Wanda Maximoff woke to the taste of ash and regret.
The Darkhold was gone—she'd made certain of that. She'd felt every page burn, every cursed word dissolve as Mount Wundagore came down around her. It should have been the end. Perhaps she'd wanted it to be.
But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.
She opened her eyes to cold. Not the scorching heat of collapsing stone, but the biting chill of autumn air. Damp pavement pressed against her cheek. Somewhere nearby, a cat yowled, and the sound of it—so ordinary, so *mundane*—made her chest ache.
*Billy. Tommy.*
No. She couldn't think about them. Thinking about them led to madness, and she'd had quite enough of that, thank you.
Wanda pushed herself upright, her hands scraping against wet concrete. Rain had fallen recently; she could smell it in the air, mixed with something else—coal smoke, perhaps, and the faint sweetness of cut grass. The street around her was lined with identical houses, each one a perfect clone of the next, their windows dark despite the late hour.
England, she realized with a jolt. The architecture, the street signs visible in the distance, even the sensation of being *elsewhere*—all pointed to Britain.
She should take stock. Figure out where—or more accurately, *when*—she was. Her chaos magic hummed beneath her skin, quieter than it had been in months. Almost peaceful, if she ignored the hollow ache in her chest where her children should have been.
A sound made her turn.
At the end of the street, beneath a flickering lamppost, three figures materialized from the shadows. The old man appeared first with a soft *pop* that made her magic bristle defensively. He was impossibly tall, with a silver beard that cascaded down to his waist and half-moon spectacles perched on a crooked nose. His robes—and they were *definitely* robes—were a violent purple that seemed to shimmer with silver stars.
Wanda's breath caught in her throat.
*No. It couldn't be.*
The second figure was a severe-looking woman in emerald robes and a pointed hat that belonged in a storybook. Tartan robes, to be precise. She wore an expression of such profound disapproval that Wanda felt judged from fifty yards away.
*Professor McGonagall*, her mind supplied helpfully, unhelpfully. *Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration professor, Head of Gryffindor House.*
The third was a giant of a man—easily twice the height of a normal person—with a wild tangle of hair and beard, dressed in a massive moleskin overcoat. He descended from a flying motorcycle—Sirius Black's flying motorcycle, the one Hagrid borrowed—with surprising gentleness.
Cradling a bundle in his arms.
*Oh God.*
The realization crashed over her like a tidal wave. The street sign she'd glimpsed—Privet Drive. The date had to be November 1st, 1981. And that bundle...
*Harry Potter.*
For a moment, Wanda couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The memories flooded back—her childhood in Sokovia, before the bomb, before HYDRA, before everything went wrong. Pietro sprawled on their threadbare couch, reading aloud from a battered secondhand book while she followed along over his shoulder.
*"The Boy Who Lived... the only person ever to survive the Killing Curse... famous before he could walk or talk..."*
They'd devoured those books, she and Pietro. Traded them with other children, read them by candlelight when the electricity went out, dreamed of magic and adventure and a world where orphans could become heroes. Where chosen ones defeated dark lords and found families in the most unexpected places.
She'd forgotten. After Pietro died, after Ultron and Lagos and the Raft, after Vision and Westview and the Darkhold—she'd forgotten those stories that had given two scared children hope in the darkness.
But she remembered now.
And she knew—*knew*—what happened next.
Wanda pressed herself against the brick wall of number six, her heart hammering as the three figures approached number four. She extended her senses carefully, not wanting to alert them, and felt the magical signatures. Dumbledore's magic was vast and complex, layered like a symphony. McGonagall's was sharp and precise, structured. And the baby...
The baby burned like a small sun, bright and pure, with a shadow coiled around him like a serpent. Dark magic, old and evil, lodged in that lightning bolt scar.
*Voldemort's Horcrux*, she realized with a chill. *He's carrying a piece of Voldemort's soul.*
"—certain about this, Albus?" McGonagall was saying, her Scottish accent clipped with disapproval. "These are the worst sort of Muggles imaginable. I've been watching them all day. The very *worst* sort—"
"The only family he has left, Minerva," Dumbledore replied, his voice gentle but immovable. "Lily's blood protection will keep him safe here. Safer than he could be anywhere in our world, where he would be famous, celebrated, spoiled. He needs a normal childhood, away from all that."
Wanda's hands clenched into fists. She knew this conversation. Had read it a dozen times, in a dozen different translations. The well-meaning manipulation. The greater good.
The cupboard under the stairs.
"Little tyke fell asleep jus' as we were flyin' over Bristol," Hagrid rumbled, his voice thick with grief. "Try not ter wake him, Professor."
