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if I see you round like a ghost in my town
timecrash in 3,2,1... (lysander and daniel)
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Sometimes he wishes his parents had just stayed put and he could have gone to Durmstrang. At Durmstrang, as he understands it, a primary skillset of talking, fighting, and knowing things about nature gets you a fair distance. At Hogwarts, you mostly have to write a lot of essays, a skill that he absolutely does not have and has never been able to acquire despite continuous and deeply frustrating effort. 

Sometimes his mother owls him to tell him, pointedly, that yet another of his distant cousins has apparently died horribly, though, so, you know. Upsides and downsides. 

He gets a handful of barely-passed OWLs, tries NEWT classes for about three weeks, and then pays one of the 7th-year Slytherins to teach him to Apparate and disappears to Norway. No one except his mother is surprised. 

Everyone is surprised when he turns up again three years later, and nearly gets hexed by half the Order of the Phoenix when he casually shows up for one of their extremely secret meetings to cheerfully inform them that he has spent the last year collecting a list of the holes in their information security (to whit: have they considered setting up some sort of coded messaging protocol instead of having their secret conversations in public alleyways just because they think they're alone and have never considered the possibility of someone using normal stealth instead of being magically invisible, oh my god, why are Gryffindors like this?). The war still goes pretty badly, but still only up to the part where Lily Evans pulls some sort of insane bullshit out of her hat and/or her ovaries (whomst the fuck knows, certainly not ancillary Hufflepuffs). 

Sasha subsequently spends a very peaceful ten years fixing clocks in a dusty corner of Diagon Alley before Harry Potter gets killed by a basilisk in 1992 and all hell breaks loose again. 

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".... hi?" says the soft voice of a roommate he hasn't seen since he left. Nor really very much before he left, either; Ed was always a social butterfly, but he didn't bother people who wanted to be left alone. 

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"Can I help you?" 

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"Very possibly. Have you seen the news or are you too dedicated to living under a rock?" 

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"I like my rock, thank you very much. Of course I've seen the news." It turns out he is physically not capable of not paying attention to his environment even if he tries very hard. "S'pose that means you haven't got a clock for me to fix." 

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"Well. Actually I sort of do? But I'm gonna need you to promise you will not immediately do a murder." 

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"Ed, I love you, you do know that is an incredibly worrying thing to say?" 

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"I am aware. S'a secret, though." Ed hates secrets, but sometimes needs must. "I promise it's important?" 

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It is the funniest thing in the universe that Ed is one of the best in their year at murder - and given the extant literally everything, that is really a very high bar - and is still so... like this. 

"If you present me with a secret that I am for some reason inclined to do murder about, I will tell you so, give you at least fifteen minutes to explain, and then if that doesn't help, leave. Yeah?" 

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Most people don't trust Sasha. Most people do trust Ed and still wouldn't so readily agree to this without any idea what they're walking into. 

But what even is the point of the House of Hufflepuff, if it isn't this? 

"Yeah." 

He holds out a hand to Apparate. 

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He sets down his work, puts it in a stable stasis charm until it can be picked up again so none of the tiny pieces blow away, locks the door, and takes Ed's hand. 

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They land in what appears to be a cave, quite deep underground and lit by a proliferation of luminous white flowers. 

Amidst the flowers, as though it is the most natural place in the world, sits -- 

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-- something wrong in the world -- 

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(the shadow of something he once saw walking silently in step with Gadlen, around the lake, something he had thought even at the time couldn't possibly be human --?)

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-- a young man. No, see, only that, nothing more. 

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"I thought you were dead," says Sasha, inanely, because whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck would be undignified and he just promised Ed he'd give him fifteen minutes to explain. 

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"Oh, I am. Long story. I could be more dead, though. Or less. Hard to say what will happen, really. Will you fix my clock?" 

He is indeed holding a pocketwatch. 

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"The clock is for - fixing the war before it happens, I think," volunteers Ed, a little helplessly. "I'm not really sure. I've - I've lost all my Ravenclaws." 

