Archive of Our Own

The purple smoke that billowed into Garreth's face was nothing new, nor was the gelatinous ooze rapidly congealing at the bottom of his cauldron. Just another in a long line of failed experiments. He'd been tasked to produce a Draught of Living Death, but where was the challenge in that? Even N.E.W.T level classes were losing their lustre, Garreth's attention wandering further than usual. 

He'd been trying to make something even more spectacular.

Trying.

“Mr Weasley.”

Professor Sharp didn't even bother to shout over the clamour—he knew that Garreth's ears were pricked, waiting for the inevitable reprimand. 

Garreth gave the contents of his cauldron a tentative poke. The squelch was satisfying, at least.

“Detention, professor?” he asked without turning around.

He didn't hear Sharp's reply, so preoccupied with the engorging ooze that seemed to have taken offense to Garreth's repeated prodding. “Oh no…”

It had reached the top of his cauldron before he'd replaced the ladle in his hand for his wand. Students shuffled to get a better look at the ensuing chaos or cast charms to protect their own work whilst Garreth wondered whether a shrinking or shield charm would be more useful in this particular situation. 

In the end, it didn't matter. The ooze had ballooned so large within seconds that he did what any man who valued his eyebrows would and ducked below the desk. He heard a sharp pop, and watched from his hiding place as the rest of the classroom devolved into hysterics. It was quite the explosion, even by his standards, sending sticky violet residue across worktops, coating the floor and seeping into his classmates’ cauldrons.

He grimaced as Imelda's perfect potion sparked and erupted, contaminated by Garreth's experiment. Oh, he was in for it now. Whatever cruel and unusual punishment Sharp could come up with would pale in comparison to the Slytherin's wrath. 

Once the tumult had died down, a face appeared in front of Garreth. 

“You are verging on suspension, Mr Weasley.”

Professor Sharp was furious, that much was obvious, though the viscous fluid sliding comically down his chin did detract from the aura.

Garreth crawled out from underneath the table, head bowed, enduring the scorn from all sides.

“Sorry, everyone. Uh…won't happen again,” he said sheepishly.

Natty tutted, Amit shook his head, Imelda hurled a glob of the offending potion at him. Even Silas Penhaligon, the Slytherin who he rarely had reason to interact with, was glowering with such ferocity that Garreth flinched.

“That will be quite enough, Miss Reyes,” Sharp sighed wearily before addressing the class. “If you have anything uncontaminated worth being graded, please hand it in. You are all dismissed.”

“Except me?” Garreth asked.

“Yes, Mr Weasley, except you.”

~

Garreth's punishment was worse than he'd feared. He could have handled mopping the classroom without magic or writing lines until his fingers blistered, but Professor Sharp had clearly run out of patience and creative ways to dissuade Garreth. So they had walked together in stony silence through the castle, right to his aunt's classroom.

He was not beneath begging, but all the platitudes in the world could not have steered the irate potions professor from his course.

Aunt Matilda was worse than angry—she was disappointed. There was nothing quite as humiliating as looking into his aunt's eyes that shone with unshed tears whilst she recited a long list of his misdemeanours over the years. I will be writing to your father, she'd said, and Garreth wished he'd blown himself up along with his cauldron.

For once, it occurred to Garreth that perhaps, this time, he'd gone too far.

Natty saw the humour in it, but many of his fellow N.E.W.T potioneers did not. Garreth tried to apologise to Amit during their shared Charms class but he'd pretended not to hear him, burying himself in his book with an angry frown across his face.

Everyone was feeling the pressure as their exams approached, and Garreth had only exacerbated the strain, pulling at threads of already frayed tempers.

A few days later he sought refuge with Leander and Adanna in the greenhouses, watching them repot chomping cabbages that seemed intent on dismemberment.

“You know you could just, I don't know, follow the instructions?” Leander said.

Garreth leaned back against a woody vine and tilted his head towards the sun, dappled light warming his face. “I know for a fact that there are better ways to—”

“Stop being an idiot, Garreth,” Leander said testily. “Everyone else manages.”

Before Garreth could retort, Adanna stepped in to his defense.

“He's not being an idiot, this is his passion. Imagine if you had to tend to peppermint seedlings every day, how boring that would be.”

Garreth shared a smile with Adanna. If he could count on anyone to understand the way his mind worked, it was her.

Leander, who was now fondly stroking the cabbage in front of him, grumbled. “Yes, but Garreth is much more prone to explosions.”

“I do agree with Leander, though,” Adanna said. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, smearing a little soil across her hairline. 

Leander nodded. “It's just for another few weeks and then you can go back to blowing up your own bedroom.”

