Aaaaand we're back to our regularly scheduled programming.

[Saturday, November 30, 2019]

Chris woke up late the next morning. Not wanting to make a fuss of his return, he tried to sneak down to the kitchen without anyone's notice, but Leo caught him on the stairs. "Chris, hey!" There was an almost manic joy behind his greeting that Chris had never seen in him before, one that belied an unexpressed pain. There, too, was a sense of wonder. Was this how he treated the time-travelling Chris, in awe at his presence? The poorly suppressed emotion made the teen supremely uncomfortable, as if he had stumbled on Leo crying. He wasn't quite ready to see his father as the vulnerable human and not the infallible superman of his youth. Chris was unprepared to see this man's hidden grief play out on his face.

He averted his eyes, sidling past Leo on the steps. "It's, uh, me, Dad," he mumbled. "I'm back."

Leo stopped him with a hand on either shoulder. Chris glanced up with just his eyes, suppressing the desire to squirm out of his grip. Would his father be upset to have missed the chance to say goodbye to his other son? But Leo was smiling warmly, and the pain behind his gaze had faded back beneath the surface. "Chris," he sighed, "I'm so relieved you're home."

Despite himself, Chris gave half a smile. "Thanks, Dad."

After a quick squeeze, Leo released his son, but he followed him down to the kitchen and watched Chris rummage through the pantry for a box of cereal. "Your mom's at Astronomica now. She wanted me to tell you she'd help your other self bring you back when she got home this afternoon. I guess that's not necessary anymore."

Thunking the cereal box down on the counter, Chris opened the cabinet beside the sink. The pile of nested bowls clinked together as he retrieved one from the top and set it down beside his cereal. Without turning around, he said, "It just happened last night. I haven't had time to tell her yet." Reaching inside the box, he unfurled the scrunched-up bag, then tilted it out to pour into the bowl.

The bag was almost empty. First came an avalanche of crumbs, tinkling into the bowl like dust. Chris peered inside, shook the box, and tried again. This time, the cereal poured out, not as much as he wanted but it would do. He felt far too lazy to open another.

A hand rested on his back. "You should tell her," Leo said, eyes serious. "She'll want to know."

"Forgot a spoon," Chris muttered, ducking under his father's arm and pulling open the cutlery drawer.

"Chris…"

Heaving a sigh, Chris replied, "I will, okay?" He scooped up his bowl, plopped the spoon inside, and headed toward the exit. "I promise." With Leo appeased, the teen carried his breakfast back to his room.

He did tell her, as soon as she got home that evening. Like Leo, she blinked back tears, and he felt for another moment as if he were an intruder in his own body, as if he had stolen something precious from his parents. As if their other son had died all over again. But his mother seemed to read his thoughts because she tilted his chin to face her. (Chris felt a flash of fear, as if the gesture triggered something, a memory, but one he couldn't quite recall, and then the feeling slipped through his fingers, forgotten.) She offered him a smile. "None of my feelings about him mean I'm not happy to see you back where you belong, sweetheart."

He gave a one-sided shrug. "I know."

Cupping his cheek in her hand, she said, "I mean it. I've always felt that I have three sons, not just two. You aren't the same person. He could never replace you."

He knew she meant it as a reassurance, but the statement didn't make him feel less guilty about cutting short their time together, for all that it hadn't been within his control. He wished he could give his mother something in exchange, some comfort, if he could even call it that. "He, uh…" Chris cleared his throat. "He didn't seem scared or upset… to be going. I mean, he seemed at peace." He looked away, then back. "I, uh, don't know if that helps."

Piper's eyes swam, though she restrained her tears. The hand at his cheek shifted to the nape of his neck as she drew him into a hug. Over his shoulder, she whispered, "It does, sweetheart."

Chris expected to have fallen even further behind in his classes, but his formerly-future self had kept remarkably meticulous notes. He skimmed through them only once before Monday morning and truthfully did not plan to review them again until exams arrived, but he was nonetheless grateful to have them.

At school Dwight found him before class. "You feeling any better today?" he asked.

"Huh?" Chris grabbed his biology textbook, and they headed together down the corridor.

Dwight raised an eyebrow. "You were full-on brain-numb before Thanksgiving. Like, didn't even remember which locker was yours."

"Oh. Right." Chris shrugged as they elbowed past a cluster of upperclassmen headed in the opposite direction. "To be honest, I don't remember much of it. I guess I was pretty out of it."

"I'll say," Dwight huffed.

