise, "You didn't?"

Chris shrugged, gliding slowly around the room as he took note of more minute timeline discrepancies. If he thought back to it, though he hadn't lived at the manor for years before travelling to the past, he could almost recall his bedspread, a blue checkered something. This Chris had dark green and gray stripes. Distracted even as he spoke, Chris relayed to Wyatt, "It was just us. Dad wasn't around much. He was—" He cut himself off, eyes darting guiltily to Wyatt. "Busy," he finished vaguely.

"More evil me stuff, right?" Wyatt guessed with a dark sigh.

"It's not your fault," Chris offered. "I went back to prevent you from becoming that person." He ran a finger across a pile of loose papers spread across his desk. Notes that appeared to be from a variety of classes, all jumbled together.

"Exactly," Wyatt retorted, "It means I have that capacity for evil inside me."

"And?" Chris snorted. He certainly had not gone to all that trouble to leave hs brother with a perpetually guilty conscience for actions he had never even committed, and he very much intended to nip it in the bud immediately. "We all do. Nobody's just one thing, Wyatt. Not even the other you." Chris paused, clearly lost in a memory. "He had his gentle side," he said his voice soft, almost tender. "It's how I knew he could be saved." Whatever he was thinking dissipated, and he gave his brother a pointed look. "And obviously he had the capacity to become you."

Wyatt couldn't think of a good enough argument to that, though he didn't feel he should absolve himself so easily of blame. Instead, he returned to the previous—and safer—subject. "So who else was in the family?"

Chris took a seat at his desk, spinning the chair around to peer at Wyatt thoughtfully. "Well, Aunt Phoebe had Melinda, Kat, and the twins—"

"Whoa," Wyatt cried, holding up a hand, "Aunt Phoebe's gonna have twins?"

Chris's eyes widened. "Wait, what year is this?"

Wyatt found himself grinning, found, in fact, that he couldn't stop. He felt as if he had emerged victorious in a contest in which he hadn't even known he'd been competing. The guilt from the weightier topic o the alternate future faded from his mind. "Twenty-nineteen. November."

Chris covered his face with his hands and groaned into them. Voice muffled, he said, "I'm slipping. You can't tell anyone."

Looking entirely too pleased with Chris's discomfort, Wyatt didn't respond to this demand. Instead, eagerly, he asked, "Who else?"

Chris glared over the tops of his fingers, spreading them to say shortly, "Aunt Paige had Bobby." He stopped himself from saying more.

Wyatt narrowed his eyes. "Nice try. Aunt Paige already told us she's pregnant."

"Well, then, I guess you'll find out the baby's name with everybody else," came the smug reply. Grumbling, Wyatt tossed a pillow at Chris's head.

Prue returned home an hour later. From up in his room, Chris heard the young, unfamiliar, female voice call out a greeting to their parents. He waited until he heard the bedroom door beside his close before seeking her out.

"But first," he murmured to his reflection as he stood in front of the mirror, "A quick makeover." He didn't want to scare the girl, after all. "Hide this face with that of another / Become now Wyatt's little brother." He felt his body shrink, his hair shorten. In his place now stood a gangly teenager in an outfit three sizes too big. "Okay, different clothes," he said. His new voice sounded weird to his own ears. He began to search through the tangled heaps of fabric stuffed into his dresser drawers, sifting through everything as delicately as he could. His nose wrinkled with distaste. Finally, he found something he hoped was clean. Pulling off his sweater, he yanked the yellow t-shirt over his head and tugged on instead a dark blue shirt. He slipped out of the overlarge pants and replaced those as well.

Leaving his room, he tapped lightly on what had to be Prue's door. "Come in!" she called. When she saw who it was, she grumbled, "Since when do you knock?"

"Oh, uh… sorry?" This was not the best start.

"Well?" Prue tapped her foot impatiently, "What do you want? Did you find out about the premonition?"

"Uh, not exactly." Chris edged farther into the room, shutting the door behind him. "That's why I'm here, actually. To ask you more about what you saw."

She had turned away from him to organize a pile of notebooks on her desk. "Well, I don't know what else to tell you," she scoffed, annoyed. "Someone stabbed you. You died."

Chris winced. That sounded too close to his own experience for comfort. "Okay, good," he said. At least now we're getting somewhere.

"'Good'?" Prue echoed, frowning.