“Sounds awfully dull but I suppose I could…”

If it would placate his classmates, he would; he'd never meant to sabotage their exam preparation.

Garreth watched his two friends, elbow deep in soil with identical smiles. He wished he could find the same escape in mundane tasks, but relaxation rarely factored into his vocabulary. Joy was found in the thrill of a successful brew, and for that he needed to push boundaries and flex his creativity.

But it was only for a few weeks.

So the next time he stepped into the Potions classroom, his mind was set. To his dismay, he was met with the same stony expressions from his classmates. Garreth smiled warmly at Amit, whose lip quivered in an attempt to return it; Garreth's wink in Imelda's direction was met with an eye roll so dramatic he swore he saw the backs of her eyeballs.

“Today you will be practicing to brew a simple Elixir to Induce Euphoria, which is very likely to come up in your practical N.E.W.T examination,” Professor Sharp said, limping through the aisles. He gave Garreth a pointed look. “You'll be drinking your own potion at the end of the lesson, so please try not to poison yourself.”

Garreth hadn't needed the extra motivation, but that lingering threat ensured that he followed the instructions to the letter, resisting the urge to tweak and tamper (despite knowing better). He produced a wonderful sunshine-yellow concoction by the end of an uneventful lesson. 

It was fine.

It wouldn't last as long as if he'd added an extra half a measure of shrivelfig and a clockwise stir, but Garreth had stayed true to his promise.

He looked up from his cauldron expecting to find his classmates beaming at him, all forgiven, but they were too occupied with their work.

That was also fine. He would win back their affection with time.

When Professor Sharp peered into Garreth's cauldron, his curt nod made the monotony of the past two hours worth it. Every one in the room had managed a passable potion and Sharp gave out more nods and small compliments to everyone's relief.

“Time for a little euphoria?” Imelda called, already delving into her cauldron.

A smattering of laughter eased the tension and Garreth scooped a small amount of his potion with a vial and brought it to his lips. “Bottoms up!”

A hand clasped his shoulder. “Garreth, don't—”

Garreth startled, but the liquid had already slid effortlessly down his throat, warm and sweet like honey. The voice at his ear dulled, the world tilted. This was not the euphoria he'd hoped for, and his brain scrambled to understand what had gone wrong. He had followed the instructions to the letter, produced a potion that looked and behaved exactly as it should.

“I didn't mean—” That voice again, quieter now.

Garreth turned and saw Silas Penhaligon’s face swimming in and out of focus. The hand upon his shoulder tightened; whether trying to steady Garreth or push him away, he wasn't sure, but his face reflected Garreth's fear.

“What's happening?” Garreth asked, and his own voice sounded so far away.

His classmates surrounded him, Professor Sharp barked orders in the chaos. Garreth thought he heard Penhaligon squeal and stammer something apologetic, something about a spell placed on Garreth's cauldron.

Garreth gripped the worktop to stop himself from falling, catching words from disembodied voices as his vision faded to black. The panic around him only amplified his own, and for a heartbeat or two he considered if this was how he might meet his end. Something gripped his stomach and twisted, pain radiating out to every extremity.

A moment later, Garreth could see clearly again and all that remained of that agony was a slight tingle of his nerves. He stood steady, blinked. All was well.

Except that he wasn't in the Potions classroom anymore.

He wasn't in Hogwarts at all.

~

Hogsmeade village was most beautiful in the depths of winter. Snow-capped roofs glistened in the sunlight; a hazy orange glow kissing the horizon. This was certainly not the June afternoon Garreth had just experienced. Remnants of Christmas still lingered: holly boughs strewn across windows; the wafting scent of spiced mead and mince pies; and in the distance, a twenty-foot fir tree decorated in its festive finery.

He stood and stared for a while, trying to reconcile what had happened. A concussion seemed most likely, though losing seven months of memory was altogether rather concerning. Garreth raised a hand to his head and prodded gently, but there were no tender lumps to be found, nor did he feel any of the effects of an injury. The last thing he had remembered, he had been seemingly poisoned by his own brew and now here he was, alone, miles and months from where he'd started.

“Well, Merlin's bloody breeches,” he muttered as the dread started to sink in.

Something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Standing still in the middle of the village was starting to draw attention, so he sought somewhere to hide to collect his thoughts. The Three Broomsticks beckoned, like a lighthouse in the fog of confusion.

Cold though it was, apparently he'd had the foresight to wrap up warm. Garreth tightened the scarf around his neck and shivered against the biting wind. He recognised it—a maroon knit with his initials embroidered in gold at the end. His heart skipped a beat when he remembered that he'd lost this particular scarf months ago.