They turned into their classroom, where Mr. Garcia was already herding students through the doorway. Chris offered a quick confirmation—"Well, much better now"—before they took their seats and started class.

For the most part, Chris managed to slip seamlessly back into his role—as son, as student, even as whitelighter. He had intended to visit Jake over Thanksgiving, especially worried when it came to holidays and long weekends, any time Jake spent an extended period with his mother, but as it turned out he needn't have worried.

"She wasn't home," Jake told him during his post-school visit that afternoon. "She has a new job at the grocery store. She hadda work a holiday shift because she's the newbie."

They were sitting across from each other, legs crossed, on Jake's narrow bed. Chris had brought a deck of cards, which he was dealing now for a fourth round of Go Fish. He found Jake much more receptive to conversation when they were otherwise occupied. As he picked up his own hand and began to sort it, Chris asked casually, "So did you have dinner? On Thanksgiving, I mean."

Jake nodded absently, focused on arranging the cards in his hand. "There was tuna in the cabinet." For Chris, whose mother went nuts in the kitchen at even a hint of the word "holiday," the way Jake had spent the evening was almost unfathomable, an affront to his sensibilities. But he tried to prevent the judgment from creeping onto his face; Jake got sensitive when it came to critique of his mother's "parenting."

"Did you do anything fun?" he asked, keeping his voice light. When Jake gave a self-conscious shrug, he said, "Well, that's fine. Sometimes it's just fun to get off school."

The boy's face brightened with relief. "Yeah, that was cool," he agreed. "And I got to drink soda 'cause Mommy left some for me. I only get soda on special days."

Chris smiled. "Soda, nice! Okay, you go first."

Darting a glance up through his bangs, Jake said shyly, "You always let me go first… You could go first this time… If you wanna."

The bashful expression and innocent offer made Chris smile. Unable to help himself, he leaned forward to ruffle Jake's moppy hair. The boy stilled for a moment but ultimately relaxed into it. Chris left his hand resting on the crown of his head for an extra second or two, then finally sat back. "Okay," he said, "Got any threes?"

By the end of the afternoon, with the sky outside the window starting to darken to a pale indigo, the two had played another six rounds of Go Fish and Jake had finished his reading homework. Chris wanted to make sure he had something else to eat besides tuna before he left. He didn't do much cooking himself—though maybe after this he would start—but boiling rice he could manage, and opening a can of baked beans was right up his alley. Jake took out the plate, cup, and cutlery while Chris shut off the flame beneath the pot and guided a dripping spoon to his own lips for a taste. The rice was a bit crunchy, but he had no idea if that meant it was over- or undercooked.

Carrying the pot to the table, he plopped a ladleful onto the plate. Jake had taken out the rest of the soda from the fridge. It had gone flat but still counted as a worthwhile treat. Once Chris had slopped some baked beans beside the rice and put the remains of both into the fridge, he wiped his hands against his pants and smiled. "Okay, I think that's my cue to leave." Jake looked up in surprise. "I had a really good time with you."

"Wait," Jake said, sliding out of his seat. Staring at the floor, he shuffled forward until he stood directly in front of the teen. Chris waited. After a long moment, Jake's arms eased around Chris's waist. His head shifted to lean against Chris's chest.

For the first few seconds, Chris stood frozen. Though he was becoming more comfortable with Chris's physical contact, Jake had never initiated it himself before. Finally, instinct kicked in, and his own arms rose to circle the boy, squeezing tightly. He almost didn't catch the muffled, "Thank you."

Chris could not reply past the sudden tightness in his throat. With one hand still pressing Jake's shoulders to him, the other moved to settle gently on top of the boy's head.

They stood there, motionless, until an embarrassed Jake, without making eye contact, carefully withdrew. Chris released him, even gave him a soft nudge toward the table. "Go on," he said, injecting some levity into his tone, "Before your food gets cold." Jake edged back into his seat. Chris had to force himself to focus before he orbed home; he felt so light he thought he might forget to rematerialize and just float away.

That tiny moment seemed to mark a turning point for Chris and Jake's relationship. With each passing visit, Jake became more open to affection. He began to initiate physical contact with great frequency. A tug on Chris's sleeve to get his attention, a hand on his arm, a bump of his shoulder. They came often, as if he had craved such interactions desperately all along. Each gesture came with a shy smile that Chris always returned, though he otherwise tried not to draw too much attention to the behavior. He didn't want Jake to become self-conscious and draw away again.

