Chapter 1: Echoes of Another Life

  The underground chamber rested in silence, undisturbed for centuries. Its darkness was broken only by white runes, glowing on a mysterious stone archway. Silvery curtains hung floating within the arch, the ghostly layer so thin it was barely visible. Whispers drifted from the shimmering surface, cold and quiet.

  A ripple spread.

  The gossamer silk stiffened, stretched by an unseen force. Cracks spiderwebbed across the gate as the stones shuddered, dislodging ancient dirt clumps. The whispers sharpened, becoming louder and louder - moans interspersed with bestial snarls, metallic shrieks that echoed endlessly. Dust swirled into the air, caught in an invisible maelstrom, peltering the walls, the floor, the Veil itself.

  Then, a tear.

  As if two invisible hands had ripped reality apart. For a second, the rift gaped, freezing the air itself. Then it spat out a figure: a bedraggled, dark-haired man, limp like a rag-doll and streaked in rust-colored grime. He sprawled across the pedestal steps as the portal blinked closed behind him, abruptly silencing the room. Curtains vanished. Broken runes dimmed to ash.

  Darkness returned, even heavier than before.

  Not a good day, Harry Potter thought wryly. His lungs coughed in agreement.

  Six hours earlier, he'd been hunched over a desk in a sunny Australian dig site, copying tiny runic patterns onto parchment. "A full comparative analysis," his Unspeakable mentor had said, a smirk on his face. Being an intern for the Department, Harry wasn't a stranger to such arduous tasks.

  What made it worse was the eerie carving he'd found, sat smugly atop the newly unearthed Veil replica he was studying. A triangle with a circle drawn within, and a line splitting the shape down the middle.

  But of course, he'd thought. The universe clearly liked to play jokes on him. He'd buried the Elder Wand, dumped the Resurrection Stone into the sea. Yet there it was, that thrice-cursed triangle that taunted him, reminding him of the past he wanted to leave behind.

  So, naturally, he'd fetched his Invisibility Cloak.

  Harry's ribs screamed as he rolled onto his back. Idiot, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut.

  What was he thinking, ignoring a decade of survival instincts? That maybe the third Hallow would be related to the mysteries of the gate?

  He'd turned out to be right, of course. The Cloak - suddenly animate, enthusiastic, and incredibly strong - had wrapped him up like chicken shawarma and hurled him face-first into the Veil.

  And this is why you don't mess around with eldritch gateways.

  Harry blinked into the gloom. No sun. No colleagues shouting about cursed pieces of clothing. Just darkness, blood on his tongue, and the distinct sensation of being laughed at by fate.

  Brilliant.

  Taking deep breaths to calm his heart, Harry took stock of his body. Thankfully, his glasses had survived the trip. His holly wand was in his arm holster. Pouch with rune analysis tools, check. Pouch with emergency supplies and documents, check.

  He was wearing the same clothes - hiking boots, hardy work pants, belt and jacket. Everything seemed to be in order … except for the insubordinate Cloak that caused this whole mess, which seemed to have vanished.

  Scrambling off the ground, he decided to first check his surroundings. His wand snapped up. "Lumos". Looking around at the now lit room, Harry saw what appeared to be the same excavated chamber he remembered - only the room was no longer open to the air, but rather encased by a heavy stone ceiling.

  Turning around, Harry stared at the stone dias and the remains of the ancient archway. It appeared that the gate had collapsed after he was pushed out. Chunks of stone littered the steps, their ashen surfaces filled with now-dead runes.

  There was no tell-tale glimmer of his Cloak, no silvery sheen of fabric.

  Harry sank onto the stairs with a weary sigh, raking his left hand through hair matted with dust. Idiot. He cursed himself again. He'd just been hurled through the Veil - by a scrap of enchanted fabric, no less. The absurdity gnawed at him.

  Why did he rush into experimenting like a bullheaded Gryffindor, when the runic experts were right there? Charging at things like a mindless Bludger at the first sign of the Deathly Hallows. This must've been how Dumbledore felt with the Gaunt ring, he thought bitterly.

  Shaking his head, Harry focused. First order of business: where was he? Second: how was he going to get back?

  From his limited studies with the Unspeakables, he knew of two leading theories about the Veil - either it would kill you instantly, or it would send you to an unknown world, forever unable to return.

  Harry definitely wasn't dead. He knew death - this ancient chamber, thick with dust, was a far cry from the empty King's Cross station he remembered from the afterlife. No sterile white floors or doddering headmasters in sight.