The pub enveloped him in a warm hug and Garreth breathed deep, letting the spices and lingering earthen scent of mead soothe his nerves. Whatever was happening to him, he was sure he’d find out here, especially since Sirona stood behind the bar. Whip-smart and dependable, surely she would have the answer. He made a beeline for her, shuffling onto a stool whilst simultaneously shedding layers of clothing.

“Afternoon, Garreth. You all right? Looking a little peaky.”

Garreth almost laughed, but instead nodded silently until he could string a sentence together. “Something strange happened, and I’m not quite sure what to do.”

“Something strange, you say? Will a pint of butterbeer help?”

He smiled and nodded, though he doubted even butterbeer could explain how he’d seemingly forgotten several months’ of memories.

“Actually, maybe a firewhiskey?”

Sirona huffed a laugh and put her hands on her hips. “Nice try, but I’ll not be caught serving Sixth Years spirits no matter how dire the circumstances.”

Garreth was sure he’d heard her wrong. He shook his head violently, that deep sense of unease creeping up on him again.

“I’m in seventh year. I’m taking my N.E.W.Ts next month, remember?”

Sirona blinked and looked at him blankly, until slowly, her lips curved into a smile. “You almost had me there.”

“I’m being serious!”

“Of course you are. But I still can’t serve you firewhiskey, Garreth.”

He’d gone mad. Or perhaps Sirona had. Either way, they had reached a standstill and she was pouring him butterbeer when she’d had no problem in serving him something stronger since his birthday months ago.

“Something’s wrong,” he repeated.

“So you say. What’s happened?” she asked, sliding the drink across the bar.

Garreth chugged half the pint down in one, despite knowing the best he could expect was a sugar rush.

“I was in Potions with Professor Sharp and we’d just made a Euphoria Elixir…he’d told us we’d have to drink our potion at the end of the lesson and so I did…and it was perfect. Sunshine yellow, rainbow fumes and everything. So I drank it, and then everything went topsy turvy, I thought I'd be sick. My vision went black, then the pain—”

Sirona’s eyebrow had been steadily rising whilst Garreth recalled the turn of events, words tumbling from his lips.

“—then suddenly I was here, in Hogsmeade. I don’t remember anything in between. And when I left, it was June, Sirona. I was about to take my exams and now it’s…what, January?”

“December the twenty-ninth.”

“Right, right.”

Sirona laughed and shook her head, flinging a tea towel over her shoulder. Her attention had been caught by a stooped old wizard waving at her from the other end of the bar.

“It’s a nice story, Garreth, but it’ll be butterbeers for another few months, yet,” she said.

Garreth was left spluttering as she walked off, the last shreds of hope receding along with her. The low hum of the pub faded away, replaced by a steady thump of blood rushing to his ears. 

He should have anticipated the reaction—perhaps if he had been someone, anyone else, she might have heeded his words. Garreth was too often the joker, never one to take himself too seriously, and so nobody else did. That realisation brought yet more panic to an already overburdened vessel. He was so very close to breaking.

Then his knuckles whitened; fingers clawed at lacquered wood. He was falling again, and too late did he realise that this wasn't just fear but another episode, a repeat of the moment after swallowing the elixir.

“Sirona,” he gasped, but his surroundings were already a dull and lifeless grey.

The darkness claimed him once again as he fought to stay upright. The world tilted, throwing Garreth once again into the unknown.

~

The summer after fifth year had been one of transformation. Hogwarts had been in uproar, and for a while every student wondered how they might return to a school that seemed to have lost its heart. Whilst they mourned, time had not ceased its steady march—and Garreth, among most of his cohort, had matured in ways only loss can nurture.

He remembered those days spent with his tatty leather journal and the burgeoning ideas he couldn’t write down fast enough; the ache in his legs from growing two inches in a matter of months, along with the one in his heart.

This intimate familiarity with those memories was how he knew that he wasn’t just being transported across land but into past versions of himself. He didn’t understand the how or the why, but as he sat upon the leaf-strewn floorboards and came back into himself, he certainly knew when.

The Weasley siblings’ treehouse was still and quiet, a gentle breeze playing at the makeshift curtains. It smelled of the aftermath of a thunderstorm and honey-sweet jasmine from the creeping vines at the door.

Quill in hand, Garreth looked down into his lap where his journal lay. He had been writing a letter to Adanna. Full of frivolous things and teenage worries, but also hints of vulnerability that only seemed to show around her. 

He ran a hand down his face and groaned, winced from the stubble on his cheek from an ill-advised phase of trying to grow a beard. That slow few seconds of disorientation evaporated with the realisation that his time might be limited to find help. What if it happened again—this shift in reality, this jump through time? 