He visited nearly every day. On occasion he even ran into Carmen, Jake's mother. In these moments, Jake seemed to hold his breath, afraid of what one or the other might do, but in those couple of weeks Carmen always acted perfectly pleasant, if a little nonplussed by the teenager's presence. And Chris, knowing a poor reaction would only alienate him from his charge, remained cordial, keeping his seething to clenched teeth and forced smiles only.

At home, life progressed as well. Slowly, his parents returned to their normal levels of paranoia and began to let him out to see friends again. Whether their heightened protectiveness came from his kidnapping (which already felt like ancient history) or his place-trading with his alternate self, Chris didn't know. Regardless, he was relieved to finally see it subside. Their obsession with his whereabouts on a constant basis had had him itching to disappear.

One person he did not spend much time considering was his sister. Perhaps he should have. She was, after all, the reason his other self had made an appearance to begin with. It was her premonition that prompted it all. But, well, she was twelve. And his sister. And kind of a brat a lot of the time. It was difficult to take her seriously as a witch. Besides, Chris told himself on the rare occasion when he gave it any thought, treating her with mutual respect would only freak her out, make her think he was possessed or something.

Perhaps he should have reconsidered.

It was early in the morning, and Chris was getting ready for school. As he passed Prue (already dressed—of course she was) on his way to the bathroom, Prue turned to follow him with her eyes. "So," she said when his hand touched the doorknob, "back to ignoring me, are you?"

For Chris, who did not remember treating her any differently, the statement came out of nowhere. "What?"

"You never told me what happened with my premonition," she stated flatly.

"Oh, yeah, it's, uh, nothing. I mean, I dealt with it." He opened the bathroom door.

Prue's scoff made him turn around in the threshold. "Right. Of course." Stomping up to him, she stabbed on accusatory finger into his chest. With her dark hair swinging behind her, she looked like a miniature version of their mother. "Two weeks ago you were acting all bizarre—Lea told me you even made Katie cry by being an idiot on Thanksgiving. And you wanted my help, which you never ask for. And now you're back to being a jerk and pretending I don't exist." Her eyes narrowed. "What are you hiding?"

Rolling his eyes, Chris swatted her finger away from himself. "Stop being paranoid, Prue. Nothing's going on."

She propped her hands on her hips, leaning back to glare suspiciously into his face. "I'll figure you out, Chris."

"Whatever." He turned, smiled extra sweetly, and shut the bathroom door in her face.

He wanted to dismiss everything she said, but something continued to niggle at him, kept him awake in bed that night. When he finally fell asleep, he didn't dream. Instead, he opened his eyes to that phantom room, the place where he'd been trapped after his backfired spell. The other Chris sat casually on the worn gray couch with his legs stretched out in front of him and his hands clasped behind his head. Chris hadn't seen him since they had switched places over a week ago.

"You!" he barked in surprise.

His older self smiled. "Me," he agreed.

The memory of the seemingly interminable time he'd spent stuck here was enough to make him back up a few paces. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I've been here since you left." His older self drew his legs in and waved Chris forward again. Reluctantly, Chris stepped onto the stained, multicolored rug, gesturing toward the desk chair.

Heaving a defeated sigh, he twisted the chair out to face the couch and took a seat. "You just had to connect to our subconscious to find me again," his counterpart explained. "And you did. Which means something's on your mind."

Chris thought back to the idea that had nagged at him since his chat with Prue that morning. "Katie," he said at last. "Prue said you made her cry." They were all hypersensitive when it came to Katie. Because of her condition, they treated her… well, differently. She was the kid who got the most elaborate birthday presents, the most lavish parties. She was the one for whom Grandpa bought gifts "just because." Even her sister Lea didn't begrudge her this luxury treatment. Even with these extravagances, none of them would want to trade places with her, the girl who could never be touched, yet Katie bore it all with grace. To make sweet, docile Katie cry was an unspoken sin of the highest order.

Even Chris's adult self looked uncomfortable at the accusation. He averted his eyes and shifted in his seat. "Yeah," he admitted, hands twisting in his lap. "That was an accident."

"Geez, seriously?" Chris threw up his hands. "She's, like, the most cheerful kid on the planet. What could you possibly have said to upset her?"

The man didn't reply at first. He got to his feet and paced his way across the small rug. Back turned, he finally said, "It's not so much something I said. More did." When Chris waited in expectant silence, the man ran his hand through messy hair. "I just—it was instinct." He turned to face his counterpart, face twisted in chagrin. "I forgot about her… affliction and just… sort of…" He mimed opening his arms for a hug.