  Plus, the journey through the Veil was … anticlimactic. When he'd died in the forest, during the Battle of Hogwarts, there was at least a sense of transition. At first standing in front of Voldemort, fear and relief in his pounding veins … then, after a timeless, indeterminable period, his consciousness waking up in a mist-filled afterlife.

  Being pulled through the Veil, though? There was no break in consciousness, no sensation of distance like apparition or portkey. He simply flew through one end and out the other.

  So. An "unknown world," then.

  His fingers grazed a shattered slab of rubble, dislodging a cascade of grit. Brilliant. My ticket home - reduced to debris. He twisted around, desperately hoping for a glimpse of ethereal curtains shimmering in the air, a magic portal back home. But all he saw was darkness and dust.

  Harry put his face in his hands. He pressed his palms into his eyes until colors bloomed behind eyelids. The rage came first, white-hot and familiar, followed by the acid drip of guilt - Hermione's voice chiding his recklessness, Ron's laugh cut short. Teddy's small hands clutching his shirt.

  No. Harry stood up abruptly, his breathing erratic. He had grown from his teenage days. He might not know where he was, or what to do next. He might have just thrown everything away in his moment of rashness and excitement, like Sirius did when he went after Peter that fateful night. But if Harry had learned anything from the war, it was to always move forward. He grit his teeth. Time for a plan.

  First, escape this tomb. Second, figure out where the hell he'd landed.

  Harry nodded. Simple, easy. No time to lose.

  He flicked his wand at the rubble and shrank the fragments, storing them in his pouch. He might need to study them later, to get back to his world.

  Harry raised his wand and positioned himself. He needed to blast himself out of the chamber, and the closest way would be through the ceiling. Aiming at the far corner, he put out the Lumos spell with a whisper. "Bombarda Maxima!"

  A surge of power forced out of his wand, exploding the ceiling in a hail of stone. Harry staggered, knees buckling. His wand arm hung leaden, muscles quivering like he'd just finished lugging a boulder. Dust clogged his throat as he relit his wand. The spell effect looked alright - a great maw blasted into the rock - but the cost … it had taken much more out of him than he'd remembered.

  The Veil, he thought, slumping against the wall. Did he lose magical stamina after crossing? Bloody hell. Cold seeped through his robes as he sighed into his hands again. "Should've listened to Hermione about ancient fucking portals."

  Around ten hours later, a powerful explosion tore through the ground in the arid grasslands. Rust-red earth split, crumbling into the sinkhole. A few moments later, an exhausted Harry Potter covered in soot rose out on his Firebolt.

  The night air was cold and scented with saltbush. Above, unfamiliar stars and constellations sprawled in a brilliant arc. The moon hung low, a waxing sliver. Southern Hemisphere. His Astronomy lessons wouldn't help him here.

  Good news was, Harry recognized the place. The surrounding scrublands were unmistakable - he was still in Australia, at the same dig site near Wagga Wagga, in fact.

  Bad news? No excavation team was waiting to greet him. No diggers' tools littered in front of wizarding tents. Just undisturbed dirt, cracked by drought. Either this was some time before the archaeologists arrived … or they'd never come at all.

  With that grim thought, his stomach twisted. Ten hours trapped below the surface, combined with magical exhaustion, had left him very peckish. He had to get to town for shelter and food, if there still was a town at that.

  Apparition? Suicidal. His magic felt tattered, like a parchment full of holes - one twist might scatter pieces of Harry across the desert. He mounted his broom, then hesitated. He needed to hide the chamber entrance in case he needed to come back and reconstruct the Veil – it would be a major hassle to deal with the Australian Ministry if they discovered the room.

  Resigning himself to using more magic, Harry ground his teeth together, waving his wand. Earth groaned as it rumbled together into a makeshift burial, roots tangling in the dirt.

  Afterwards, he tapped his wand over his head, shivering as the disillusionment charm trickled down his body and over his clothes and broom. Slumping down utterly exhausted, he guided the broom to shoot east.

  Cold wind whipped through Harry's hair, stripping away the dust left behind from his demolition curses. Soaring through the void, his mind kept circling back to the Invisibility Cloak's strange behavior. It had constricted around him like a living thing and thrown him into this foreign dimension - only to disappear upon arrival. Had it burned itself out, a sacrifice to pay for the passage? Or did it abandoned him purposefully?

  He swallowed the childish urge to curse the Cloak. Sulking wouldn't take him back home, fix his magic, nor change the fact that he was a stranger in a completely new world.

  Harry shook his head, dismissing his spiraling thoughts. Dwelling was pointless for now. Survival first. Answers later.

  Beneath him, a vast outback stretching to the horizon. Muggle towns glimmered like stars floating in a dark ocean, connected by delicate, spidery highways that pulsed with passing headlights. Above, the Milky Way blazed, a fresco of nature's beauty.