Wanda watched as Dumbledore bent down, his joints creaking with age, and placed the baby on the cold doorstep. Harry was wrapped in blankets, so small he seemed to disappear within them. A letter fluttered down beside him, thick parchment sealed with red wax bearing a coat of arms.
The letter that would explain everything and nothing. That would tell Petunia Dursley her sister was dead and leave her with a nephew she'd never wanted.
"Good luck, Harry Potter," Dumbledore murmured. "The future of our world may well depend on you."
*No pressure*, Wanda thought bitterly. *Just the fate of the world on an infant's shoulders. Why does everyone do this to children?*
She knew why. She'd done it herself. Had pulled Billy and Tommy into her madness, had dragged America Chavez across universes, had become the very thing she'd sworn to fight against.
McGonagall transformed—human to cat in a heartbeat—and leaped onto the garden wall. Hagrid mounted his motorcycle, the engine rumbling to life. Dumbledore pulled out a device that looked like a cigarette lighter and began extinguishing the street lamps one by one, the light flowing into the device like captured starlight.
Then they were gone. All three of them, disappearing into the night and leaving a baby alone on a doorstep in November cold.
Wanda's chest tightened.
She should leave. This wasn't her world, wasn't her story. She'd done enough damage trying to rewrite narratives that weren't meant to be changed.
But her feet were already moving.
Harry stirred as she approached, a tiny sound escaping his lips. Not quite a cry, more a question, as if even in sleep he sensed the absence of the people who'd carried him here. His small hand emerged from the blankets, fingers stretching toward nothing.
Wanda knelt beside him, her magic reaching out instinctively. Up close, she could see his face clearly—round and innocent, with a dusting of dark hair that stuck up in impossible directions. And those eyes, fluttering open for just a moment—*green*. The most brilliant emerald green, exactly as the books had described them.
Lily's eyes.
The scar on his forehead pulsed with dark energy. Wanda's magic recoiled instinctively, but she forced herself to examine it. Yes, definitely a Horcrux. A piece of Voldemort's fractured soul, anchored by the darkest magic imaginable, using this innocent child as a vessel.
She knew how this story went. Knew every twist and turn, every loss and victory. Harry would grow up unloved and unwanted, starved for affection, treated like a servant in his own family. He'd discover magic and find joy, only to learn he was famous for something he couldn't remember, for surviving something that killed his parents.
He'd be manipulated, used, shaped into a weapon. Raised like a pig for slaughter, as Snape would later accuse Dumbledore of doing.
And in the end—after so much death, so much loss—he'd walk into the Forbidden Forest to die, believing it was the only way to save everyone else.
Eleven years old when he first faced Voldemort. Twelve when a basilisk nearly killed him. Thirteen when Dementors tried to kiss him. Fourteen when he was forced into a tournament that ended in resurrection and murder. Fifteen when the Ministry called him a liar and Umbridge tortured him. Sixteen when Dumbledore died in front of him. Seventeen when he Horcrux-hunted through a war zone.
*So many terrible things,* Wanda thought, *for such a small person.*
She understood, suddenly, why the universe had brought her here. To this moment. This choice.
She'd lost her children—her boys, her Billy and Tommy, who had never been real in the way that mattered, but had been *hers* and she'd loved them with every broken piece of her heart. She'd torn the multiverse apart trying to find versions of them she could keep.
But she couldn't steal someone else's children. Couldn't rip them from mothers who loved them just to fill the void in her own soul.
This, though... this was different.
Harry had no one. His parents were dead—truly, permanently dead, not erased or reset or trapped in another universe. He had only the Dursleys, who would hate him, hurt him, try to stamp out the magic that made him special.
And she... she knew his story. Knew what he needed, what he'd face. Knew the mistakes that would be made, the manipulations he'd endure.
She could give him something better. *Be* something better.
Not the Scarlet Witch, destroyer of worlds. Not the monster from the Darkhold.
Just... Wanda. A woman who'd lost everything and wanted, desperately, to save something.
The decision crystallized in her chest, sharp and certain.
Wanda reached for the letter, breaking the wax seal with a thought. She didn't need to read it—knew what it said by heart—but she needed the proof. Needed to see Dumbledore's elaborate signature, all those pompous titles.
*Order of Merlin, First Class. Grand Sorcerer. Chief Warlock. Supreme Mugwump.*
And below it all, the plan: leave Harry here, let the blood wards protect him, give him a "normal" childhood. Come back when he's eleven and whisk him off to a world he knows nothing about, where he's already a legend.
"No," Wanda whispered.
