Harry's brain… is not braining.
He remained crouched behind the angel statue, fingers locked so tightly around his wand that his knuckles ached, staring at the red-haired girl kneeling in the graveyard mud as if the world had decided to mock him personally.
A girl.
A Potter.
The Girl Who Lived.
For one sickening heartbeat, his brain tried to force the image into something it understood—Cedric's broad shoulders, his own panicked breathing, the Cup jerking them into darkness.
But no matter how hard he stared, the truth didn't change.
The girl lifted her head, eyes wide, chest heaving. The fog clung to her hair and lashes. Her face was spattered with dirt from the Portkey landing, and yet there was something stubborn and bright in her expression that made Harry's throat close.
His mother's cheekbones..
And his father's reckless defiance sitting in her spine like it belonged there.
Harry swallowed hard.
"What… what does that make me?" he whispered, voice barely audible even to himself.
If she was the Girl Who Lived—then in this world, Harry Potter… wasn't.
The implications hit him in waves.
I didn't just go back in time.
I went sideways.
A different world threaded into the same year like someone had stitched the universe wrong.
Harry's gaze flicked to the Death Eaters.
Masked. Waiting.
This alone proved he wasn't in his own timeline. In his history, the graveyard had been empty until the ritual finished. The Death Eaters had arrived in confusion, some crying, some laughing, some begging.
Here, they were already assembled—bowed in a ring as Pettigrew stepped forward, cradling the rag-wrapped bundle like a sacred relic.
Harry's stomach twisted.
Time travel ripples—Hermione had tried to drill it into him.
"You change one thing," she'd said once, pressing her fingers hard into his wrist as if she could anchor his attention there, "and it doesn't just change that thing. It changes what touches it. And what touches that. And what touches that. Your future won't break—Harry, it will reshape around your choices."
He'd listened. He'd nodded. He'd forgotten.
Because he'd never believed the universe could be this cruelly inventive.
And now—
Now he was looking at a nightmare his own logic hadn't even considered.
If the girl who lived was the one dragged here, then the plan had already been rewritten. If Voldemort was preparing this ritual for a girl, then who else was different?
The thought struck him so hard he nearly gagged.
What if Hermione is a man in this world?
The image was so wrong, so absurdly wrong, that bile rose in his throat. Harry clamped his mouth shut and breathed through his nose, forcing the nausea down.
Focus.
Rose—the Girl Who Lived—staggered to her feet. Her wand was already in her hand, held in a tight grip. Her eyes darted over the masked circle, over Pettigrew, over the bundle in his arms.
"What is this?" she demanded, voice shaking but loud. "Where am I?
So Cedric may be existed in this world.
But he just hadn't come with her.
Rose's wand flicked toward Pettigrew.
"You!" she snapped. "What do you want traitor?"
Pettigrew flinched as if her voice had struck him. His watery eyes darted over her face, and Harry saw it—recognition."
He licked his lips, trying to steady himself.
"Rosie," Pettigrew stammered. "It's been a while—"
Rose's expression tightened with disgust. "Don't call me that."
A few Death Eaters shifted. One let out a low, amused chuckle behind his mask.
Pettigrew swallowed, clutching the rag bundle closer. "You… you don't understand. You were chosenThe Dark Lord—he—he needs—"
Rose's eyes flicked to the bundle.
It twitched.
A faint, wet sound came from within the rags, like something trying to breathe through wrong lungs.
Rose took an involuntary step back.
"What is that?" she whispered.
Harry's chest tightened.
She didn't know.
She had never seen Voldemort reduced to a thing in cloth.
That meant she still had innocence left.
And that meant he couldn't let it be destroyed here.
Pettigrew's voice grew more confident, as if her ignorance fed him.
"It is our Lord," he said, reverent now. "He has waited so long for this moment. You—your blood—your victory—your magic—"
Rose lifted her wand again, anger flaring. "My blood? Are you insane?"
Pettigrew laughed nervously. "No, no, not insane. Not anymore. Not now that we will have him back—"
A Death Eater stepped forward, tall and composed.
"Enough," the masked man said, voice smooth as poisoned wine.
Pettigrew shrank instantly. "Y-yes, my lord—sir—"
The Death Eater looked down at Rose like she was a specimen.
"The ritual must proceed," he said calmly. "We have no time for your questions, Potter."
Harry felt a sharp, bitter twist inside him.
So she carries the weight I carried.
And maybe she never asked for it either.
Rose's voice hardened. "Let me go."
The circle of masked figures did not move, but the air tightened—the silent readiness of twenty wands.
The ritual continued.