Chris's jaw dropped. "Are you joking?" he demanded. At the man's uncomfortable silence, he scoffed, "Dude, that's like her one thing. How did you forget?"

The man sighed, flopping back onto the couch. "Yeah, Wyatt said the same thing," he remarked. "It's more complicated than that."

For a moment Chris closed his eyes, trying to reclaim a reign on the protectiveness that had surged through him on Katie's behalf. He took a breath, each hand moving to rest on a knee, as his mind searched for a way to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Did she… not have intangibility in your world?" he guessed. He opened his eyes to find his older self beginning to squirm.

"No, she did," the man replied, and seemed to want to say more but ultimately did not continue.

Chris released a frustrated huff. "All right, help me out here," he grunted through gritted teeth.

After a long pause to consider, his older self surrendered. "She just… In my timeline, it's been such a long time since she let it run her life that I forgot how it used to control her."

Chris's calm evaporated. "'Let'? What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded defensively. "It's not her fault." He found his hands bunched closed on his knees.

His older self held out his hands, palms open in submission to stave off a fight. "It's nobody's fault," he rushed to assure. "We made the same mistake. Until Wyatt figured it out."

Forcing his fingers loose again, Chris grumbled, "What are you rambling about? You're not making sense."

"Look." The man expelled a breath through his teeth. "Katie's powers are just like yours or Wyatt's or your sister's. We all just assumed they worked differently." He leaned forward, forcing Chris to maintain eye contact. "But we were wrong. All she needed was to learn to channel it, to learn how to turn it off. Like how we couldn't have sleepovers until we stopped using telekinesis in our dreams. Remember that? She needs to learn control."

Furious, Chris kicked his chair back. It clattered to the floor behind him. "Shut up!" he snapped, glaring. "That isn't possible."

"It is," the man insisted.

"No." Chris stormed away from the enclosed space into the open abyss beyond it. His fists were clenched at his sides, knuckles white from pressure. In a shout, he demanded, "Don't you think if there were a way, we would have found it by now?"

A hand came down gently on his shoulder, and Chris spun around. "There is a way," his counterpart said, voice soft but firm. "I've seen it. All our Kat needed was self-discipline."

Chris shrugged off the hand. He had to physically refrain from hitting the man in front of him. "Katie's got discipline. She's got it in spades. Just getting through each day. I could never live like her. Neither could you."

"No, I couldn't," the man agreed, "And she shouldn't have to either."

Chris was almost too angry to think. If he hadn't been, he likely would have realized that this man, who wasn't evil or malicious by any means, would not say these things simply to taunt his ailing young cousin, that he would have no reason to lie about this, to grant false hope only to devastate those who cared about her most. But he wasn't thinking straight. Instead, half-blinded, he spat, "You don't think Aunt Phoebe tried binding her powers? It did nothing."

"Just because her powers are too intertwined with her existence to be bound," his other self argued, "doesn't mean they're uncontrollable." Seeing the fury simmering just beneath the skin, he backed up to give Chris some space, rubbing his temple as he did so. More gently, he continued, "Listen, I get it. You don't want to be wrong because it means all her suffering until now was avoidable. It means, in a way, you all failed. Trust me, I know." A faraway glaze shadowed his eyes, the remnants of a very similar guilt he had experienced in his own timeline. He had to shake the memories away before he could speak again. "But don't let fear of the past get in the way of helping her now."

The pain behind the man's plea siphoned off some of Chris's rage, but he still gritted his teeth to growl, "Katie already tries her best. I am not about to make her feel bad about herself for not trying hard enough. You don't know what you're talking about."

This seemed to be the final denial his older self was willing to entertain. Patience lost, he exploded, "Would you quit being so stubborn!" Swarming forward, he pressed his arm against Chris's chest, propelling him backwards until his back hit some invisible but solid wall behind him. The breath rushed out of him in a whoosh.

Suddenly, over his older self's shoulder, the small room faded. In its place rose a pillar of flames. Around it the darkness faded into splashes of color, which darkened and solidified into shapes. Tall, thick elm trees, their canopies burning. Surrounded by decayed facades of old office buildings with many of the windows smashed in, some boarded up. The street that stretched out in front of them had potholes and large chunks missing, even some scorch marks. Though the fire reached high above their heads, Chris felt no heat, not even warmth, radiating from it.