She tucked the letter into her jacket—evidence, if she ever needed it—and gathered Harry into her arms. He was impossibly light, impossibly small, and he settled against her immediately. His head tucked beneath her chin, his tiny hand curling into her shirt, as if he'd been waiting for someone to hold him properly.
"Hello, малыш," she murmured in Sokovian, the endearment falling naturally from her lips. "I'm Wanda. And I'm going to take care of you."
Harry's eyes opened fully—those brilliant green eyes, so much like Pietro's had been, full of innocence and trust—and he looked at her. Really *looked*, as if his infant mind was already cataloging this moment, recognizing something in her.
Then he smiled. A tiny, gummy smile that absolutely wrecked her.
Wanda felt tears burn her eyes. "Yeah," she whispered. "Yeah, okay. We're doing this."
Her chaos magic swirled around them both, scarlet mist that made Harry coo with delight rather than fear. He reached for it with chubby fingers, and the magic danced around him playfully, recognizing him as hers to protect.
The Horcrux pulsed angrily. Wanda frowned at it. That would need to be dealt with, but carefully. She wouldn't risk Harry's life extracting it, not when he was so small, so fragile. But she could suppress it, contain it, keep Voldemort's soul fragment from influencing her son.
*Her son.*
Yes. That felt right.
"We're going to have to figure some things out," she told Harry seriously. "I don't have a house. Or money. Or any idea how to be a proper parent. But I promise you this—you will be *loved*. You will be safe. And I will never, ever leave you on a doorstep in the cold."
Harry yawned hugely and snuggled closer.
"Right. Bedtime. I can do bedtime." Wanda stood carefully, supporting Harry's head the way she'd once held Billy and Tommy. "Let's go somewhere warm. Somewhere safe. And tomorrow, we'll figure out the rest."
She took one last look at Privet Drive—at the house where Harry would never live in a cupboard, where he'd never be called a freak or starved or neglected. At the mundane, magical world he'd never know.
"Sorry, Dumbledore," she said to the empty street. "But I've read this story before, and I'm changing the ending."
Red magic enveloped them both, and Wanda Maximoff stepped sideways through reality, taking Harry Potter with her.
Behind them, the street settled back into silence. The letter lay abandoned on the doorstep, forgotten.
Inside number four, Petunia Dursley rolled over in her sleep, never knowing how close she'd come to inheriting a nephew she'd never wanted.
And in Wanda's arms, Harry James Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the child with a destiny written in prophecy—slept on, completely unaware that his entire future had just been rewritten by a witch from another universe who'd decided that sometimes, the best way to save yourself was to save someone else first.
The scar on his forehead pulsed once more, dark magic meeting chaos magic, and for just a moment, they both glowed the same shade of red before fading.
*A new beginning*, Wanda thought as they traveled between spaces. *For both of us.*
She just hoped she could do better this time. Be better.
She had to be.
For Harry.
For the little boy with his mother's eyes and his father's hair, who deserved to be more than a weapon in someone else's war.
For the son she'd chosen, and who—she hoped—would choose her back.
---
The Scottish Highlands materialized around them in a swirl of scarlet mist.
Wanda stumbled slightly as her feet touched solid ground, her arms instinctively tightening around Harry. The baby made a small questioning sound but didn't wake, his face pressed trustingly against her shoulder.
She'd traveled far—deliberately so. Away from London, away from Privet Drive, away from anywhere Dumbledore or his Order might think to look. The Highlands had always felt wild to her, untamed in a way that reminded her of home. Of Sokovia before the bombs, when magic still felt possible.
The house she'd found—pulled from the ether by her chaos magic, drawn to it like a lodestone—sat at the end of a narrow dirt road. It was small, stone-built, with a slate roof and windows that glowed with warm light. Smoke curled from the chimney, and even from here she could sense the occupants.
Two of them. A woman—tired, frightened, her life force dimmed by years of suffering. And a man—drunk, angry, his soul twisted by alcohol and violence.
Wanda's jaw tightened. She knew this pattern. Had seen it too many times in Sokovia, in the displaced persons camps, even in Westview before she'd warped everything to her will. Men who used their fists instead of words. Women who endured because they had nowhere else to go.
Not anymore.
She approached the door, Harry still cradled in one arm. With her free hand, she knocked—three sharp raps that echoed in the Highland silence.
The shouting inside stopped abruptly.
Footsteps. Heavy, unsteady. The door wrenched open to reveal a man in his forties, red-faced and reeking of whiskey. He was solidly built, going to fat around the middle, with mean little eyes that narrowed at the sight of her.