What magic was this?

His Mum or Dad might know, or better yet, Aunt Matilda. Garreth threw his journal onto the floor and made a hasty exit from the treehouse. His limbs felt foreign, like slipping into an old pair of shoes half a size too small. Jumping the last few steps, he landed with a thud onto the carpet of needles and leaf mulch before setting off at a sprint towards home.

Once out of the woods Garreth saw the cottage in the distance. All was quiet—suspiciously so. His little sister Charlotte could usually be counted on to be swinging off trees or digging in the garden but Garreth saw no shock of copper curls with streaks of mud, nor any of his family. Dread unfurled in his stomach then, and he wracked his brains for any memory of being alone that summer.

Through the vegetable patch and past the chickens he went, now reduced to a jog as his breathing laboured and sweat pooled in every line and crevice of his back. The kitchen door was ajar, which was a good sign. He pushed through and groaned in relief to see his brother Oscar sitting with his feet on the kitchen table and a newspaper in his lap, humming and tapping his fingers upon the wood as if his brother hadn’t burst into the room close to collapse.

“Where—mum?” Garreth wheezed, bending over to put his hands on his knees, drawing deep breaths of apple-scented air.

Oscar flicked his eyes towards Garreth then back to the paper.

“You ought to train more, little brother. Look at the Wasps—peak physical condition,” he said, jabbing a finger at the Quidditch pages. “They wouldn’t be close to collapsing after a quick jog across the garden.”

Garreth knew that Oscar was only needling him as brothers often do, but he was suddenly very keen on punching him in the face.

“Where’s mum?” he repeated. “Or dad? It’s important, Os.”

Oscar quirked an eyebrow. “They took Charlotte and Hector to see Margaret, remember?”

The floor tilted and Garreth thought he was about to slip away, rushed off to another moment in time—but it was only dizziness from the breath he’d been holding. 

“They’re gone?” he asked in a timid voice not at all like his own.

“Did you hit your head on a tree branch?”

“Listen. Since you’re the only one here I need you to believe what I’m about to tell you.”

“Depends what it is…”

“Os, please.”

He stilled a second, lowering the newspaper to study Garreth before giving a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “All right, go on then.”

So Garreth told him everything, in a hurried manner lest he waste anymore time than he already had: the potion that caused his collapse; the strange encounter with Sirona at the pub; arriving in this familiar time with memories of the future intact. Words sped from his lips along with spittle, and Garreth knew before he’d finished that Oscar thought him quite mad, or worse—a joke.

His brother’s lips quirked and the shake of his head was a bang of the gavel sealing his fate. There would be no help given here.

“Why won’t you listen?” Garreth asked, slumping into a chair.

A slight crease between Oscar’s eyes reignited the hope he’d been cradling, but it was gone by the time he blinked.

“I’m trying to think of what would lie in wait for me if I were to believe you,” Oscar said.

His newspaper now lay forgotten upon the tea-stained tabletop. This was good—a spark of interest, a tiny glimmer of trust between brothers. Garreth shook his head fervently and grasped at that familial thread which bound them and hoped Oscar saw his pain, his desperation, as something real and not some childish ploy.

“There’s nothing lying in wait. What could I possibly accomplish if you were to believe me? I’m telling you the truth, Os. I know things. I know that you’ll get that job with the Ministry but still be gutted because you didn’t hear back from the Cannons’ talent scout—”

“That’s just—”

Oscar tried to interrupt, but Garreth once again ploughed on, syllables strung together with gossamer spun from hope.

“You told me at Christmas that you’d been writing to a girl you met at the training camp, Sophie or Sophia, I don’t remember now. But she broke it off with you before you could introduce her to mum and dad.”

“I never told you—”

“But you did, Os! Just not yet.”

The brothers lapped into silence; Garreth triumphant and Oscar stunned. This was it—his brother would believe him and then he just needed to figure out how to stop this tangle of magic. Oscar stammered, blinked, then to Garreth’s utter disbelief and dismay, stood up, body stiff and lips pressed into a thin line.

“You found the letters,” Oscar said with such certainty that Garreth knew he had let the chance slip away. There was no recovering from this attempt if his brother thought him nothing more than a thief and a charlatan.

Oscar left him alone in the kitchen. The footsteps grew quieter and quieter until Garreth’s only company was the gentle buzz of grasshoppers and distant chirrups of nesting birds.

It stung, to think that his own family thought him too silly to believe. Garreth had never had cause to be so scared that even the shaking of his hands must have appeared manufactured. Just another joke to be laughed off, another prank to be avoided.