In the middle of the deserted street stood a girl with mouse-brown hair that whipped wildly around her neck in the wind. She wore a dark top, sleeves cut at the shoulders, and heavy chains around her neck and waist. Her eyes were stormy, her expression unreadable. Chris almost didn't recognize in this slightly older girl his young cousin. Katie held an arm outstretched, palm up, fingers bent sharply as if cupping an invisible ball. When she swung her arm out, the flames rose higher. Smoke billowed around her, making the air hazy.

"What…" Chris murmured, frozen in place even after his surprised older self released him and spun to survey the scene.

"No," the man hissed. "How do we stop it?" He tried waving a hand, both hands above his head to cut it off, but the scene played on. From behind the girl, two other people came into focus, one an older Lea, her dark hair cropped to her ears in this timeline, and one Chris himself, looking somewhere between his fifteen-year-old and adult selves in age. Their eyes were wide, their faces pale, but they stumbled past the columns of flames that raced outward until they stood immediately behind the girl directing the fire.

"Kat!" Lea called over the roar. "Stop this!" She reached out a hand to grab her little sister's shoulder and wheeled her around.

Kat's expression twisted from indifference to fury in the blink of an eye. She wrenched out of her sister's grasp. "Don't touch me!" she spat with venom.

Lea, looking lost, held her hands extended in front of her, pleading. "Kat, please. We have to go. Before he senses us."

Without a word Kat clenched a fist, and a wall of fire sprang up between them. Screaming, Lea whipped her hands back, cradling them to her chest. The skin on her palms blistered and cracked.

The Chris in the memory, expression tight, reached for Lea's arm. "Melinda," he called over the sound of splintering bark and groaning infrastructure. "We have to leave."

"I'm not leaving without my sister," she grunted, face taut with agony.

"We don't have a choice," he insisted. Wind blew too-long hair out of his wide eyes. "He'll find us. I'm sorry."

"Don't you—" But Chris had already started to orb, her shout of protest echoing in the hazy air they left behind. As their bodies faded, so did the rest of the scene. The bright orange of the flames melded with the colorless gray buildings around them, and the trees melted away. The last to disappear was Kat's hardened face, the glow of embers still reflecting in the irises of her eyes.

The Chrises stood there in silence as the sofa, desk, and bookcase faded back into view. The older of the two shuffled back to the sofa but didn't sit, merely stood there, staring at it, unblinking.

Finally, the younger broke the silence. "What…" His voice caught. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "What was that?"

Without looking up, his older self squeezed his eyes shut. "Kat—your Kat—Katie… uses up all her magical energy just to survive. Her powers are in constant use. Intangibility, levitation so she doesn't fall through the floor, even telekinesis so she can do things as basic as eat. In a lot of ways, she has more power than all of us." Chris nodded numbly; he knew all this. "But her constant use of power is, in a sense, stunting her magical growth. In my timeline… Kat was always destined to become a firestarter. Yours, too."

Chris shook his head. "No, I meant…" He searched his mind to put words to his shock. "Why was she doing that? Destroying everything?"

Silently, the man eased himself back onto the sofa. Chris found himself following suit, sinking onto the cushion beside him. The man stared at his palms, face-up on his thighs. "Kat was always… confused. No one could touch her for the first half of her life. Your Kat, Katie, withdraws; mine lashed out. By the time she got control of her powers, by the time she could touch people, she didn't want to."

"But she was burning… everything." Chris turned to look at the now blackness, the orange glow still burned into his mind. "Was she evil?"

"No," the man insisted, then, "Not really. She was young. Wyatt helped her learn control, gave her her life back. She felt… a loyalty to him. She would go to him. She always ended up coming back eventually. But before long, she'd return to him again. She never disclosed our whereabouts, never told him our secrets. She was just…" He sighed. "Confused," he said again.

Chris's voice was subdued, highly aware of the fact that his questions now intruded on someone else's privacy, information he had no business asking about and yet felt compelled to regardless. "How long did she stay with him"—he waved his hand out toward the abyss—"that time?"

At first it seemed his older self would refuse to answer—he pressed his lips tightly together, fingers resting against them—but then he leaned back into the sofa. Another sigh. "That was the first time she ever…" He stared into the distance, seeing nothing. "She was with him about two and a half months. Then she just showed up in her bedroom one day. Didn't say a word for three weeks. Melinda found her crying on her bed once, and they had a heart-to-heart. She seemed fine after that, really happy, like she was starting to come around."

"And then?" Chris prompted, sensing there was more to the story.

The man expelled a slow, sorrowful breath. He pushed himself forward again, propping his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of his face. "Then she left again. No warning, just bags packed, out the door one night about a month later. She's been back and forth ever since."

