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In an alternate universe, the end of Lord Voldemort came about in an entirely different fashion than the tale you’ve been told. This story involves a little time travel, a snarky bookworm, and the most insufferable git in any universe. We’ll start our story where it gets interesting: Hermione Granger discovering the many uses of a timeturner, and using it to (irresponsibly) send herself back in time. Perhaps it’s fate that the first person she runs into is a stag dashing through a dark forest at high speed, chasing after an agitated dire wolf, a black shaggy dog, and a bumbling rat.
Immediately upon sight, Hermione draws her wand and arrests the moment with a powerful spell. All the forest’s creatures halt instantly and, being the confident witch she is, Hermione approaches the still-snarling dire wolf and pats his drooling snout.
“Hullo, Remus,” she greets him, earning a flick of his golden eyes across her face as she moves onto the mid-yap Grim-looking dog at his heels. “Sirius.” She takes a moment to placate him with a gentle rub. When she reaches the stag, Hermione grins and flicks his antler, earning a snort from him. “James. Just the wizards I’ve been looking for.”
She doesn’t bother with the rat, because in this universe, little Peter Pettigrew is of zero consequence.
“Will you be transforming back so we can talk, or shall I attempt to mime everything I have to say?” Hermione cancels her spell with a swift and sure “ Finite ” and stuffs her wand into her pocket while she waits for her dashing heroes to catch up to her request.
One by one, they transform from beast to man, though Hermione reckons Remus will always have a bit of a beast about him. She likes him that way—unpredictable and reliable in the most contradictory of ways. It’s James that catches her breath when the antlers shrink and the trim waist of the stag melts away to reveal a naked man she’d fantasized more often than she cares to admit. Her eyes roam his body and there’s not a force in existence that will hide the crimson glow of her cheeks.
Even more infuriating for her: James notices and adopts a wide, cheeky grin. “Hello, love. If you like what you see, we can always take this somewhere privately.”
Our clever heroine shakes her head. “No time for that, I’m afraid. We have a Dark Lord to kill.”
“We?” Peter squeaks, and Hermione considers punting him across the forest.
“Who’s she, Prongs? Could be a trap.”
“She knows our names.” Remus reasons, shrugging as he defers to Sirius—a strange hierarchical thing and nothing to do with Remus believing Sirius has more common sense than himself or James, because that’s not true in any universe, either. “She’s probably from the future.”
“The future? Who’d want to come back to the seventies?” Sirius is always distrustful, but he thinks the seventies are a scam by the wizarding government to enforce some ancient marriage law that his mother used to threaten him with. “Definitely a dark wizard.”
Remus oftentimes hates the hierarchical thing.“She’s not a dark wizard, Padfoot. She’d already have Avada’d you and the way she’s looking at Prongs, I’m pretty sure she’s his future wife.”
James, as always, is the only Marauder who hasn’t yet reached for his pants. His arms swing wide, inviting gazes upon his pride and joy. Hermione’s the only one whose eyes linger on his rather impressive (in every universe) bits. “Not wife. I’m never getting married; not after that Evans fiasco.”
“The fiasco being that you told her she was a good girl and she nearly bit it off?”
All four of our heroes collectively shudder—it was a time best forgotten by all of history in every universe.
Hermione, however, sighs. “I’m not a dark wizard. I’m an Unspeakable Trainee in the Department of Time, and I’m here to kill Voldemort.”
A singular thing is absolutely true in every iteration of the Marauders, in every collected catalogue of their antics, successes, and failures: when approached with something seemingly impossible, it takes them less than a quarter of a second to believe it’s possible, despite the scientific and magical probability that it isn’t.
“Right then.” Sirius claps Naked-James and wolfy-Remus on the back—yes, Peter remains forgotten—and approaches Hermione with a winning smile. “Let’s go vanquish a Dark Lord, and perhaps we’ll have a celebratory tea when we’re done.”
The beauty of these Marauders is that there’s no wasted time with developing a best laid plan, no strategy that will bog them down and put weeks between their decision to kill Voldemort and actually doing it. James grips Hermione around the waist—the way his fingers curl against her skin sends many nights’ worth of fantasy skittering through her mind—and the world around her pops out of existence.
Everyone who’s ever watched a movie or read a book knows that a villain is the most vulnerable when sleeping, and while the henchmen tend to be bumbling baboons whose only use is their strength, in this universe, they are also lacking in common sense, which left our villain alone in peaceful slumber. Our heroes easily slip through Riddle Manor while our heroine sneaks through a drawing room window. She knows this house, has studied it extensively in her quest to vanquish Voldemort before he causes mass destruction, and so when the boys show up—tip-toeing through the narrow halls and into the drawing room—Hermione stands over Voldemort with a satisfied smirk on her face.
James’ stare bounces between hers and the limp form of the dark wizard. “You…killed him.”
She lifts her chin. “You’re welcome.”
Like in any proper universe when the good side wins, James Potter swings Hermione Granger around, lowers her in a clumsy dip, and presses his perfect lips to hers. And, James—as is true across the universes without exception—still hasn’t put on his pants.