"I meant—useful." He sighed. How did one interact with a sister? He had female cousins obviously, but they had never been quite as hostile as this, at least not before they were fighting for their lives on a daily basis and butting heads about tactics (and if little girls should get involved in war). Opting for honesty to curry goodwill, he said, "Look, I cast a spell. To figure out the answer to… it, I guess. But it would really help if you could, I don't know, show it to me? Project it. You know, like Aunt Phoebe can do. Is that—are you able to?"

Arms crossed, Prue finally turned to face him. "Uh, Aunt Phoebe doesn't do that."

Mentally, Chris slapped his forehead. Will do, he reminded himself. "Right. Well, can you?" Prue only raised her eyebrows as if silently judging him. She looked so much like their mother when she made that face. "Right," Chris laughed awkwardly, scratching the nape of his neck. "Well, look, if you remember any other details, just let me know, okay?"

"Duh." Her hands went to her hips. "That's the whole point of coming to you in the first place."

"Right," Chris said again. He turned to leave.

As he closed the door behind him, he heard her mutter, "Weirdo."

Okay, he thought, not entirely pleased with how the conversation had gone. Okay. So I have a sister. Cool.

The next morning Chris was awoken by a gentle tapping at the door. He groaned, flopping over and covering his ear with his pillow. The door opened, and Piper walked in. "Chris," she said, then stepped back in surprise when he turned to look at her through squinted eyes. "Oh! You're you again!" She seemed partially relieved, but beneath that was a shaded remorse.

"What?" Chris grunted, shaking himself to further wakefulness. "Oh, no, it's still me. I, uh, cast a spell. To change my appearance."

"Oh." Piper released an ambiguous breath. "Well, it's, uh"—she chuckled lightly—"time for school."

Chris sat up fully. "Uh, no thanks."

She came to sit beside him at the edge of the bed. Ever practical, she said, "You—he—has already missed enough school the past week." Off his questioning frown, she elaborated, "There was… an incident. The main thing is he can't miss more school."

Chris flopped back against the bed and stuffed the pillow over his whole face. "Yippee…" he moaned dully, voice muffled.

Gently, Piper removed the pillow and set it down in her lap. She was smiling. "You should be glad. Chris was insistent he not miss more class."

"Well, that definitely doesn't sound like me," he intoned.

Piper's smile faltered. Her fingers began to pick at a loose thread along the corner of the pillow, drawing it out until it came free. More gravely, she said, "Yeah, well, it was a long week." She said nothing further and Chris, wisely, let the subject drop.

Chris did not have much experience with high school. He had last attended one over a decade ago, and truthfully he hadn't spent much time there even then. Shortly after the start of freshman year his mom had died, and then Wyatt had turned the mortal world on its head. After that, there hadn't been that many real facilities for education. In truth, high school scared him in a way demons and warlocks could not.

After a bouncing, uncomfortable bus ride, he stepped gingerly across the threshold of the front doors, staring wide-eyed as kids and teachers bustled around him. People stood in groups chatting. Others dug through lockers in search of supplies. From every direction came the dull roar of voices.

Chris closed his eyes. You duped the Charmed Ones for ten months without them busting you. You can do this.

A pair of hands thudding down on his shoulders made him whirl around, adrenaline spiked, ripping the grip off him in the process. A boy with curly, dirty blond hair and hazel eyes stood behind him, hands in the air. "Whoa, Chris, relax. It's just me. Jumpy much?"

Chris tried to slow his frantically beating heart with a deep inhale. A friend. "Sorry," he offered.

He followed the boy to a locker and watched him spin the combination. "I never got the chance to ask," the boy said, his voice muffled with his head inside his locker, "You doing anything for tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" Chris echoed blankly.

"Yeah." The boy sifted past a deck of cards, a couple of baseball caps, and a whole assortment of other junk to unbury an ASL textbook. "You know"—he slammed his locker door shut again—"Thanksgiving."

"Right. Uh… the usual." Chris shrugged, hoping to come off as casual.

"Yeah, same," the boy sighed.

"Hey, Ryder!" someone called from across the hall, "What was that English homework?"

Chris filed away the name as the boy beside him dug through his overfilled knapsack for the sheet where he had documented their homework. After he passed along the information, they continued walking. Chris tried not to make it obvious that he was trailing after him, clueless about their whereabouts.

"Uh, Chris?" The boy—Ryder—raised an eyebrow. "You getting your book?"

Chris's mind scrambled, but his expression remained neutral. "Right." Piper had intimated at an event, Chris assumed magical, that had prevented him from attending school the previous week. If this version of his family operated anything like his own, then the most likely excuse they relied on to cover demon attacks was illness-related. Running with that theory, he said, "I'm still feeling off from last week. My head's kind of foggy. Can you—uh—" He waved a hand at the wall of lockers. "Which one's mine?"