Time must have been running out by now, if his previous trip was anything to go by. Garreth ruminated on his next plan of action; he wasn’t ready to give up yet. There was always one person who never failed to defend him, who trusted so completely, and whose own sincerity might sway others.

He had to find Adanna.

His gaze drifted to the fireplace, now inert and beckoning. Perhaps there was time enough to reach her, if he could just remember where she might be at this precise moment in time. He could floo to her home in London or scour Diagon Alley.

Before the thoughts could fully form, this diabolical magic—this curse—had other ideas. Garreth hopelessly clung to his childhood home but was thrown backwards again, all the while picturing his best friend’s face in the hopes that he might be guided to her.

~

Upon first glance Garreth had no idea where he had ended up.

The cluster of trees in which he stood was not one he recognised from his haunts around the forbidden forest, nor the ones that surrounded his family home.

He looked down at his hands as if they might offer some explanation—they were strangely clean, not a scuff or stain in sight. He felt no different from the last iteration, though his stubble had been shaved smooth. What he was wearing caught his attention as he patted his chest, and the sight of his borrowed waistcoat and smart tie elicited a crushing wave of grief behind his ribcage. 

Once the adrenaline from his jaunt through time had dissipated and left him cold, he managed to dredge up the associated memory.

Garreth had only been flung back a month or so this time. The relief that Adanna was nearby came with accompanying guilt. He followed the gnarled tree trunks through ancient forest, towards the sombre hum of voices. Distant cracks could be heard, the unmistakeable sounds of apparition.

A voice came from behind him, a hand laid gently upon his shoulder. He didn’t flinch—he was expecting her.

“Ready?” Adanna asked.

She smelled of powdered sugar; baking, he knew, to dull the pain.

Even with his impending doom looming upon the horizon, his heightened panic urging words from his mouth, he found himself quite unable to speak. They walked together towards a clearing full of familiar faces. Garreth knew how this went—a beautiful service to honour the life of Eleazar Fig, the man laid to rest just minutes from his family home. Dirt would be poured from every hand, wildflowers blooming upon the mound as every wand pointed upward to illuminate the sky with gold. He saw his aunt talking to Professor Ronin, both sporting red-rimmed eyes, and hesitated. 

“Garreth?” Adanna pulled on his arm as they came to a stop just a metre shy of the treeline. She looked at him with eyes shining brightly. “Has something happened?”

How she knew, he might never know—to sort through the tumult of emotions no doubt etched on his face to find something other than the expected sadness.

He hesitated again whilst those emotions warred within him. Something felt so wrong about drawing attention away from the funeral proceedings. If he kept his mouth shut, she might never know, and Garreth would eventually journey on to another time to seek help there. Eleazar Fig would be laid to rest with both he and Adanna in attendance, just as it should be.

But nothing was as it should be.

And Garreth was terrified. That he might never get the help he seeked, might fail in his only mission. And what then?

He knew that another step would take him into this memory, a neat continuation of time’s proper path.

“Gar?” she asked again.

His feet made the decision for him, backtracking away from the sea of faces, away from the polished walnut casket that would never receive the gift of his blessing in this timeline. Professor Fig would understand, he thought. He would tell Garreth to seize the opportunity, to grasp life with both hands and fight as he had.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” he said, leading Adanna into a cluster of densely-packed firs. “And everyone I’ve spoken to so far has just laughed in my face, but I need you to believe me, Ada.”

Adanna gnawed at her lip and nodded to him to continue.

The more he recounted his strange tale, the more succinct he became, eager to cram as much relevant information into the conversation as possible. So far he’d been unable to think of a cause, let alone a cure, and so he ended on a cliffhanger, hoping that Adanna might write his ending.

If, of course, she believed him.

She’d worried at her lip enough to make it bleed, arms crossed stiffly in front of her as if warding off cold despite the summer heat.

“Please, believe me,” Garreth pleaded.

“I believe you.”

Three little words that made all the difference. And he realised then that she always would, in every timeline, for as long as she knew him. There was not a speck of doubt on her face.

“We need to find Professor Sharp,” she said, now scanning the distance for his familiar limping form.

“He won't believe me.”

Adanna looked at him with fire in her eyes. “I'll make him believe you.”

Garreth's heart missed a beat.

She pulled him into the clearing and dodged the myriad students and faculty attempting to pull them into conversation, and Merlin, he was grateful for her tenacity then. They spotted Professor Sharp at the same time, swivelling towards where he lurked in a shaded corner like an antisocial fern.

