I was a bomb, a little sexy bomb. A little bouncy, sexy bomb.

Bounce, bomb, bounce! Bounce! Bounce! Bounce, bomb, bounce!

I whirled up and the catwalk. This was my dream, my fashion princess dream come true!

Harry Ronald had fallen asleep, but he was my best boyfriend forever. He'd spent days making my Supersonic Princess Outfit.

I had boobs now. They bounced. Professor Quirrell had made them for me after class. Somehow he'd known about my little sexy bomb compliment to myself, and I knew from his voice he was laughing at me.

I told Professor Snape about him, but Snape says he's privately funding some of the clubs, including the Gobstones and my fashion club.

And the Seventh Years' school disco idea. Most of the older students only have a ball.

I need a ball.

And a need a ball-gown.

And I need Harry Ronald.


Voldemort approached the first Voldemort, locked in Quirrell's trunk.

He hissed, You don't let me share enough.

He replied, You ruined it. Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel have built a labyrinth in this school to test Harry Potter against you, based on the seer Sybil Trelawney's predictions.

The prophecy, whispered the first Voldemort.

No, he said, knowing he sounded bored, seer predictions from the Easter holidays.

He didn't expect what the first Voldemort said next.

I dated her once.

Yes, we did. Where are we going with this, Tom?

Quirrell came out of the bathroom early and saw a strange scene unfold.

Voldemort, wispy that he was, had himself twisted under his arm in a head-lock. The other Voldemort was biting his arm.

Quirrell didn't think twice, after coping with the students. He rushed over and pried Voldemort off himself using his wand like a lever.

"There, now!" he ordered, then blanched.

Both Voldemorts floated apart from each other.

One Voldemort was floating in mid-air, half-naked apart from beige linen. That was the younger one, but the twice one.

The present-day Voldemort was long and vapour-like. That was the half-dead one. He was spitting and snarling with barely concealed rage.

Do not call me Tom!

I shall call you, myself, anything that I please, said the time-traveller, lightly.

Quirrell filed the first name away in his mental notes.

I don't think, in present company, that we should discuss our childhood passions openly.

What passion? snarled Voldemort. She was cold and dry and limp.

Limp is not a word I want mentioned in front of Quirrell; you'll know he'll pick up the wrong idea. The time-traveller laughed.

"Happens to anyone, master," said Quirrell.

Fool, said Voldemort, and hissed under his undead-breath.

The time-traveller scowled suddenly. That word sounds disturbing and irregular. I think it should've been hissed a little higher for correct pronunciation.

Voldemort the first backed himself into a corner, and hung there like ectoplasm.

The time-traveller had to suppress an urge to banish himself. He turned to Quirrell.

Did we discover what happened to Peeves? he asked.

Quirrell bowed, quickly rearranging his turban before he stood centrally again.

"No, master. There's still search parties around joke shops, where he was seen last. Sprout really thinks he may have been shipped abroad in a cargo container to America, but no such luck."

The first Voldemort sniffed. Has this got anything to do with cocaine?

No, said the second Voldemort. It's really the Seventh Year Ravenclaws bringing it in. I've never known the Sorting Hat to become so active… around people, do you?

Have I? Voldemort sneered. Suddenly appealing to my wisdom, now? No, I haven't. It usually just sits behind the desk and snoozes.

Except when it glows, added the time-traveller. But how can I… oh, nevermind.

Quirrell shut his trunk, and checked the anti-ghost wards that were only up in his bedroom, the Hogwarts ghosts needing access to his living rooms to drift through and contact Professor Snape, who appeared to talk to no one else.

The time-travelling Voldemort from about fifteen years ago was immediately fascinated in almost everyone at first, but even his interest in Snape waned, despite him and Sinistra being Death Eaters. Most of his time was preoccupied in disturbing as little as the future as possible, yet the first Dumbledore had completely different actions to the present one due to one small hiccup: Harry Potter was now a girl.