Now both of Ryder's eyebrows were piqued. "Uh, sure…" the boy said slowly. He waved Chris over to a locker, then added when Chris hesitated, "Need the combination?" Chris nodded with considerable relief.

He retrieved a textbook matching the other boy's from his own equally disorganized locker and trailed after the boy to head to class. He made it through sign language with minimal difficulty (and even learned during attendance that Ryder had a first name: Dwight). After that he tried to follow Dwight to the next location but got stopped in front of the boy's locker when Dwight wheeled around to face him.

"Uh, what are you doing?"

Chris stepped back. "Sorry. What class do we have next?"

Dwight gave him a once-over. "Wow, you weren't kidding about foggy." He seemed concerned. "You sure you're ready to be back?"

Chris shrugged, aiming for nonchalant. "The doctor said to expect this."

"For a messed up appendix?"

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Chris adjusted his knapsack. "Um, yeah."

Dwight looked almost almost impressed by that. "Wild," he said with a low whistle. "Well, you've got your volunteer thing at the library." He gestured vaguely down the hallway. "I can meet back up with you afterward for biology."

Chris smiled. "That would be helpful. Thanks, Dwight."

Dwight waved away his gratitude. Slamming his locker shut with an efficient flick of his wrist, he murmured again, "Wild…" and made his way to class.

Chris headed off in the direction Dwight had indicated and stumbled upon the library with little trouble. At the end of the corridor he found the giant sign over a set of double doors. The period was a useful respite from the overstimulation so far. The other student who volunteered there seemed to have little interest in carrying on a conversation. She spent most of her time checking in and putting away books, leaving Chris to his own devices. And nobody else wandered through those doors. The silence was a welcome relief.

Later, in biology, Chris was exempted from a quiz under the teacher's assumption that he had not yet caught up on all the material. Though he was lost during the rest of the class, that much, at least, was a helpful bonus.

By the time lunch rolled around, the pretense of familiarity with everything and everyone had Chris exhausted. He almost wanted to escape back to the library, but Dwight was already steering him onto a bench in the cafeteria. Chris was powerless to stop him.

Lunch, at least, passed quickly. Chris kept his head down and listened to Dwight converse with the other people around them. It seemed that "feeling foggy" earned Chris a lot of leeway.

"Next is history," Dwight supplied when the bell rang. "Just try to keep your head down," he said with a skeptical expression that showed what he thought of the likelihood that would happen. The two discarded their trays, returned to grab textbooks from their lockers, and then migrated into yet another classroom.

The teacher took attendance then jumped into her lesson immediately. "Yesterday we talked about the Jim Crow laws. Which were—anybody?" She waited. Sighed. "Exactly," she said in a falsely chipper tone, "Laws that enforced racial segregation in public."

An arm in the desk beside Chris shot into the air. "Ms. Gowell, will everything from yesterday be on the test?"

The teacher pinched the bridge of her nose, clenching a sigh behind her teeth. "Let's just assume that everything I teach you has a purpose, Miss Adams. Now…"

Thinking of his other self, already so behind, Chris took diligent notes. Apparently, this was the wrong tactic because it conveyed that he was paying attention and surely wished to be called on.

"Plessy versus Ferguson. Mr. Halliwell?"

Chris's head shot up, eyes wide with surprise. Ms. Gowell's brow furrowed for a moment. "What about it?" Chris asked.

"Do you know the year it happened?" She paused, but he didn't supply an answer quickly enough. "It was in last night's reading."

Chris feigned an apologetic grin. "Sorry, ma'am, I forgot." Her frown deepened. Chris shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of her stare.

Eventually, someone said, "Uh… Ms. Gowell?" and the woman glanced away, continuing with the lecture. Her eyes strayed frequently back to Chris, but the boy's head stayed down as he scrawled busily in his notebook.

Since she didn't call on him for the rest of class, he thought he had diverted her suspicion. But when the bell rang she called to him over the din of students putting away their books and chairs scraping against the floor: "Mr. Halliwell, please stay behind."

The last one to leave, Dwight shot Chris a sympathetic wince as he passed by. Once the door had shut and the chatter of muffled voices had faded down the hallway, Ms. Gowell waved him up to her desk. Chris stood awkwardly, one hand clinging to the knapsack strap on his shoulder.

"Something wrong, Ms. Gowell?" he asked innocently.