"Th' hell d'ye want?" he slurred, his Scottish brogue thick with drink. "Bugger off, we dinnae want—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze finally registering the baby in her arms. Something uglier crossed his face—calculation, perhaps, or opportunity.
"Please," Wanda said quietly, her accent thickening deliberately. "My car broke down. My son is cold. We need somewhere to stay, just for tonight."
The man's eyes traveled over her, lingering in ways that made her skin crawl. "Aye? An' whit's in it fer me, then?"
Behind him, a woman appeared. Thin, worn, with fading bruises on her arms and a split lip that was trying to heal. She was perhaps thirty but looked fifty, ground down by years of abuse. Her eyes widened at the sight of Harry, something maternal and protective flickering across her face.
"Malcolm," she said softly, her own accent lilting and gentle despite her exhaustion. "Let them in. It's cauld oot there."
"Haud yer wheesht, woman." Malcolm didn't even look at her, his attention fixed on Wanda. "I'll decide who comes intae my hoose."
His hand shot out, grabbing Wanda's arm. "Mebbe we can work somethin'—"
He never finished the sentence.
Wanda's eyes flared red.
Her chaos magic erupted from her free hand in a controlled burst—not wild, not destructive, but precise and deliberate. She'd learned control in the months after Westview, had forced herself to master the power that had consumed her. This wasn't the Darkhold's corruption or the Scarlet Witch's rage.
This was justice.
Malcolm's body began to change. He had time for one strangled scream before his legs buckled, shortening. His arms twisted, fingers fusing into trotters. His face elongated, nose becoming snout, his screams turning to squeals of terror.
In seconds, where a man had stood, there was only a pig—fat, pink, and absolutely terrified. It stumbled backward on unfamiliar legs, squealing frantically.
The woman gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. But she didn't scream. Didn't run. Instead, she stared at the pig—at Malcolm—with an expression that slowly transformed into something like wonder.
"He beat you," Wanda said quietly, switching her attention to the woman. Not a question. She could see it in the bruises, in the way the woman had flinched when Malcolm grabbed Wanda's arm, in the resigned terror that had lived in her eyes. "For how long?"
"Five year." The woman's voice was hoarse, musical even in its pain. "Since... since the money started runnin' oot. Since the drinkin' got bad."
The pig—Malcolm—squealed and tried to run. Wanda flicked her wrist, and scarlet bands wrapped around him, holding him in place. He thrashed and screamed in his new form, but she ignored him.
"My name is Wanda Maximoff," she said to the woman. "This is Harry. We need a place to stay. Somewhere safe, somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one will look for us." She met the woman's eyes directly. "I can pay. I can help. And I promise you—he will never hurt you again."
The woman looked at the pig, then at Wanda, then at Harry sleeping peacefully in Wanda's arms despite the chaos. Something crumbled in her expression—the last walls of denial, perhaps, or just exhaustion finally winning over fear.
"Agnes," she whispered. "Ma name's Agnes. And... and this is my—"
Wanda froze.
*Agnes.*
The name hit her like a physical blow. Memories flooded back—Westview, the nosy neighbor who'd turned out to be Agatha Harkness, centuries-old witch and chaos magic thief. "And I killed Sparky too!" delivered with that manic grin. The basement full of dark magic and desiccated corpses. The purple energy draining Wanda's power away.
*No.* She forced herself to breathe. *No, that's impossible. Agatha is in Westview, trapped in the role of Agnes, the nosy neighbor. This can't be—*
Her magic reached out instinctively, probing, searching for any hint of deception. Any trace of purple magic, of centuries-old power masquerading as human weakness.
Nothing.
This Agnes was completely, utterly mundane. No magic in her bloodline, no power hiding beneath her skin. Just a tired, abused woman with an unfortunately coincidental name.
Wanda released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. *Just a name. Just a coincidence. Get it together.*
"Sorry," she said, aware she'd been staring. "You reminded me of someone for a moment. Please, continue."
Agnes looked uncertain but pressed on. "This is my hoose. Was my hoose, afore I married him." She straightened slightly, something like strength returning to her spine. "Ye're welcome tae bide here. Both o' ye."
"What about him?" Wanda gestured to Malcolm.
Agnes looked at the pig for a long moment. Wanda could see the war in her expression—years of conditioning, of being told she was nothing without a man, battling against the sweet possibility of freedom.
Finally, Agnes said, "There's a pen oot back. Fer the beasts. He can stay there."
"You're sure?"
"He took five year frae me." Agnes's voice was steady now, certain. "Took ma confidence, ma happiness, ma sense o' self. Telt me I was worthless, that nae one would want me, that I deserved everythin' he did tae me." She met Wanda's eyes. "Aye. I'm sure."