Garreth had always found Professor Sharp imposing—who wouldn’t? Any praise he received was lapped up and savoured, and despite his propensity to exhaust his Potions professor, Garreth really did admire the man. And so it was with some trepidation that he approached, fully expecting a stern telling off, another proverbial door slammed in his face.

He let Adanna soften the man with hurried pleasantries then it was his time to explain the reason they were accosting him mere minutes before a funeral.

The progression of Sharp’s features as Garreth recounted his tale once again might’ve been funny if his very existence weren’t hanging in the balance. Scarred eyebrows quirked and contracted, swinging from incredulity to anger to something more pensive in the matter of minutes. Garreth lapsed into tense and hopeful silence, heart beating so furiously he felt himself swaying back and forth with every pulse.

“Please, we wouldn’t be asking now, not here, if it weren’t true,” Adanna added. “I know Garreth, and I know he would never joke about something like this.”

Sharp considered this, kept his eyes narrowed on Adanna, and Garreth preferred it that way. So used to the spotlight was he, yet this time his role was to be a quiet observer whilst a final plea was offered.

“If I were to believe you, you should know that there is no known curse that might cause it. In fact, I seriously doubt that any student at Hogwarts could pull off something so—”

“An accident then?” Garreth blurted.

“Perhaps,” Sharp conceded. “You say your potion appeared unaffected?”

Garreth nodded. 

“Then I doubt it was tampered with. No, perhaps some enchantment on your cauldron. An hour-reversal charm perhaps? This is all theoretical.”

“Yes!” Garreth blurted. I remember, Silas Penhaligon was apologising to me and I didn't understand why, then I think I heard something about a spell being cast on my cauldron…”

Sharp’s mouth set in a stern line, and Garreth glimpsed the Auror he had once been, brimming with determination. He knew that the man believed him then, and the relief brought tears to his eyes.

But time was running short yet again. The glade was nearly full, Aunt Matilda starting to corral the guests into order near the gravesite. The funeral would start soon, and as if on cue, Garreth was tipping once again.

“It’s happening again,” he sighed, resigned to his fate. “I’m going back.”

Staggering, Garreth focused on his teacher’s gruff voice, the movement of his lips, but everything blurred around the edges. Adanna was calling for help, but he knew there was no use.

“Find me again,” Sharp said. “You may need to convince me to listen. Tell my past self that the final case I ever worked was the only one I ever regretted. Tell him—”

Garreth took one last look at Adanna and hoped he would never see that fear contorting her face again. If there was more to Sharp’s cryptic story, Garreth would never know. He just had to hope it was enough.

~

Garreth knew from the moment his consciousness assumed its new place in time that he had travelled further than any previous jump. If his sixteen year old body had felt foreign, this one was almost alien. The Garreth he now inhabited was in the throes of puberty it seemed; slightly gangly with sore legs that hadn’t adjusted to a growth spurt, and if he tried to speak he would likely find his voice as strange as the rest.

As for where he was, at least he recognised his own school dormitory. He’d finally returned to Hogwarts, which meant that both Adanna and Professor Sharp would be in close proximity. Jumping off his bed, he scrambled to get dressed into his uniform whilst taking in his surroundings. 

The window: a picture of autumn, dark and dusky with violet hues.

His bed: strewn with the usual journal, sweet wrappers and suspicious stains.

The dormitory: quiet, except for the gentle snoring of his roommates.

Garreth hopped on one foot to pull on his trousers and shoved his journal in his satchel—just in case—before bolting out the door. He thought he heard Leander’s sleepy voice before he reached the stairs but there was no time to fend off a barrage of questions.

Leander was one of his best mates, and had been for years. The Weasleys and Prewetts had been bonded by intermarriage for generations, every family gathering infiltrated by the other. He remembered seeing the lanky young boy for the first time almost a decade previous, his closely packed freckles and auburn hair like a parody of his own. He’d tried to make his own ginger mop resemble Leander’s by rubbing clay-streaked mud into his scalp which had earned him a telling off from his mum and a new friend for life.

And yet, Garreth hated to admit that he didn’t think Leander would believe his predicament. Maybe it was because Leander was so used to years of Garreth’s mischief; being the butt of his jokes and the victim of his experiments. Perhaps, if he had time, he could have convinced him, but time was one thing he appeared to be short on.

It hadn’t escaped his notice that each journey appeared to be shorter than the last.

He sprinted to the Hufflepuff common room, mouth salivating of its own accord when he caught a whiff of breakfast from the kitchens. Students were starting to filter out now; early risers eager to get a start on studying, N.E.W.T students mostly. Garreth recognised a few of them, tried to calculate when they had left Hogwarts but drew a blank.