(By this he mostly means his wife, who died yesterday. He's not really ready to process in detail the fact that the war ended about three hours later.) 

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"There are more steps after the clock is working again. Unfortunately I think you will have to do most of them, clockmaker." 

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"... because I will be holding it when it starts working again, I suppose? I can't, say, fix it ninety-nine percent of the way and then hand it to Dumbledore?" 

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He tilts his head, as if listening to something only he can hear, and murmurs something that is absolutely not English and probably not a human language at all. There is a whistling sound, across the cave, even though they are way too far underground for organic air and are definitely breathing oxygenation charms right now, like a great intangible eagle passing through. 

"I am politely advised that that is a bad plan and you should not do it," reports Daniel, like this is a normal thing to say. 

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"I shouldn't hand off the fixed clock," he's just assuming he can fix it, he's never met a machine he couldn't, "or I shouldn't hand it to Dumbledore, specifically?"

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"First thing, I think." 

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Right.

"Ed, why did you think I might commit murder about this?" 

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"Sasha, you once killed an entire human person because you didn't like her accent. Daniel has turned into some kind of, of --" 

Edgar is constitutionally unable to say negative things about a person's appearance and stops midsentence, waving his hands vaguely. 

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"Eldritch h̸o̵r̶r̵o̸r̵?" suggests Daniel, dryly, horrible static skittering across his too-white skin. 

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Wince. 

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"Understandable." And flattering that Ed thinks he even could if he wanted to, frankly. Whatever the hell Daniel has turned into, he somehow doesn't think a killing curse would work on it. "This is still clearly Daniel, though. He's just as much my brother as you are until he tries to kill me first."  

Like Scrimgeour we don't talk about that. 

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"Wouldn't dream of it," says Daniel, grinning like this is very funny. 

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It's probably not worth trying to get him to explain that, is it. 

"Right. So tell me about your clock you want fixed, then." 

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It is a five-dimensional bullshit object that he barely understands after like two straight years staring at it, but he'll hand it over and gamely start trying, with liberal use of gestures human fingers shouldn't quite be able to make and the occasional word that isn't English but somehow has meaning embedded in it anyway. 

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Sasha, after a full ten minutes staring at his erstwhile roommate and doing nothing but figuring out how to reboot his brain to correctly process Eldritch Daniel Inputs, starts building an illusory gearwork, floating in the air between them. He was never much good at the sorts of visual charms that tell lies - he prefers to tell lies (1) never or (2) as a very distant second by using his face like a normal person - but he loves the ones that let him real-time sketch models in multicolored 3D with his wand instead of barely approximating it with a dozen ink pens and a timelapse notebook. It's not that difficult to cast, just finicky enough that most people don't bother when it'd be useless to them, but it comes up a lot when your day job is to repair mechanisms that have an annoying tendency to change shape while you're not looking at them. 

"So this is not gonna be a fast fix," he diagnoses after several hours, with the eldritch clock in several hundred pieces (ish; this clock is even more magic than the kind he is used to and the number of pieces also keeps changing) scattered around him on the floor. 

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"Um," says Daniel. "You cannot really.... go home... until it is done though? Well. You could but you shouldn't." 

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"What? Why?" 

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Daniel frowns down at the pile of gears and glowing rocks and increasingly less identifiable objects.