Wanda nodded. With a gesture, she sent Malcolm floating through the house and out the back door, his squeals fading as he was deposited firmly in the animal pen. She added a ward—nothing fancy, just enough to keep him contained and ensure he couldn't escape or hurt anyone.
"How long?" Agnes asked quietly. "The... the spell. How lang will it last?"
"As long as I want it to." Wanda shifted Harry carefully. "If you want him back—"
"Naw." Agnes shook her head firmly. "God help me, but naw. I dinnae. I jist... I needed tae ken."
"Then he stays a pig." Wanda felt no guilt about it. She'd done far worse for far less noble reasons. "Now, may we come in?"
Agnes stepped aside, holding the door open. "Please."
---
The house was small but well-kept—or had been, before Malcolm's drinking had gotten out of control. Wanda could see the signs of neglect: dishes piled in the sink, dust gathering in corners, repairs left undone. But underneath it all was a home that had once been loved.
Agnes led them to a bedroom—the guest room, she said, though it was clear no one had used it in years. The bed was narrow but clean, the window looked out over rolling hills, and it was blessedly warm.
"Fer the wean," Agnes said, already pulling out extra blankets. "He'll need somewhere tae sleep. I dinnae have a cot, but we could make up a drawer, or—"
"It's all right." Wanda set Harry gently on the bed, making sure he was secure, then stepped back. "I can handle it."
She closed her eyes, reaching for her chaos magic. It responded eagerly, always eager, but she kept it controlled. Measured. She visualized what she needed—not what the Darkhold would have given her, all corruption and shortcuts, but something pure. Simple.
Red mist gathered in the corner of the room, swirling and condensing. It took shape slowly, methodically: wooden slats forming, spindles appearing, a mattress materializing from possibility itself. In moments, a beautiful hand-carved crib stood where empty space had been, complete with soft blankets and a mobile of dancing stars that moved without wind.
Agnes made a small sound. "Ye're... ye're a witch."
"Yes." Wanda didn't see any point in lying. "Is that a problem?"
"Naw." Agnes's voice was wondering. "Naw, I... ma granny used tae tell stories. Aboot magic, aboot witches an' wizards. I thought they were jist fairy tales."
"They're not." Wanda carefully lifted Harry from the bed and settled him into the crib. He stirred, his hand clutching at air, and she produced a small stuffed toy—a lion, because it seemed appropriate—for him to hold. He grabbed it immediately, curling around it with a contented sigh. "Magic is very real. And sometimes very dangerous."
"Will ye tell me?" Agnes moved closer, drawn by curiosity and something else—hope, maybe. "Aboot magic? Aboot... aboot everythin'?"
Wanda looked at her—really looked. Saw the woman underneath the bruises and fear. Saw someone who'd been beaten down but not broken. Someone who, given half a chance, might bloom.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I'll tell you. But first—do you have tea? It's been a very long night."
---
They sat in the kitchen while Harry slept. Agnes made tea—proper British tea, strong and dark—while Wanda cleaned the dishes with a wave of her hand, sending them floating to wash and dry themselves. Agnes watched with wide eyes but didn't comment, and Wanda appreciated that she didn't pepper her with questions about every little spell.
"Where are ye frae?" Agnes asked finally, cradling her mug. "Yer accent..."
"Sokovia. A small country in Eastern Europe. It doesn't exist anymore." Wanda stared into her tea. "It was destroyed. In a war."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too." Wanda took a sip, letting the warmth ground her. "I lost my brother there. My twin. Pietro."
"That must've been terrible."
"It was." Wanda's throat tightened. "We were all we had. Our parents died when we were children—a shell landed on our apartment building during dinner. We spent two days trapped under the rubble, staring at a second shell that never exploded. After that... it was just us. Pietro and me against the world."
She didn't mention HYDRA. Didn't mention the experiments, the Mind Stone, the way they'd volunteered to be weapons because they were so desperate for power, for the ability to protect themselves. Some stories were too dark for this kitchen, for this fragile new trust.
"An' the wean?" Agnes asked softly. "Harry? He's no' yours."
It wasn't a question, and Wanda didn't treat it like one. "No. His parents died. Tonight. Murdered by a dark wizard who wanted to kill Harry too." She met Agnes's eyes. "The people who were supposed to take care of him... they would have hurt him. Not like Malcolm hurt you—differently, but just as badly. So I took him."
"Ye kidnapped him."
"Yes." Wanda didn't flinch from it. "I did."
Agnes was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Good."
Wanda blinked. "Good?"