Then suddenly there she was—walking arm in arm with Lenora. 

He might not have been able to recognise the intricacies of his own appearance but he recognised this particular Adanna. She’d spent months wearing a small gold brooch in the shape of a bee before losing it around Christmas of their fourth year, and there it sat proudly upon her clavicle.

“Oh, here he is,” Lenora giggled before peeling off to trail after Poppy.

He had a hundred questions then, but none pertinent to what was most urgent. The fifth time Garreth recounted his story was much the same as the third, met with confusion and concern in equal measure but not a flicker of doubt. They might have been young, but the years together still counted for something.

Five minutes later he was panting and gasping, recalling it for the sixth time to an irate Professor Sharp. He looked about ready to slam his door in Garreth’s face until he blurted out:

“The final case you had as an auror! You—future you—told me that it was the only one you ever regretted, that you would believe me if I told you—”

“Stop.”

The man rubbed his brow, fingers grasping for a stiff drink that wasn’t there. Garreth opened his mouth to speak but Adanna gripped his hand, shook her head. Static travelled up his arm from where she touched him. She pleaded for Garreth again, ever so convincingly and Sharp’s face softened again the way it had in the glade. Part of Garreth wondered if she possessed some innate magic to bend others to her will, but he knew it was just part of her charm.

“An enchanted cauldron you said?” Sharp asked, directing his question at Garreth.

He could have jumped for joy, kissed Adanna, kissed Sharp. 

But there was no time for either of those things, because the familiar sensation of falling was already beginning its dreaded advance. He had been so close, but there was never enough time.

The office faded from view, and Adanna’s hand slipped from his.

~

Garreth had never felt true fear, not really. He’d grown up in a comfortable home with an older brother at his side, and the most peril he’d ever had to face was the results of his own concoctions. At no point had he considered that his life might be at risk, until now.

How long did he have this time? Ten minutes, five? Not enough to convince anyone of anything, let alone concoct a cure to magic so unfamiliar. The haze of forced time travel cleared more slowly now, a headache forming behind his eyes, the kind of pain he knew befell those who apparated too often or too far. He supposed the stripping away of matter to appear elsewhere was as traumatic as flinging his consciousness through time. Eventually, if he didn’t disappear into nothing, he might just drop dead from a brain bleed.

Garreth shuddered, suddenly cold.

He’d found himself back at his family home again, this time tucked into his bed. The pile of quilts indicated winter, the schoolbooks piled against a dresser were second year material.

Adanna was too far away. He contemplated apparating to her, but there would be risk involved. His mind knew the spell, but his young body did not, and then there was the illegality of it all. Underage wizardry be damned—Garreth would risk the wrath of the Ministry and a splinching if it meant finding his only hope. 

He staggered out of bed and tried to find his wand, but it wasn’t on his bedside table, nor bundled inside his quilts. He shook each one out before tossing it to the floor in frustration. Doubtful that he could perform the spell without his wand, Garreth flung himself to the floor, ripped apart his bedroom and only when he saw the twisted wooden handle peeking out of an abandoned sock did he allow a breath of relief to escape him.

Too late did he realise those precious minutes had been wasted.

He should have risked a wandless apparition, ran downstairs to the floo—but he wasn’t thinking. Garreth hadn’t been able to think straight for some time. Everything was in disarray; his room, his thoughts, his very sanity.

Desperation makes people reckless. Fear erodes good sense and leaves only base instinct.

Garreth’s instinct was to reach Adanna, but this time he’d failed.

~

There was pain in forgetting. Raw emotion where once a vividly detailed story once played; joy hushed to a quiet hum of contentment. Faces that were once familiar became vague features and then nothing at all.

But there was far more pain in being forgotten.

Garreth remembered every lesson with Adanna, every laugh and smile. He remembered comforting her when the anniversary of her mother’s death loomed every year, the bond that tightened year after year until suddenly they were inseparable. Secrets and truths bound them so tightly, they moved as two celestial bodies caught in one another’s orbit.

He’d never felt anything like it before, and wondered if he ever would again.

She was a stranger now.

Garreth saw her at the other end of the greenhouse, this memory one that he’d held on to and replayed so often that it still remained in perfect clarity. Adanna was etched into his memory from years of retracing her movements, the way her skin glowed in the ebbing autumnal light. 

He knew how this played out—Garreth would notice how she delved into the soil with giddy abandon, black curls falling around her face which she blew away with a huff of breath and an annoyed scrunch of her nose. Her mouth parted just slightly when she noticed the tiny shoots of a mandrake curling tendril-like above the soil. 