"The more this project gets [̶̗͙̒́ḛ̷̈́n̵̥̂́t̴̘͍̽̄a̵̹͝n̵̡̝̂g̶͖̮̉͒l̵̻̖̂̀e̴̘̾͂m̵͔͓̚ë̷̮́̔n̴̙͛t̸͚̅̽-̶̬̣̇p̴̢̻͗̃ṟ̸͝ô̵̘̘̈́x̶̹̌i̶̱̊m̵͍̃̈́ì̵̻t̸̫͐̾ỳ̴̘̙̕-̶͇̔ī̷͕ṉ̴̤̊̍t̸̡̔ë̵̲r̶̍͜f̸͍̋ȅ̸̗̎r̶̛̮ę̵̈̓n̸̙̈́ċ̷̮̥̚e̷̗̖̓]̷̥͒͜͝ with anything else in our timeline the harder it'll be to [̸̭̜̔u̸̲͑̊n̶̈́͜w̴̠̆ỉ̷̹n̴̬̐ḑ̴̯͝-̸͙̕u̴͓̔n̴̘̜̈́̈e̷̛͖̯x̶̯̫̓i̴͚͂͜s̶̼̹̈́͗t̸̩̊̏-̶͈͖͂r̵͎̪͊e̴͍̽͆v̷͉͗i̷̛͈͚̍s̵̞̥͊è̵͚̥̒-̷͔̋̐b̷͕̺͋̇ë̵̙́ñ̵̮̗̊d̶͚̐̆]̵̮͙̎?" he attempts. "...that's why I told Ed not to tell you anything until you got here, and also to pack for a longish trip, see." 

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Well that sucks massively but fair enough. 

"Right. ...how long do I have before that's a problem?" 

 

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Ed is prepared to camp down here as long as he needs to, really. The war's over and he's got no family to go back to, Amelia can handle the cleanup without him. "Least a couple weeks," he shrugs instead, because it would be mean to ask them to deal with his emotional trauma right this minute. If it doesn't work he'll have plenty of time to gently distribute it among two dozen teatimes with three or four dozen friends and if it does work (and he remembers; he thinks Daniel said he would, from proximity) he can go hug Helen about it and eventually he will be able to put his trauma away gently in a metaphorical padded box and place it gently on a shelf to be cherished as an important part of his life experience that helped him achieve this. "After that probably I clear out Amelia's pantry while she's not looking. She'll notice but she won't pry." 

Because she will assume he's mourning in a dark corner somewhere and will come out when he's ready. Which to be fair is not that far wrong, but it is wrong in the important sense. 

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Daniel chews dubiously on his lip. "Probably works." 

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"Well. I'll do my best." 

 

It only ends up taking him about eight days. 


 

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the world bends. 

 

there are many worlds, did you know? there are thousands thousands millions trillions, minds souls ̶l̷i̶v̴e̵s̶ ̶t̶i̷m̵e̴l̷i̸n̶e̴s̶, all of them dreaming (waking) (dreaming) 

did you know can you hear it can you s̴̡̬͍̭̫̆̔͝ͅẽ̷̛̘̠̈́̌͐̑͂̈́͑̎̄̾é̸̛̗̼͊̉́̄̂̕͘ ̴̨̛̺̣̹̲̺̫͙̫͈̂̒̃̓͊͋͒́́̆͛̕