"If whit ye're sayin' is true—if he would've been hurt—then aye. Good." Agnes's hands tightened around her mug. "I grew up in foster care. Seven different hooses afore I aged oot. Some were fine. Some were... no'. I learned early that the folk who are supposed tae protect ye dinnae always dae it. Sometimes the rules are mair important tae them than the bairns."
"I'm sorry."
"Dinnae be. It made me strong. Made me a survivor." Agnes's smile was bitter. "Though apparently no' strong enough tae avoid Malcolm."
"That wasn't weakness," Wanda said firmly. "That was hope. You hoped he would be better, that love would be enough, that you could fix him. That's not weakness—that's courage. It just happened to be misplaced."
Agnes's eyes filled with tears. "Thank ye," she whispered.
They sat in comfortable silence after that, drinking tea while the Highland night deepened around them. Outside, Wanda could hear Malcolm squealing occasionally from his pen, but she'd soundproofed the house enough that Harry wouldn't be disturbed.
Finally, Agnes asked, "Whit will ye dae noo? Wi' Harry?"
"Keep him safe." Wanda's voice was certain. "Raise him. Love him. Try to give him the childhood he deserves."
"An' the dark wizard? The yin who killed his parents?"
"Dead. Or as close to it as makes no difference." Wanda had felt Voldemort's magic shatter when his Killing Curse rebounded. "But his followers are still out there. And there are... other complications."
"Like whit?"
Wanda hesitated. How much should she tell Agnes? How much could she tell her without seeming completely insane?
But Agnes had accepted magic. Had accepted Wanda turning her husband into a pig. Had offered them shelter without demanding explanations.
She deserved honesty.
"There's a piece of the dark wizard—Voldemort, his name was Voldemort—lodged in Harry's scar. A fragment of his soul, anchored by the blackest magic imaginable. I need to remove it without killing Harry."
Agnes paled. "Can ye dae that?"
"I don't know." Wanda's hands trembled slightly. "I have power—more than almost anyone in this world. But this kind of magic... it's delicate. One wrong move and I could hurt him. Could kill him. I need to be sure. Need to study it, understand it, before I try."
"Whit else?"
"There's a man—Sirius Black. Harry's godfather. Right now, he's probably on his way to prison for a crime he didn't commit. If I don't stop it, he'll spend the next twelve years in hell while Harry grows up without him."
"Can ye prove he's innocent?"
"Maybe. If I'm fast enough, if I'm smart enough." Wanda rubbed her temples. "The problem is, I'm not from this world. I don't exist in any records, don't have any credentials. Why would they believe me?"
"Because ye have magic," Agnes said simply. "Ye turned ma husband intae a pig in three seconds. Surely ye can prove someone's innocent."
"It's not that simple. There are laws here, procedures. And the man who's supposed to be in charge—Albus Dumbledore—he's... complicated." Wanda grimaced. "He thinks he's doing the right thing, making the hard choices for the greater good. But sometimes his greater good hurts people. Hurts children."
"Like puttin' Harry wi' folk who would've hurt him."
"Exactly."
Agnes was quiet for a moment. Then: "Ye said there were other complications. Whit else?"
Wanda took a deep breath. "There's a couple—Frank and Alice Longbottom. They're Aurors, which is like magical police. They were tortured by Voldemort's followers. By now—by tonight—they've been driven insane by dark magic. They'll spend the rest of their lives in a hospital, unable to recognize their own son."
"Can ye save them?"
"I don't know." It was becoming a refrain. "If I move fast enough, maybe. But I don't know where they are, and I can't exactly ask without revealing myself."
"So whit will ye dae?"
That was the question, wasn't it?
Wanda looked toward the guest room where Harry slept, innocent and unaware of the chaos his mere existence had caused. She thought about Sirius Black in chains, about Frank and Alice Longbottom screaming under the Cruciatus Curse, about the Horcrux festering in Harry's scar like a cancer.
She thought about Pietro, about Vision, about Billy and Tommy. About America Chavez and the other versions of herself she'd hurt in her desperate quest to have what she'd lost.
She'd been given a second chance—a chance to save instead of destroy, to build instead of tear down. But she was just one person, even with her chaos magic. She couldn't be everywhere at once, couldn't save everyone.
She had to prioritize.
"First," she said slowly, thinking it through as she spoke, "I secure Harry. Make sure he's safe, that the Horcrux is contained. That's the most important thing—he's in my care now, and I won't fail him."
Agnes nodded.
"Second, I try to save Sirius. He's Harry's godfather—family. And from what I remember of the books, he's a good man who got destroyed by circumstance and bad luck. If I can prove his innocence..."