  Harry followed a snaking road toward Wagga Wagga's outskirts. In his world, this had been the last magical pitstop before the Veil chamber. Now, he spotted the same cluster of enchanted cottages camouflaged among gum trees. Landing on a dirt road, he stowed his Firebolt and approached a sagging timber inn.

  Inside, the air was warm and welcoming, the crackle of a fireplace mingling with the murmur of a few road-worn travelers hunched over their meals. Harry ordered roast lamb and settled at the counter. As he waited, his gaze drifted to a stack of newspapers tucked in the corner. Curiosity piqued, he rose and crossed the room, snatching the top copy.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  It was the latest Billywig Times, Australia's premier wizarding paper. His eyes skimmed past the Quidditch scores - detailing a recent clash between the Thundelarra Thunderers and the Woollongong Warriors - until they landed on the publication date: July 1st, 1995.

  The bed was soft and comfy. Heavy blankets pressed down on him, forming a warm cocoon. The smell of clean linen drifted into his nose, interspersed with hints of mountain ash wood and roasted meat.

  Blinking awake, Harry stared at the fuzzy wooden ceiling, bathed in streaks of morning sunlight from the window. Where was he? He reached for his glasses blearily, putting them on. No Runic instruments or Arithmancy books in sight. No Kreacher, grumbling about his lazy master.

  Then memories of last night hit him.

  This wasn't the hard cot of his wizard's tent, nor his creaky bed at Grimmauld Place. He was in a small inn, in Australia. In another world, another time. 1995.

  The shock of yesterday's newspaper headline had blurred in his exhaustion. Now, clear-headed from a full night's rest, the date consumed his thoughts. July 1st, 1995. Five years into the past. Summer before fifth year. Just a week after Cedric's death, after Voldemort's return.

  Did the Veil throw him back into the past? That nobody had discovered the Australian Veil yet, seemed to suggest so. Was there another Harry running around back in Britain, then?

  Another chance. He could fix everything.

  The thought crept into his mind, tempting like a devil's whisper. Wasn't this what he had wished for, in all those sleepless, guilt-ridden nights? Perhaps the Cloak had done him a favor. Perhaps it sensed he needed a chance at redemption.

  Sirius. Dumbledore. Everyone. There was still time.

  No. He couldn't allow himself to continue that train of thought. He didn't know if he'd traveled back in time, or if this was an entirely new dimension. He knew nothing right now. And regardless of where he'd ended up, what he really needed was to get back home to his Hermione and Ron. His Teddy. His Sirius.

  Harry jolted upright in the bed, his eyes wide. Sirius!

  In yesterday's chaos, he'd nearly forgotten why he'd started studying the Veil to begin with. The Veil wasn't fatal. His own survival proved it. If Sirius had fallen through five years ago … could he be here, alive, in London?

  He needed information. He needed to talk to the Unspeakables.

  Driven by renewed purpose, he climbed out of bed. Harry scarfed down some eggs for breakfast and quickly strode out of the inn. Fixing the image of Sydney's magical quarter in his mind, Harry apparated.

  Port Mantle was a stretch of wharf east of the Sydney Opera House, situated on a stretch of land muggles had named Potts Point. Hidden from Muggle eyes, the waterfront was filled with all manners of magical sea transport – 11th century Song Dynasty junks bobbed alongside 18th century British schooners in the gentle waves of the Tasman Sea, while a giant passenger liner that looked suspiciously like the RMS Titanic was anchored right next to the apparition point.

  It was a beautiful, clear day in Sydney. Ships arrived and departed regularly from the busy magical port, sailing under a deep blue sky. Many naval vessels looked shoddily maintained and had odd bits and parts sticking out, reminding Harry of the Burrow. No matter how dilapidated the ships, however, they always managed to cut through wind and water with ease.

  Harry watched as a bright golden sailboat named The Snitch passed by, its two wing-like sails rippling in the ocean breeze. The white sails were decorated with fluttering snitches that darted in and out of sight, just like the seagulls that dipped and weaved above the waters of the bay. The boat brushed past a muggle cargo ship with unnatural speed, despite wind blowing against its sails. Soon, it vanished over the horizon, leaving white-crested waves in its wake.

  Shaking his head at the eccentricities of magical world, Harry made his way briskly down the crowded seaside walk, scanning for a newspaper stand. The salty breeze carried the tang of the ocean, but his mind dwelled on a more pressing matter: how to return to Britain undetected.