No matter how much Harry wished—no matter how tightly his fingers dug into stone, no matter how violently his magic recoiled in protest—the ritual continued exactly as it had the first time.
Rose Potter was dragged forward.
She fought.
Kicked.
One Death Eater took a hex to the knee for his trouble and went down with a scream, but there were too many of them. Rough hands seized her arms, her hair, her shoulders, forcing her against an old marble tombstone carved with a half-erased angel.
"No—get away from me!" Rose shouted, thrashing wildly.
Ropes snapped around her wrists and chest, magic-tight and unforgiving, pinning her to the stone. Her wand was torn from her grasp and tossed aside.
Harry's nails bit into his palm hard enough to draw blood.
Just like last time.
Peter Pettigrew limped forward, pale and sweating, clutching a dagger that gleamed dully in the moonlight. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his eyes shone with manic devotion.
"Bone of the father… unknowingly given…" Pettigrew croaked.
The ground trembled.
A fragment of bone tore itself from beneath a nearby grave, ripping free with a wet, grinding sound that made Rose gag and turn her head away, eyes squeezed shut.
Harry swallowed bile.
"…flesh of the servant… willingly sacrificed…"
Pettigrew did not hesitate.
He raised the dagger and brought it down.
His scream ripped through the graveyard, raw and animal, as blood sprayed across the ritual circle. The Death Eaters watched in rapt silence as Pettigrew collapsed, clutching the ruined stump of his arm.
Rose screamed.
"No—no—stop—please—!"
Harry's heart hammered violently.
"…and blood of the enemy… forcibly taken…"
The ritual knife turned toward her.
Rose shook her head violently, tears streaking down her dirt-smeared face. "I didn't do anything to you! I didn't—!"
The blade bit into her arm.
Her scream cut off abruptly, turning into a choked sob as blood spilled into the cauldron.
Harry almost moved then.
Almost.
But he forced himself to stay.
Because he knew what came next.
The cauldron began to boil.
The contents inside writhed, twisted, thickened—forming something grotesque and humanoid. The air grew heavy, pressing against Harry's lungs as dark magic surged outward in violent waves.
And then—
The thing rose.
Bone knit to flesh.
Flesh sealed over sinew.
Skin stretched, pale and unnatural.
Lord Voldemort stepped out of the cauldron whole.
Naked. Pale. Snake-like.
Alive.
Harry felt it like a knife driven between his ribs.
Even knowing it would happen did nothing to dull the horror of seeing him reborn.
The Death Eaters dropped to their knees in unison.
"My Lord," they whispered.
Voldemort drew a shuddering breath, red eyes burning as he flexed his fingers, testing his body like a man trying on a new suit.
"It is good… to be whole again," he said softly.
Rose stared at him in pure terror.
Her entire body was trembling now, shoulders shaking as she fought not to break.
Harry's jaw tightened.
She's a child.
Chosen or not, prophesied or not—
She was a child.
And something inside Harry snapped.
She's my sister, the thought came unbidden, fierce and absolute.
I don't care what this world says. She is.
Voldemort turned his gaze to her slowly.
"The Girl Who Lived," he said, tasting the words. "How ironic. How… fitting."
Rose swallowed hard. "You're wrong, I am the girl who lived while you died," she said hoarsely.
The Death Eaters hissed.
Voldemort smiled.
"Bold," he said softly. "Just like your mother."
Harry flinched.
Voldemort raised a hand. "Release her."
The ropes vanished.
Rose collapsed forward, barely catching herself before she hit the ground. She scrambled for her wand instinctively—
—and Voldemort flicked his fingers.
Her wand flew across the dirt and landed neatly at her feet.
Harry's eyes narrowed.
"I will not have it said," Voldemort announced, turning slowly so his followers could see, "that I hide behind numbers or tricks. I will show you that my defeat was a fluke."
His red eyes locked onto Rose.
"You will duel me."
Rose's breath hitched. "You—what?"
"Pick up your wand."
She hesitated.
Voldemort's smile widened. "Do it."
Slowly—so slowly—Rose reached down and picked up her wand. Her hands were shaking, but she forced herself to straighten, lifting her chin.
She stood the way Harry once had.
Opposite him.
Alone.
Voldemort raised his wand lazily. "Begin."
Rose didn't hesitate.
"Stupefy!"
Red light shot from her wand.
Voldemort waved it aside without even looking.
"Expelliarmus!"
Again—deflected effortlessly.
She tried again and again—textbook spells, clean pronunciation, perfect form.
Harry watched with mounting dread.
This is how I fought.
This is how I almost died.
Voldemort laughed softly, circling her.
"Is that all they taught you?" he mocked. "Defense?"