"Where was she last time you saw her?" Chris asked, "Before you went to the past?"

His older self closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against his interlocking fingers. "When I left for my mission, she was still with Wyatt." A long pause. In a much softer voice, he added, "I didn't get the chance to say goodbye."

Chris tried to think what Aunt Phoebe would do in this situation. Aunt Phoebe the empath. Aunt Phoebe who, for all that she couldn't keep a secret, always seemed to know exactly what to say and what not to say, exactly what each person needed to hear. Clueless, Chris floundered, and the silence stretched on. After a while, Chris raised a hand. It hovered there briefly, uncertain, before gently settling on his older self's forearm. "I'm sorry," he offered.

The man glanced his way with a small, sad smile. "Yeah," he replied, "Me, too."

The next morning Chris had a hard time rolling out of bed. At some point after their chat, he had slipped into dreams, but they had been fitful, full of flames that rose in thick columns, smoke that choked his lungs. He woke up sweating profusely, tangled in damp sheets. Only half awake when he got out of bed, he growled wordlessly at his sister when she tried to talk to him in the hallway. Glowering, she stormed off.

He thought nothing of it, at least until he got downstairs for breakfast. There he found Prue smugly waiting for him. Behind her stood Piper at the stove. She looked up with a frown, brandishing her spatula like an accusatory finger. "Christopher Perry Halliwell, what did you do to your sister?"

Chris rolled his eyes. "I didn't do anything!" he protested, dumping himself into a chair in front of a plate already piled with a cheese and onion omelet. "She's just being a baby." He slumped down and filled his fork, shoveling a bite into his mouth. Still hot.

"Enough of this treating her like a non-person, buster. She's your sister. That means something in this family."

"Okay, okay," he groaned. "I'm sorry, all right?"

"Your powers are tied to family," Piper continued, scraping the spatula into the pan to flip the newest egg cooking. "When we fight each other, we lose our magic."

"Ugh, Mom, I know. I said I was sorry."

Narrowing her eyes at him, she said, "Good. I don't want to hear about this again." She returned her focus to the stovetop as Prue smirked at him from across the room. Chris just rolled his eyes, bent his head, and cleaned his plate.

At school he slogged through sign language and escaped to the library, where he tried to nap at the front desk. He was woken first by his partner, Casey, horrified that he would so overtly slack on the job, and then by three separate students who came around to check out books, making it officially the busiest period he had ever had in the library.

Of all the days, he thought grumpily, rubbing his eyes as he ran each book beneath the scanner.

He actually did doze off later in biology and likely would have done the same in English if Dwight hadn't, from the desk beside his, repeatedly elbowed him hard in the ribcage to jolt him awake. By the end of the day, he was more than ready to find his hidden alcove behind the building and orb home.

Dwight stopped him at the front doors before he could leave. "Hey, meet you at the Shack today?"

The Shack was a rickety, old, one-room cabin they had stumbled upon years ago, set deep in the woods behind a kids' park they frequented in childhood. If anyone had lived there once, they hadn't for years. It had no furniture beyond an empty bedframe and a single, wooden chair missing one leg. The windows had long, thin cracks radiating out like spider webs. Vines had crept up the outer walls and roof, upturning several shingles in the process. Moss had crept along the floor inside, acting as a perfect seat for the two friends.

They had come across the place one day during an epic game of hide-and-seek, where they had searched inside and promptly declared it their own secret clubhouse. The two hadn't visited in a while, since high school had started, in fact; but on occasion, when they got sick of prying parents or wanted additional privacy, they returned there for an afternoon.

Chris bit back a groan. He did not feel like hiking through thick underbrush today. He felt like orbing home, maybe stopping for a hot shower, and crawling into bed for a long nap. "Today's not good," he told Dwight without offering further explanation. "Tomorrow?"

Dwight shrugged. "Sure, tomorrow."

Chris left him there with a distracted farewell and hurried around to the back of the school to orb home.

Back at the manor, after a long shower, he felt much refreshed. He didn't grab that catnap, opting instead to catch up on an English essay due later that week. That was where his sister found him. Without knocking, she threw open his bedroom door and marched inside. The door crashed against the wall. She ruined the whole effect by wincing at the bang it made.

Chris glanced up at her from his desk with one eyebrow raised. "Um, get out of my room," he intoned.