  He and his research team had arrived in Australia via an international Portkey, but he doubted he could return using the same method. International Portkeys were strictly regulated, requiring official documentation he couldn't risk using. The last thing he needed was Aurors hunting him over paperwork.

  That left him with two unappealing options.

  The first: Apparate halfway across the globe, hopping between magical enclaves. But with his magical reserves still strangely depleted and no familiarity with the route, the journey could take days - if he didn't collapse from exhaustion first.

  The second: board one of the shabby vessels docked along the quay. The reputable liners demanded paperwork, but Harry had overheard whispers in the pub about shadier ships operating like the Knight Bus - no questions, just galleons. Their routes meandered through random ports, but even the longest sea voyage would likely outpace a botched Apparition.

  Yeah … option two. He was not about to splinch himself into the Himalayas.

  Harry finally spotted a small newspaper shack that carried press from around the world. Eager to get his first glimpse into the situation in the Britain, Harry hurried over to pay for a copy of the latest Daily Prophet.

  On the front page, printed in dark, bold letters, was the headline: "HOGWARTS MOURNS TRAGIC LOSS AT CHAOTIC TOURNAMENT FINALE".

  Right underneath, in slightly smaller text: "CRAZED DEATH EATER BLACK FLEES MURDER SCENE".

  Two moving pictures were printed underneath the headlines. On the left was the mugshot of Sirius Black that Harry knew so well. It had been printed everywhere over Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade during his third year. On the right was a shot of the Great Hall, with Dumbledore giving the traditional leaving feast speech before tables of Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts students. Black drapes hung over the teachers' table, and the students and teachers were all standing, raising their goblets.

  The Leaving Feast scene left Harry with a feeling of déjà vu. Although he knew that he had no control over when the Veil had dropped him here, Cedric's death still left him a bit sad. Harry moved on to the article.

  Last night, Hogwarts' end-of-year feast transformed into a somber memorial following the brutal murder of 16-year-old Cedric Diggory. The promising Hufflepuff prefect met his untimely end during the catastrophically ill-conceived Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament - an event now revealed to have been infiltrated by a Death Eater disguised as Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody.

  Ministry sources confirm the impostor - believed to be deranged mass murderer Sirius Black - orchestrated a chilling plot to ambush the Girl-Who-Lived, Iris Potter, within the tournament maze. Eyewitness accounts describe a gruesome scene where the unhinged killer (already responsible for 13 Muggle deaths) allegedly tortured and killed Diggory before turning his wand on Miss Potter. Though aging Headmaster Albus Dumbledore claims to have "disrupted" the attack, this publication must ask - why did security protocols allow a known fugitive to bypass Hogwarts' defenses twice in as many years?

  The presence of a Death Eater on the Hogwarts staff explains how the Girl-Who-Lived, Iris Potter, was entered into the Triwizard Tournament against her will. It also marks yet another black mark on Dumbledore's increasingly questionable appointments. After last year's werewolf teaching scandal and the disastrous appointment of half-giant Rubeus Hagrid, concerned parents are rightfully demanding answers. Can we really trust our sons and daughters to be safe at a Hogwarts run by Dumbledore?

  One family has already paid a tragic price. "This tragedy was entirely preventable," wept Amos Diggory, the victim's grief-stricken father, during an exclusive interview with the Daily Prophet. "My boy was all we could have asked for in a son … good, loyal, and kind, the pride of our life. All I can hope for now is that everyone responsible for his death be held accountable!"

  Minister Cornelius Fudge addressed the public from the steps of the Ministry this morning, stating: "Rest assured, we are deploying every resource to apprehend Sirius Black. Let this be a warning - any witch or wizard aiding this madman will face the full wrath of magical law enforcement." Notably absent from the Minister's remarks? Any defense of Dumbledore's increasingly controversial leadership.

  We at the Daily Prophet also wish to extend heartfelt condolences to Iris Potter, whose blossoming relationship with Cedric Diggory became well-known after the Hogwarts Yule Ball in December. Our hearts go out to the bereaved young heroine, and may she find the strength to recover from the tragic loss of her star-crossed lover.

  For more information on Sirius Black, turn to page 2. For a summary of the tragic romance between Cedric Diggory and the Girl-Who-Lived, turn to page 4. For more information on Hogwarts' safety track record under Headmaster Dumbledore, turn to page 5.

  Halfway through reading the article, Harry had to find a nearby bench and sit down. A storm of thoughts whirled in his mind, but one realization rose above the rest: he was a girl here. Not him, exactly - the Harry of this world. Or rather … Iris. His fingers tightened on the newsprint.

  Huh … Guess now I know what Mom and Dad would've named a daughter …

  Harry really wasn't sure what he felt about that. At least he had confirmation now - he was in an entirely separate dimension from his own. After a few minutes of mentally wrestling with the revelation, he turned his attention back to the rest of the article.