She scrutinized him silently for a moment. Finally, she said, "You seem… not yourself."

Chris tried to inject some boredom into his voice, imagining it to be the default emotion for his alter-ego, at least in school, but his façade might have been undermined by the suddenly racing heart in his chest. She can't know. "Uh… who else would I be?"

With a wry smile, she raised an eyebrow. Propping her elbows on her desk, she ticked off on her finger as she said, "A demon, for one."

Chris backpedaled sharply into a desk. "Wh-" His mind went completely blank. The remaining noise outside the door evaporated in lieu of a disoriented buzzing in his ears. "Wh-what are you talking about?" His mouth felt dust-dry.

The women stood, her eyes narrowing. "Am I missing something here? Has there been another attack?" She tried to walk around her desk, but Chris held up his hands to stop her as the desk pressing into the back of his thighs scraped back a few feet.

He scrambled furiously to fill in the blanks, feeling out of his depth. "He—I told you about demons? About magic? Why?"

Sensing his discomfort, though bewildered as to its cause, Ms. Gowell leaned back until she was half-sitting against her desk to give him a bit of space. She didn't break eye contact, though, and crossed her arms impatiently over her chest. "All right, what is going on? Is this some sort of magical amnesia thing?"

All things considered, her guess was pretty spot on. "Did I…" Chris searched for a logical explanation here. "Did I accidentally expose my powers to you?" he guessed.

"Yes," she said testily. Then, more pointedly, "When you saved me from a demon. I'm a witch, Chris. What in the world is going on with you?" After a brief hesitation, she added, "I'm starting to wonder if you aren't actually possessed."

A witch. She was a witch. Chris ran a hand through his hair and looked away, forcing himself to calm down. At last, he said, "You're not wrong, in a manner of speaking. I'm still me, just…" He took a deep breath and plunged in. "From a different timeline."

Ms. Gowell blinked at him. A moment passed, then another. Eventually, voice weak, she choked out, "That's a new one."

Chris tried to offer her half a smile. "Not for me," he remarked dryly.

"Of course…" Attempting to collect herself—she still had two more classes to teach—she tilted her head to assess the boy. With narrowed eyes, she asked, "Do your parents know this time?"

Interesting. This woman seemed to have a bit of inside knowledge. More interesting still was that this timeline's Chris apparently withheld crucial information from his parents, too. Original Chris (as he privately thought of himself) had done the same as a child and young teen in an effort to shield his mother from the worst of his experiences. She'd always had enough on her plate. It felt comforting, albeit a bit disheartening, that he did the same here. An immutable part of his personality, it seemed, not a product of his upbringing.

"They know," he replied.

"Well, that's something." She pressed three fingers to her lips, clearly mulling something over. "Why do you look the same? If you're technically different people, I mean." She couldn't say how she knew—a shadowed darkness behind his eyes that she couldn't name, perhaps—but she sensed that the person she interacted with now was older than the fifteen-year-old stood before her. The familiar features of the teenager's face twisted in distinctly unfamiliar ways. He looked more pensive, somehow, more calculating.

"I don't," he said. It was a relief, in an odd way, for Chris to have someone to admit this to after such an overwhelming day. "This"—he gestured down to his teenage body—"is a spell. My parents didn't want him missing more school, so I get to play dress-up for the day."

How weird to hear him refer to himself in the third person! "Wow," Ms. Gowell laughed, "You really don't take a break from all this magic stuff, do you?"

Chris smiled. "We really don't."

Standing, she circled back around her desk, pulling out a notepad. "Well," she said, scribbling something down on the top page, "It's nice to, er, meet you, I suppose." With a last flourish, she tore the page off and handed it to the boy. "Just so you know, you should drop the 'ma'am.'" Her eyes twinkled. "The real Chris Halliwell is never that polite." He thanked her for the late pass and the advice and slunk out of the room.

Dwight had waited for him at the end of the hall. Lucky. He would not have had the faintest idea where to go next without him. Apparently, the teacher had anticipated Dwight sticking around because she had included his name on the slip.

That seemed to be the last of the excitement for the day. Chris got through both English and math by keeping his head down, as Dwight had advised. Dwight saw him off at the end of the day with a, "Get some rest, Halliwell."

Wyatt found him at the front doors and led him to the hidden alcove behind two air conditioning units that they often ducked behind to orb home. "So how was your first day of school?" he teased.

It felt good, though strange, for Chris to share innocent banter with his brother like this. "Hopefully also my last," he groaned. Grateful to avoid another bus ride, he disappeared back to the manor.

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