"No," Prue said, glaring. Both her hands were clenched into fists. "I want to know what's going on." There was something crumpled in one of her fists, but Chris didn't notice. "And you're going to tell me." She opened her hand, reciting from the paper in her grasp. "What Chris hides I now set free—"

Chris jumped up in horror, knocking his chair backwards. "Prue, are you insane?" he hissed. "What are you—"

"—Unlock his secrets, share them with me!" She shouted the last words to drown out his protests. A swirl of light descended from the ceiling and crashed into his chest. Chris flew backwards, hitting the wall so hard that the air exploded from his lungs. Doubling over, hands gripping his kneecaps, he gasped to draw in a breath. The pain ebbed slowly, finally allowing him a lungful of air.

"What… is… wrong… with… you?" Chris demanded between gasps.

Prue frowned but scrunched the paper again and said, "Tell me what you've been hiding."

Still doubled over, Chris looked up to glare. "Buzz off!"

Furious, Prue stomped a foot. "That truth spell should have worked!" she protested.

"That was a truth spell?" Chris laughed. Using the wall for support, he straightened. "That was a terrible truth spell. You didn't even have the word 'truth' in it. Maybe you should stick to potions." Her face burning, Prue opened her mouth to respond. Chris didn't give her a chance. "If you don't get out, I'll tell Mom. If you think she was mad this morning, wait 'til she hears you used actual magic on me. I bet she'll love that."

Prue's teeth clicked shut. Spinning around, she stormed out the open door. Chris used his powers to slam it shut behind her.

He felt sore, sorer than he should after being shoved into a wall. (He had enough experience with it happening during demon attacks to know.) His bones ached. Pain radiated outward from his chest. Even his eyes stung fiercely. Growling under his breath, he stumbled over to the mirror hanging on the back of his bedroom door. He didn't look any different. Maybe a bit paler.

Gingerly, he rolled up the hem of his shirt. Underneath, he found, to his shock and bewilderment, an array of scars he had never seen before. One large, jaggedly round one spread over his breastbone. Healed nicks and welts were scattered along his collarbone. He twisted around to try to catch a glimpse of his back, too. Though he couldn't see much, the skin definitely appeared marred from this vantage point.

"Prue, what did you do?" he growled softly.

The other Chris. He would know what this meant. His was the traumatic childhood. He had to know. It looked like Chris would get an early night after all.

It took Chris a while to fall asleep. It was barely nine when he got in, and every time he shifted he discovered another sore joint or muscle. When he did finally open his eyes to the now-familiar abyss, he found the other Chris waiting for him. He was smirking.

"What?" Chris said, feeling defensive without knowing quite why.

"Nothing," the man said innocently, meandering toward him with his hands linked behind his back. "I just happened to overhear a conversation between you and Mom this morning."

Chris frowned. "You can hear what's going on in the real world?"

"Sometimes." His smile widened.

Chris hunched his shoulders up toward his ears. "Okay, so? What's the big deal? Prue was being a brat."

"Oh, I'm not talking about that part."

Chris threw up his hands. "Well, can you get to the point, then? I'm feeling pretty beaten up, in case you couldn't tell."

The man tried to smooth away his grin, but it still peeked out of the corner of his lips. His eyes widened with mirth. "Perry?" he said at last.

Blinking, Chris replied dumbly, "Huh?"

"Mom called you Christopher Perry Halliwell."

"So? That's our name, isn't it?" Chris crossed his arms, rapidly losing patience.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Yours, maybe. I can't believe they thought—that was just some name I made up. I couldn't exactly introduce myself as a Halliwell. I can't believe they named you after it."

Chris couldn't explain why he felt so defensive about such a nonissue, but his older self's amusement got under his skin. "Well, what else should they have assumed? You told them it was your name." He tried to stomp toward the sofa, but the soreness in his muscles, the slow gait, ruined the effect.

From behind him he heard an entirely too-innocent, "No, no, it makes perfect sense. It's cute. I could start calling you Perry. Wear it proudly."

Dumping himself onto the couch, Chris grumbled something incoherent under his breath about obnoxious future selves who flounced around changing the past. He grabbed a throw pillow and tossed it at the man's head. Laughing, his future self caught the ammunition and plopped himself down on the cushion beside Chris. He replaced the pillow in the corner seat and tucked his arms behind his head. "So what's got your boxers in a bunch anyway?" he teased lightly.

Chris had his head between his hands as he propped his elbows on his knees. "My sister did something. She cast some stupid spell, and now…" Heaving a sigh, he tugged his shirt over his head and discarded it on the floor. His older self sobered, staring at him. "Well?" he demanded at length.