  According to the article, Minister Fudge had branded Sirius Black a disguised Death Eater - a blatant cover-up for Barty Crouch Jr.'s escape from Azkaban. By interrogating the real Alastor Moody, they'd have learned Crouch Jr. and Pettigrew ambushed Moody before the school year. But here …

  What if Sirius really is a Death Eater in this dimension? The thought chilled him. How much of my past knowledge even applies?

  Harry's fingers dug into the bench's wooden slats. No - Sirius would never join Voldemort. Doubting that would only lead to questioning everything he knew.

  Looking through the description of the events in the maze, Harry furrowed his brows. If Crouch Jr. had impersonated Moody here, as in his world, why intervene during the Third Task's maze? The Triwizard Cup itself was the Portkey. All Crouch needed was to wait for Iris to touch it.

  Perhaps Cedric was about to win instead of Iris. Or maybe Iris and Cedric noticed something wrong about the Cup, and decided not to grab it?

  Either way, Voldemort's resurrection hung in the balance. Without Harry's - Iris' - blood, would the ritual fail? Best case: Voldemort fixated on her, buying Dumbledore time to rally. Worst case: He'd target another "enemy," resurrecting but still vulnerable to the blood protection in Iris' veins.

  Too many variables. Harry crumpled the edge of the paper. Too many unknowns. His future knowledge was like a razor blade - sharp, but easily blunted by changes in the timeline. He'd need to get to Britain to find out more.

  Rereading the article, Harry noticed that the coverage of Iris Potter - his mirror-world sister, or twin, or whatever she was - was a lot more favorable. No sneering speculation about her fabricating the Triwizard Tournament entry. No dismissive jabs labeling her "attention-seeking" or "unstable."

  Dumbledore's name was still dragged through the mud as usual, though.

  Still, the question bothered him. Was it her being a girl that softened their scorn? Or was Iris simply … better at being Harry Potter? More polished, less prone to outbursts in corridors? The thought stung a little. At least the girl wouldn't have to worry about Umbridge setting dementors on her - she hadn't witnessed Voldemort's resurrection firsthand this time.

  Curiosity nudged him to flip to page four, where the gossip columns were written in lurid purple ink. There, wedged between ads for love potions and a half-page exposé on Xeep's Luscious Locks Solution, was a photograph of Cedric and a dark-haired girl, taken during what looked like the Yule Ball.

  Iris wore a flowing, ivory-colored dress, her movements perfectly synchronized with Cedric's. Her right hand was outstretched and held in his raised grip, while her left was placed elegantly on her partner's shoulders. Familiar green eyes were lit up with mirth as she looked up, and a small smile played on her lips - as if she were privy to a secret no one else knew. A waterfall braid tamed her riotous hair into a cascade down her back, though rebellious curls still framed her face. And beneath her swept-back fringe, the faint shadow of a lightning bolt scar traced her forehead.

  Together, they moved with a fluid confidence Harry couldn't imagine ever possessing. They weren't just dancing; they were commanding the room. Even in the short repeating clip in newsprint, they radiated star power - the undisputed monarchs of the evening.

  He wasn't sure what he had expected a female version of himself to look like, but it wasn't this. Oh, there was nothing wrong with her physical features, per se – the jawline sharper like Lily's, the nose less angular than James'. The scar mirrored his own, her eyes shared the same almond tilt, her hair just as rebellious. She didn't wear glasses, but they could still be mistaken as twins if they stood side by side.

  It was her bearing that went completely beyond Harry's expectations. The poise and self-confidence that she displayed in every movement. The composure in her expression, untouched by the gawking crowd.

  Harry winced, recalling his own Yule Ball disaster - tripping over Parvati's hem, Ron's muttered curses as he stomped on Padma's foot. Back then, any event with crowds could drown him in anxiety, doubly so for the first formal dance of his life. Even now, post-war "Savior" title and all, he still couldn't face the spotlight as unaffectedly as she was. How did she stand there, serene as a lake, under the weight of Wizarding Britain's scathing gaze? What trials had forged her into someone so … self-possessed?

  No wonder the Daily Prophet fawned over her. Iris had mastered the art of spectacle. Not even Rita Skeeter's quill could find a crack in her armor.

  He sighed, a little put out that his dimensional counterpart looked to be fairing a lot better than he did his fourth year. Was I really that pathetic? Standing up and stretching, Harry noticed the sun was a lot higher in the sky than before.

  Deciding to continue reading after he had time to process everything, Harry set out to find a ferry to London.