A curse slammed into Rose's shoulder, hurling her backward into a gravestone. She cried out, gasping in pain—but she rolled, pushed herself up, wand still clenched tight.
Harry's grip on his wand trembled.
"Again," Voldemort said lightly.
She attacked.
She fell.
She stood.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Blood ran from her lip. Her breathing turned ragged. Her legs shook—but every time she hit the ground, she forced herself back up, eyes blazing with defiance.
The Death Eaters murmured.
Voldemort grew bored.
Harry could see it—the shift, the moment play turned into intent.
Now, Harry thought grimly.
If I don't act now, she dies.
He stepped out of the shadows.
Magic coiled around him, dark and controlled, his wand lifting as his eyes locked onto Voldemort's exposed flank.
"Enough," Harry said clearly.
The word cut through the graveyard like a blade.
Every head snapped toward him.
Then the Death Eaters laughed.
Not all of them—just enough. A ripple of amusement passed through the circle as they finally took him in properly: the height, the slight frame, the fact that he was barely older than the girl trembling infront of the tombstone.
Wands lowered an inch. Shoulders relaxed. One of them muttered, "Is this a joke?"
Voldemort did not laugh.
His red eyes narrowed, pupils contracting as they fixed on Harry with sharp, predatory focus. He tilted his head, studying him the way a snake studies something it does not immediately recognize as prey.
Harry ignored the circle entirely.
He looked only at Voldemort.
"So you're Voldemort," Harry said casually, as if confirming a rumor in a pub. His voice carried—steady, clear, untouched by fear. "I've heard quite a lot about you."
The Death Eaters stiffened.
Voldemort's lip curled faintly. "You know about me," he said softly.
Harry shrugged. "Hard not to. You're famous for all the wrong reasons."
Rose stared at him.
She hadn't even noticed she'd stopped shaking until that moment.
Harry took a slow step forward, boots crunching softly against gravel and bone fragments. He didn't raise his wand yet. He let the silence stretch, let curiosity bloom.
"I thought," Harry continued mildly, "that you were supposed to be some great Dark Lord. A terror of the age. A master of magic so powerful that grown wizards tremble when they hear your name."
He tilted his head, eyes flicking briefly to Rose—bloodied, exhausted, still standing.
"But here you are," he said, returning his gaze to Voldemort. "Hurting a little girl."
A murmur rippled through the Death Eaters—uneasy this time.
Harry's voice sharpened, not louder, just colder.
"Is that it?" he asked. "Is this all you could do? To prove to your followers that you can bully children?"
Voldemort's fingers twitched.
Rose could feel it—the shift in the air, the way the magic around him tightened like a noose being pulled.
"You dare," Voldemort said quietly, "to speak to me like that?"
Harry smiled.
It was the smile of someone who had already seen worse.
"I dare," Harry replied. "Because I don't see a Dark Lord. I see a coward fresh out of a cauldron, picking the weakest target in here so you can feel big."
That did it.
The ground cracked beneath Voldemort's feet as his magic flared, raw and violent. Several Death Eaters recoiled instinctively, cloaks snapping in the surge of power.
"WHO ARE YOU?" Voldemort snarled, voice echoing unnaturally across the cemetery. "AND WHAT DO YOU WANT?"
Harry finally raised his wand.
He didn't point it at Voldemort yet.
He stepped sideways instead—deliberately placing himself between Voldemort and Rose.
A shield without casting a spell.
"Who I am," Harry said calmly, "is none of your concern."
Rose's breath caught.
Harry didn't look back at her, but she felt it anyway—the deliberate positioning, the certainty in his stance. He wasn't posturing.
He was protecting.
"And what I want," Harry continued, "is something you can't give me. So let's not waste time pretending we're here to negotiate."
Voldemort laughed then—but there was no humor in it.
"A child challenging me," he said softly. "How quaint. How familiar."
Harry's eyes hardened.
"Wrong," he said. "A child is what you were just fighting."
He lifted his wand fully now, arm steady, magic coiling tight and dangerous beneath his skin.
"If you want a fight," Harry said, voice dropping into something sharp and final, "fight me."
The Death Eaters erupted in protest.
"My Lord—"
"He's nothing—"
"Allow us—"
Voldemort raised a hand.
Silence snapped into place.
His gaze never left Harry.
"You place yourself before her," Voldemort observed slowly. "Why?"
Harry didn't answer immediately.
Because the truth—that Rose felt like family, that she wore his mother's face, that he had already watched one innocent die here once—was not something Voldemort deserved to hear.
Instead, Harry said simply, "Because I don't like bullies."
Author's Note:
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