Coolly, the man replied, "'Well' what?"

Chris huffed. "Are they yours?"

His counterpart frowned at him in confusion. "Do your scars belong to me?" He sounded a bit incredulous at the question but dutifully peered closer. After a moment, he said, "No. They're not familiar."

"They must be!" Chris flung himself back against the sofa with a soft grunt. "I certainly don't remember getting them. You're the one with…" He trailed off, looking embarrassed.

His older self ignored this, holding up a calm hand. "What spell did she cast?"

"Does it matter?" Chris scoffed.

"Probably."

The boy sighed, then shrugged. "Something about 'unlocking my secrets.' She said she meant for it to be a truth spell. Obviously that backfired."

"Well," the man remarked thoughtfully, "Looks like it worked somewhat, even if we don't understand how. May I?" He raised a hand toward Chris's exposed torso. Begrudgingly, Chris nodded. Two fingers went to trace the large, round scar in the middle of his chest.

Suddenly, a sharp laugh sounded behind them. They both turned toward the noise, the man's fingers still hanging there against the mysterious healed wound. A cruel voice sneered, "In the meantime, enjoy the fun. We certainly do." They watched the black abyss morph. Up rose walls of jagged rock. A deep well grew out of the dirt, releasing a fine, hazy mist. Two demons stood facing a wall where a form, dangling from wrists shackled above his head, took shape. The outline of the face sharpened into Chris's own.

Each demon swung up a hand, palm up, and filled it with a gleaming ball of fire. The voice solidified into another creature, a demon with chiseled features. Behind him stood a woman with long, red hair that fell to her hips, her lips curved upward with manic glee.

The demon in charge spoke to the two minions. "Don't kill him. But I think you've earned a bit of fun." The minions released their ammo, and both fireballs hit dead center of the boy's chest. His back arched away from the wall at the swell of pain. He roared and roared until his voice went hoarse.

The woman propped her chin up on the man's shoulder, fingers curling around his bicep. "Oh, Bar-shed, hear how he screams!" she cooed with delight.

Back on the couch, Chris yanked himself away from his older self, gasping for breath. As soon as contact broke between them, the scene behind them faded. "Oh, try another," the demoness was saying as her voice grew fainter, "This time you can…" The black swallowed them entirely again.

The silence was punctuated by Chris's sharp gasps. After some time, his breathing evened out, and he looked up to find his older self watching him. "So I guess those are your memories, then," the man remarked quietly. "It looked pretty recent. Mom said you were kidnapped shortly before I got here?" He lilted his voice into a question, leaving Chris to fill in the blanks.

Looking away again, Chris swallowed. He nodded. "I didn't—I cast a spell to forget most of it. I guess that's why I didn't recognize…"

"Risky," his other self commented. Chris shut his eyes, shivering, and wrapped his arms around his torso. Then, he leaned forward and covered his face with both hands, heaving a sigh into them. "But I get it. The memories… they can take over if you don't have a handle on them."

Now that they had finally been triggered, the memories rushed back to him, as fresh as the day they had transpired. "I…" Chris swallowed again against the dryness in his mouth. "I killed someone. A woman. I never learned her name."

A hand went to squeeze his bare shoulder, and he glanced up into a pair of dark, understanding, green eyes. "I'm sorry," his older self said softly. "There's no harder memory to overcome."

"So am I," Chris whispered. "I didn't even blink. I just…" The weight on his shoulder helped stabilize him, keep him rooted in the present. He narrowed his focus until that was all he felt, the warmth of a hand on his shoulder. "She probably had a family, people to mourn her. They'll never know what happened to her. And I have no way to tell them."

"I would say it wasn't your fault, but that's pretty meaningless. She's still dead." Chris's heart clenched to hear the words spoken aloud. "You still have her blood on your hands."

Chris looked up at his older self longingly. "What do I do?" he begged.

His older self shook his head. "You just… live with it." He was quiet for a moment. "I was around your age the first time I…" He met Chris's eyes and offered a compassionate smile. "You just hope it doesn't happen again. You learn to get the demon quicker next time. It's all you can do."

"That doesn't sound like much," Chris said numbly.

"It isn't. But we, of all people, can't forget what time has wrought."

Chris frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" But his other self just shrugged, saying nothing. They sat there in silence until the world around Chris melted away. For the rest of the night he dreamt of a woman with short-cropped, silver hair and hazel eyes who begged for mercy, begged to live.

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