"Ye said books?" Agnes interrupted. "Ye've read aboot a' this?"
Wanda smiled wryly. "It's... complicated. Where I come from, this world—Harry's story—it's fiction. Books. Seven of them, very popular. I read them as a child, with my brother. We loved them."
Agnes stared. "So ye ken whit's gonnae happen. Tae Harry. Tae everyone."
"I know what *would* have happened, if I hadn't interfered. Now..." Wanda shrugged. "Now I have no idea. The moment I took Harry from that doorstep, I changed everything. The future is unwritten."
"Is that guid or bad?"
"I don't know. Both, maybe." Wanda finished her tea. "But it means Harry has a chance at something better. And that's worth the uncertainty."
"Whit aboot the Longbottoms? Ye said third?"
"The Longbottoms." Wanda's chest ached. "I'll try. God, I'll try. But realistically, I don't know if I can get to them in time. The attack could have already happened. And even if it hasn't, I'd have to find them, convince them to trust me, and stop Death Eaters I can't locate."
"But ye'll try."
"I'll try." It was a promise, even if she wasn't sure she could keep it. "After I make sure Harry is safe and Sirius is free. Those are my priorities."
Agnes reached across the table and squeezed Wanda's hand. "Ye're a guid person. Ye ken that, aye?"
Wanda laughed, the sound brittle. "No. No, I'm really not. I've done terrible things, Agnes. Hurt people. Killed people. Torn reality apart because I couldn't let go of what I'd lost. I'm not good—I'm just trying to be better."
"That's whit guid folk dae," Agnes said firmly. "They try tae be better. The bad yins dinnae care."
Maybe she was right. Maybe trying was enough.
Wanda squeezed back, then stood. "I should check on Harry. Get some sleep. Tomorrow... tomorrow I have a lot to do."
"Ye're welcome tae bide here," Agnes said. "Both o' ye. As lang as ye need."
"Thank you." Wanda meant it. "For trusting me. For helping us."
"Thank ye," Agnes countered, "for savin' me."
---
Wanda stood over Harry's crib, watching him sleep. He'd managed to get the stuffed lion halfway into his mouth and was gumming it contentedly in his sleep, his tiny chest rising and falling with perfect rhythm.
So small. So innocent. So completely unaware of the target painted on his back.
She was rewriting his story now. And that meant protecting him from everything—including his own supposed destiny.
Wanda let her magic extend, gently probing the scar on Harry's forehead. The Horcrux pulsed back, dark and oily, Voldemort's soul fragment clinging to Harry's life force like a parasite. It made her stomach turn.
She couldn't remove it yet—not safely, not without extensive preparation. But she could contain it. Could build walls around it, layer after layer of chaos magic that would keep Voldemort's consciousness from bleeding into Harry's mind. It wouldn't be permanent, but it would buy her time.
Scarlet mist gathered at her fingertips. She worked carefully, delicately, weaving wards that would suppress the Horcrux without harming Harry. It was like surgery—one wrong move and she could damage his magic, his mind, his very soul.
*Be better,* she told herself. *Be precise. Be careful. Be what he needs.*
The wards settled into place, invisible but strong. The Horcrux's pulsing quieted, muffled, contained. It was still there—she could feel it, a cold spot in Harry's aura—but it was dormant now. Sleeping.
Good. That was good.
Harry stirred, his eyes fluttering open. For a moment he just stared up at her, those brilliant green eyes so much like Pietro's, so much like Lily's. Then he smiled—that same gummy, heartbreaking smile—and reached for her.
Wanda's chest cracked open. She reached into the crib and lifted him out, holding him against her shoulder. He settled immediately, his small hand fisting in her hair, his breath warm against her neck.
"Hello, малыш," she whispered. "Did you have good dreams?"
Harry cooed, which she chose to interpret as yes.
"Good. That's good." She swayed gently, rocking him. "We're going to be okay, you and me. I promise. I'm going to keep you safe. Going to love you so much you'll be sick of me by the time you're five."
Another coo. This one sounded skeptical.
Wanda laughed softly. "You're probably right. I'm probably going to be insufferable. Overprotective and paranoid and way too clingy. But you're stuck with me now, so you'll just have to deal with it."
She moved to the window, looking out over the darkened Highlands. Somewhere out there, Sirius Black was being hauled to Azkaban without a trial. Somewhere, Frank and Alice Longbottom were screaming under the Cruciatus. Somewhere, Dumbledore was explaining to the Wizengamot why Harry Potter had mysteriously vanished from his relatives' doorstep.
So much to do. So many things that could go wrong.
But right now, in this moment, she had Harry. He was safe, he was warm, he was *hers*.