there are a m̶̢̨̨͔̞̜̖̱͉͉͈̖͇̙̏̂̋́̎͛̀̇̑͋͋̌̾̿͘͠ͅb̴̨̻̯͕̱̹̱͚̣̹͈͚̮̘̘̉ţ̵͍̮̻͈̟̬̞̘̭̺̰̓͝ŗ̸͙̟̰̹̫̪͙̜͚̱̳̹̠̻͐̓̓́̑̈̿͛̍͐͆͆̅̆̌͑̉͜ź̷̡͓̺͕͚͓̗̞̫̯͎̗͉͍̖͖͜i̶̢͔̟̺̯̱̺̿͌̊̿͝͠͝l̶̩̟̱͈̀̌l̶͈̱͉̪̥̐̈̊͌̾́͛̄́̀͆̌̊̌͆̽̐ͅͅī̵̖̦̭͇̜̱͔̜̗̹̳͎͍̋ͅo̷̗̤̰͙̘̣͇̅̇́̒̅͜n̷͈̭̱̤̬̰̮̩̈̔̓͛̈́̾̌͑̇͒́́͝ͅͅsouls c̵̢̟̮͚̻͇̣͑̃r̵͍̭̆y̵̼͎̭̙͕̹͆̌̈́̚í̸̹̀́̀n̶̨͙̜̹̮̣͙̘͋͊̂̑̐͠ǧ̵̡͚̝̆͛͌̚ ̴̱͒̈̈́͛͆̽ơ̷̲̜̝͓̘̮u̷̹̜̯̪̖̞̒͜ẗ̵̯̝͓̯̰̣͙̏͛ and you have just t̶̹̞̪͎͉̮̝̻͐͂o̸̙̮̻̱̥̦̩̻̅̈̀̅̍̽͠u̵̡̢̨͈͎͕͉̻͌͐̃̊̊͌̒̕c̷̛̖̹̝̦̯̪̋ȟ̴̼̣̘͓͈̰̲̊́̌̂̊͊e̷̗̞̜̋̓̀̓͗̂̇d̸̼̆͜ͅ ̸̡̧̢̧̫͎̬̈́̾̾a̶̧͇̟̣̩̯̋̅̆͌ḽ̶͕̫̈́̅̐ḷ̶̜̈̓̉̿͋̋̀̉ ̶͉͑́͂͒́͠ỏ̶͎͚̦̚f̶̡̤̘͇̦̭̍́̚̚ ̵̡̛̪͎̭̘͉͓̽̑́͌͆̌͘͜ẗ̸͕̱͕͔́͘͜h̴͉̼̦̅͘e̵̛͈̫̗͈͇͛̉͊̋m̶̨̝̰̰̤̻̖̿̋̀̓ͅ ̸̢̻̣̹̟̩͖̾̋͗̃̐̓͜͠a̶͔̔̂t̷̫͉̘̥̩̄̓̃͑̽ͅͅ ̸̢͎̜̱̖̭͓̉̓̓͆̍o̵͚͆̚n̸̦̜͉̩͓̗̳̏̒̈́̐̆ͅc̷̬̀̀̐̉̀ê̸̺͉̪ 

 

 

no, there is nothing. nothing here. what made you think there was something here? there are no things here yet. that's how it works. didn't you know? 

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Ah. Hello, clockmaker. What are you doing? 

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Not sure.

Wait just a  -             [̸̧̺̗̟̦͚̞͉̺̠̲̞̃̿͠t̷̛͔͍̫̯̘̗̣͙͙̙̳͓͋̃̇́͜ḭ̸̫̺̍ͅm̸̢̢̛̭̣̙̜͚̹̫̒͛̂̿̑͘e̵̯̤̮͈̭̻͖͇̋̉̎̈́̽̂̆͆ĺ̵̢̫̝̼̀͘e̷̛͖͓̰̳̜̯̯̪̗̯̠͈͊̃̾̏͊̉́̓̉̓̇́̚͜͝͠s̶̡̨̮͉̺̙͉͔̙̬̯̲͕̔͂̆̏͘ş̴͖̋͗̀̈́̒̓́̀̓̽̄̐̅͘̕͠-̸͎̜̫͚͓̮͈͔̫͓̣̫̈́͒͒͌̽̃̀̊́̄̃͒̋͘͝ṁ̵̛̹̭̽̄̊̀̃̓̌̽̆̕̚ǫ̸̱̦̯̻̭͍̙̊̑̃͠m̷̞̺̀̓̒̎̀͗̊͌̇̎͋̉̑͝ẽ̵̝̘͇̩̭̤̹̬̭͔̟͍̺͎̙n̶̡̛̪̭͎͇̗̹̝̼̟̘͔͓̹̾̒ţ̵̨̢̛̗͖̼̫̖̤͓̩̭̱͚͑̆̑̍͐͑̕-̶̨̮̩͓͚̞̬̩̞͚̦̄̒̄̓́͜͜͝ͅu̵̧̨̠͓̤͔̮̠̰͇̺̇̄̍n̴̺͉̪̊̅͛̆̒̎̏͑̑̽̈́̓͋͜í̶͉̣̖̣̱͖͉̺̘̼̹ͅt̶̡̘̻̻͉̦̱̔̂̓̆̒̂͂̐͛̓̀͒͆̂̐]̶̼̩̋͑́̕ -- 

 

Oh, there it goes, see, if you want it to spin properly you just have to put that bit of void right here--