"Boobies!" cried Harry to Harry Ronald.

Voldemort listened from the back of Quirrell's head. It was disturbing to say the least that the fall of his small empire was due to this brat as a baby managing to deflect the ultimate killing curse… or his mother, which only he knew, for some reason.

The Wizarding World had a strange tendency to latch onto heroes not mothers.

Voldemort couldn't believe her. Harry Potter was slowly turning into a 'wizard'.

Lord Tom Voldemort idly wondered if he could still contact Narcissa, to ask her for advice. He was almost out of fashion ideas about how to keep the Potter brat occupied for the remainder of the term before he went home for Christmas.

Before she went – oh, fuck.

Before the whole student corpus went home. Then both of Voldemorts could explore the castle safely.


When Narcissa Malfoy received the bundled scroll from someone called 'Toms', she thought it was one of her husband's political buddies. She left it half-open on his desk.


I was a little smoking dressed-up, little black-dressed, little smoking bomb!

Bounce, boobies, bounce!

I was wearing, at the insistence of Professor Quirrell, a little number in emerald green (my hated colour), but I was lapping up the attention I received in it.

In my head, I had coloured it pure lime green just to cope.

School these days was fabulous, baby!

Oh, sugar queen, absolutely brill!

I'd completely forgotten about my first Saturday night in a devilish school completely – until the Sorting Hat showed up, spitting something rosy-red out of its mouth that wasn't a tongue. I'd been around too much fashionable fabric for that.

I turned on the edge of the catwalk, that was made out of duelling platforms squished together like teenage boobies in a bra.

Quirrell's turban made that strange sniggering noise again.

And the Sorting Hat turned to watch it.


The Sorting Hat spat out the last of the ruby-coloured leather patches.

The idea hadn't worked. It took a lot longer to persuade Slytherin to stop making leather jackets for all of the weird Slytherin students these days, including the head bastard of them all, Severus Snape.

The potions professor had taken in his Christmas gift gratefully, the rest of the Hat hoped. It hadn't bothered to wrap it.

Harry Potter's rose-hued jacket hadn't worked by the fifth time. Whatever Ollivander had done, it was probably instinctive and very up-to-date. The tenth century founders just couldn't keep up.

McGonagall had appreciated her leather cat-collar, as did Sprout with her gardening gloves. Flitwick enjoyed a new hat, and Hagrid had a new dog-lead for Fluffy. Leather was still very versatile.

For a joke, the Hat had made Quirrell a leather turban, in unfortunately rosy-coloured slash copper-hued soft brown leather. The tint hadn't worked, but the gradient seemed queer enough. It also had one internal pocket for whatever pet he kept in it. Which is what he was probably smuggling in in the first place.

The Hat double-jumped, leaving behind the leather turban gift.


Voldemort picked up Fluffy's dog-leash. Hagrid was slumped over his own table from too much Fire-whisky. The other Voldemort peered out from Quirrell's usual silk turban.

Fluffy was unconscious under the table, drugged by whatever Quirrell could pick up from Snape's room.

Disturbingly, Snape also had some pinkish leather item stashed in his room. Voldemort still didn't know why Harry Potter had left him a leather belt, whilst swanning around in his hated green ballgown.

The turban was the exact same colour as that hideous jacket with the sticky zip that Harry wore sometimes, complaining about bombs.

Voldemort suppressed a shudder, pertaining to the Second World War.

But the London bomb shelter would've been a lot more exciting with fashion.

Narcissa hadn't replied back, and there was no achievable way he could contact Bellatrix either, nor most of his feminine-staffed Death Eaters, as most were dead or imprisoned. He held the dog-leash up to the turban for approval.

Three-headed dog? he said.

We have Harry Potter's belt, said his counterpart. His eyes swivelled down to Quirrell.

"In my Defence Against the Dark Arts, I have a muzzle for catching werewolves," he said. "We are well-equipped for one of Dumbledore's hazards, masters."