Only a week earlier Garreth had felt that same palpable wonder when he’d hovered over Professor Sharp’s cauldron and watched emerald vapours coalesce into magic.

Now he would think: here was a girl he wanted to know.

But of course this time he already did. 

Adanna chose that moment to look up, tossing her hair from her face and locking eyes with Garreth. She gave a shy smile, devoid of any familiarity, and his heart shattered.

His memory of this first meeting had been embellished over time with facets of their growing friendship until it had seemed as if they had always known each other. Of course that wasn’t true, and now he would be forced to relive those years without her, with nowhere to turn.

Hope extinguished, time grabbed him by the throat and pulled him backward once more.

~

Garreth didn’t bother to open his eyes this time—he knew it was too late. He slipped away without any fanfare, without any fight at all.

~

His eighth birthday—surrounded by loved ones. When he cried, his mum thought he didn't like his present.

~

Garreth watched Oscar giggle gleefully whilst tossing gnomes over hedgerows and wished he could say goodbye.

~

In a body so tiny, he was imprisoned. Mouth unable to form words, hands barely able to grasp. When the world tilted one last time, he surrendered to the dark with closed eyes and open arms.

~

18 years later

Garreth awoke with a start. Eyes flew wide to flood with brilliant light that almost blinded him. It took a moment before he realised that he was once again occupying an adult body, which was currently drenched in sweat. He tried to swallow and found his mouth as dry as old parchment. These pains ordinarily might’ve been cause to grumble, but all he felt was relief. 

He was alive.

And he appeared to be in Hogwarts’ hospital wing—that ceiling was unrecognisable, as was the stench of disinfectant potions and the starchy bedsheets. Wincing through another onslaught of headache and nausea, Garreth managed to prop himself on his elbows to look down at himself.

His body appeared to be in one piece, and resembled the one he’d left behind crumpled on the Potions classroom floor. The events after that were hazy, details slipping away with every passing second. Had it been a dream? Everything had felt so real; that all-consuming fear rippled through his chest even now.

Something moved beside the bed. It was Adanna, curled up in a chair and sound asleep despite the hour. Her arm dangled limply by her side, as if she'd fallen asleep with it outstretched.

Merlin, he could have cried then. Instead he croaked her name and watched as her bleary eyes opened. The effect was instantaneous; a smile as bright as any candle, all intention of sleep forgotten.

“Garreth!” 

It sounded half sigh of a relief, half an admonishment, and sure enough Adanna slapped him on the arm before perching next to him on the bed. She handed him a glass of water without him asking, fussed with his pillow despite the frown upon her face.

“What was that for?” Garreth asked.

“For worrying me. And Leander and Natty, they've been here too,” she added hastily. “Professor Sharp is furious.”

Garreth blinked and tried to make sense of her words.

“What…happened?” he asked.

A flicker of concern crossed Adanna’s face. “Do you not remember?”

Oh, he remembered—-but whether or not his version of events tallied with hers was another matter entirely.

“Erm…”

“Your Elixir to Induce Euphoria? That absolute arse Penhaligon slipped something into your cauldron and you collapsed. It was just a little tonic to make you vomit, but Nurse Blainey said it was at least a year past its best.”

Garreth drank more water so he didn’t have to reply, though Adanna continued to eye him suspiciously.

Everything after that had been—what? A dream? A hallucination? At least he had collapsed and been brought here rather than raving like a lunatic about slipping backward through time. But it hadn’t seemed like a figment of his imagination, and whatever had happened had inexorably altered his reality. Like a spark of inspiration impossible to douse, Garreth looked at Adanna now and saw his saviour, his lifeline. Perhaps his mind had concocted this convoluted nightmare to nudge him in the right direction.

“Oh. I remember now…ah, quite the spectacle,” Garreth said with a lopsided smile that Adanna didn’t believe.

“Shall I get Nurse B—”

“No!” Garreth sat up straighter in the bed. “Can I ask you something?”

Adanna’s eyes widened and she instinctively moved closer. “What’s wrong?”

“If I told you I was stuck travelling through time and needed help would you believe me?”

She tilted her head and looked at him—really looked, past the smiles and jokes, his ever-present relaxed demeanour. He wondered if he saw the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his pupils dilated when he looked at her. The shake of his hands as he reached for hers.

“Yes,” she whispered, seizing his outstretched hand. “Yes, I would.”

Of course she would.

So he told the story again, for the final time. An alternate reality where Garreth would always search for her. In the end it didn’t seem to matter if it truly had happened or not. What mattered was how it ended.

When he asked Adanna if she would take his hand and never let go, she told him emphatically; yes.