Everything else could wait until morning.
"Tomorrow," she told him quietly, "we start fixing things. We save your godfather. We stop bad people from hurting good people. We figure out how to give you the life you deserve."
Harry yawned hugely and snuggled closer.
"Yeah," Wanda agreed. "Sleep first. Then save the world. Good priorities, малыш."
She carried him back to the crib and laid him down carefully, making sure he had his lion. He grabbed it immediately, pulling it close, and his eyes drifted shut.
Wanda stood there for a long moment, just watching him breathe. Memorizing this moment—the first night of their new life together. The first night she'd chosen to be better instead of just being powerful.
Her chaos magic hummed contentedly beneath her skin, no longer wild or destructive. It felt... peaceful. Purposeful.
Like coming home.
"Goodnight, Harry James Potter," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead—carefully avoiding the scar. "Sweet dreams. Tomorrow, we change the world."
She turned to leave, to collapse into the narrow bed and grab what sleep she could before morning came with all its challenges.
But first, there was planning to do.
Wanda pulled out a chair and sat, summoning a notebook and pen with a thought. Agnes had asked what she was going to do, and she'd answered honestly—but only in broad strokes. Now she needed details. Strategy.
She started writing.
**Priority One: Harry**
- Monitor Horcrux containment
- Research permanent removal methods
- Establish legal identity (birth certificate, etc.)
- Medical care? (Do wizard babies need special doctors?)
- Learn proper childcare (I have no idea what I'm doing)
**Priority Two: Sirius Black**
- Current location: Probably Azkaban or Ministry holding cells
- Evidence needed: Prove Peter Pettigrew is alive and guilty
- Challenges: No legal standing, not from this world, no credentials
- Possible solution: Break him out? (Last resort)
- Possible solution: Veritaserum testimony? (Need to acquire Veritaserum)
- Timeline: URGENT. Every day in Azkaban is torture.
**Priority Three: Longbottoms**
- Current status: Unknown. Attack might have already happened.
- Perpetrators: Bellatrix Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, Barty Crouch Jr.
- Location: Unknown. Need to find them before Death Eaters do.
- Challenge: How do I locate them without revealing myself?
- Possible solution: Divination? Scrying? (Need to learn local magic)
**Priority Four: Dumbledore**
- He will be looking for Harry
- He will not be happy I took him
- He will have resources I don't (Order of the Phoenix, Ministry connections)
- Strategy: Avoid direct confrontation until Harry is secure and Sirius is free
- Long-term: Need to establish boundaries. Harry is MY son now, not his weapon.
**Priority Five: Money**
- I have none
- Need to access Harry's vaults? (Will Gringotts let me?)
- Need to establish income stream
- Agnes needs money too (repairs, food, bills)
- Possible solution: Transfiguration? (Is making gold illegal here?)
**Priority Six: Magic**
- Learn local magical system (wandwork, spells, potions)
- Understand limitations and taboos (what's illegal? what's monitored?)
- Keep chaos magic hidden (it will mark me as different, dangerous)
- Train, practice, prepare for eventual confrontation
Wanda stared at her list. It was overwhelming. Six major priorities, each one complex and dangerous, any of which could go catastrophically wrong.
But she'd faced worse. Had fought Thanos, had torn through the multiverse, had held an entire town under her control while simultaneously being corrupted by an evil book.
She could handle a few wizards and a dark lord's leftovers.
Probably.
She added one more item:
**Priority Seven: Be a good mother**
Because at the end of the day, that was what mattered most. Not the Horcrux or Sirius or even Dumbledore. Harry. Giving him love, stability, safety. Being present, being patient, being *there* in all the ways her own parents hadn't been able to be after the bombing.
She could do this. She *would* do this.
For Harry.
For the little boy sleeping peacefully in the next room, unaware that his entire life had just been rewritten by a witch from another universe who'd decided that sometimes, the best way to find redemption was to save someone else.
Wanda closed the notebook and stood, her body finally acknowledging its exhaustion. Tomorrow would be soon enough to start saving people. Tonight, she just needed to sleep.
She checked on Harry one more time—still sleeping, still perfect—then collapsed into bed fully clothed. Her chaos magic automatically warded the room, layering protection spells that would alert her to any danger.
As she drifted off, her last thought was a simple one:
*Thank you.*
To the universe, to fate, to whatever force had pulled her from Mount Wundagore's rubble and dropped her on Privet Drive at exactly the right moment.
She'd been given a gift—a chance to be more than the Scarlet Witch, more than the monster from the Darkhold.
A chance to be a mother.
And she wasn't going to waste it.
---
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