"Eating with two Harrys and two Hermiones—Merlin's beard, this has to be the strangest thing I've ever done…"
In the dining area, Neville glanced at the Harry and Hermione sitting to his left, then at the Harry and Hermione to his right. Though he could tell which ones were his roommates and classmates of five years, the whole situation felt bizarre.
"You think you're the one feeling strange?" both Hermiones said, eyeing their slightly older, more mature counterparts across the table. Watching the other pair's intimate interactions, both felt an odd, almost surreal sensation—like they were somehow betraying themselves.
The two Harrys exchanged a glance but kept silent.
Ever since Dumbledore had returned two days ago, after being missing for over a week, with a Harry and Hermione from a parallel world in tow, things in the tent had taken a peculiar turn. The weirdness escalated whenever the two couples got cozy with their respective partners. It was like watching a mirror reflect an alternate version of reality—charming, but deeply unsettling.
And then Dumbledore made things even stranger by bringing in a second pair of Harry and Hermione, along with a Ron, into the tent. That's when things spiraled out of control.
According to Dumbledore, the new trio had been found at 12 Grimmauld Place, thanks to a lead from Snape about one of the seven Voldemorts' magical signatures. Dumbledore had only intended to bring the parallel Harry and Hermione, but somehow, that world's Ron Weasley had caught wind of the plan. In a fit of recklessness—and without an Invisibility Cloak for protection—he'd followed them through the Veil into this world.
Thankfully, Harry and Hermione had quick reflexes.
In a moment of soft-heartedness, Dumbledore had allowed that Ronald Weasley to join Neville's group. But that decision turned out to be a mistake.
Ever since the second Ron from another world arrived with his Harry and Hermione, the tent had been a hotbed of chaos. First, Ron constantly bickered with his Hermione. Then, for reasons no one could quite pinpoint, he turned his hostility and jealousy toward the Harrys and Hermiones from other worlds. Whether by luck or misfortune, the first pair he targeted was the local Harry and Hermione.
One day, while the local Harry and Hermione were sitting close, poring over an alchemy book, the third group's Ron stormed over, face flushed with anger. Pointing at Harry's nose, he shouted, "You scaly-faced Harry Potter! Get your hands off Hermione!"
As if that wasn't enough, he rounded on the local Hermione. "And you! Clinging to a man in broad daylight? Have you no shame?!"
Unsurprisingly, the local Harry promptly tackled him, leaving Ron with a face resembling a bruised pumpkin.
The next day, things didn't improve. Ron's injuries did nothing to calm the tension, especially when a second Ron arrived with a fourth pair of Harry and Hermione, courtesy of Dumbledore.
By the time Christmas was three days away, the snowy patch of land—barely ninety square feet—housed four tents. Six Harrys, six Hermiones, one Neville, and three Rons (all with broken limbs, confined to their beds, glaring helplessly) made up a group that was nearly a third the size of a fifth-year Hogwarts class.
Meanwhile, Dumbledore, who had been traversing alternate worlds for sixteen years, arrived in a new one.
As he had done sixteen times before, he stepped out from the Veil in the Department of Mysteries, cloaked in his Invisibility Cloak, and silently followed a Silent Enforcer out of the department.
At first, this world seemed no different from the others. Though he noticed the Ministry of Magic staff seemed unusually cold toward one another, he chalked it up to a few bad moods. That is, until he took the lift to the Ministry's Atrium.
The grand hall stretched long and opulent, its polished dark wood floor gleaming underfoot. The peacock-blue ceiling glittered with golden symbols, and the walls were lined with glossy black wood panels, punctuated by gilded fireplaces. Every few seconds, with a soft whoosh, a witch or wizard would emerge from a fireplace on the left. On the right, queues formed at each fireplace for departures. The air crackled with the sharp pops of Apparition, mingling with the hurried footsteps of hundreds of witches and wizards. Their faces bore the dull, lifeless expressions typical of early mornings as they strode toward the golden gates at the far end of the hall.
Dumbledore's gaze swept over the familiar scene, then froze on a gleaming gold statue in the center of a fountain.
The statue, crafted from pure gold, was smooth and cold, reflecting the light from above. Its face was hard, its deep-set eyes radiating a violent intensity, as if peering into the viewer's soul. The lips were pressed tight, yet a sinister smile seemed to linger at the corners. Every detail was meticulously carved, from the hair to the folds of the robe, lifelike in its precision. The wand in its hand was shaped like a serpent, with ruby eyes that glinted with malice in the dim light.
At the statue's base, a line of intricate runic script read: "To the great and powerful Dark Lord, from your loyal Ministry."
Dumbledore's eyes darkened with concern as he stared at the statue of Voldemort. The dangers lurking in this world might far exceed anything he had anticipated.
Night had fallen, heavy clouds obscuring the moon, leaving only a scattering of stars in the sky. At the edge of a desolate woodland, a carriage drawn by two Thestrals sped along a dirt path, its wheels carving shallow ruts in the earth.
A haggard Harry Potter, looking to be in his early twenties, sat in one corner of the carriage. His clothes were tattered, his expression weary, and a deep scar ran from beneath a blue prosthetic eye to the right corner of his mouth.
Beside him was an equally exhausted Hermione Granger. They leaned against each other, backs pressed to the carriage wall, heads bobbing with the vehicle's motion.
After an indeterminate time, the carriage slowed to a stop. A sharp knock broke the silence.
"What's wrong?" Harry and Hermione snapped awake, their hands gripping wands that emerged from beneath their robes.
"It's Hagrid," came Professor Neville's voice from outside. "He's got news."
Harry flung open the door. Hagrid stood there, his face etched with anxiety, though it softened into relief upon seeing them safe.
"Things are gettin' worse, Harry," Hagrid said in a low voice. "The Ministry's Hit Wizards are scourin' the area. They likely know our rough whereabouts. The school needs to move—fast."