#Luna Lovegood POV#
I was always different. That much, I knew.
From the moment I was born, I was told I was special. The odd child, the dreamer. But there was more to it than that.
I was different.
Smarter than I should be. My mind sharper than those around me, though I had yet to grasp the meaning of my own existence.
And then, the visions began.
I saw things.
A world drenched in crimson. Shadows twisting in agony. A future wrapped in fire.
Eyes—crimson and all-consuming—piercing through the darkness.
As red as blood, as sharp as daggers.
For years, I had seen him. Not just in nightmares, but in waking thoughts.
Until, one day, the visions sharpened—his face was clear to me.
It was then that I knew.
He was to be my husband.
...
I had no problem with that, really.
The world is as it has always been—a mysterious place. Filled with Gorthdrups and Snitwadlers. Blasted things. You either love them or hate them.
Still, marvelous in their own way.
Just like the world itself.
You can either argue with it or simply shrug and go along with your day.
Though sometimes, it is right to argue.
Just not this time.
"Luna, child, come to Mum's, would you?"
My mother, Pandora Lovegood, stood in the doorway.
"In a second, Mum! I'm almost finished with my new painting," I said, exasperated.
No one but I understood the importance of a good piece. It was drastically important to the mind.
And good for keeping Toedropgimdrops away.
Good little fellows, but quite annoying. Especially since they come when you least expect it.
Just like my visions.
Well—not really visions. More like prophetic dreams.
At least, I think so.
Who really knows?
All I know is that it's happened since I was born. It's a part of me. A piece of myself I can't be rid of.
Nor would I want to be.
It's me. And I like me.
As much as I'd like him to like me too.
When we meet…
Wait—what was I thinking about again?
…I don't know.
That Night
After dinner, Mum and Pops tucked me into bed. They kissed my forehead, whispered their goodnights, and closed my flowery-painted door.
My room was alive with color.
Blues, pinks, lavenders—smothered across the walls.
Green vines stretched along the ceiling, twisting above my bed.
And, of course, the paintings.
Faces. Places. People. Even Toedropgimdrops—begrudgingly. They had promised to leave me alone… as long as I captured their figures just right.
Pesky things.
Oh, and Pupplewonckles too. Can't forget those.
But one painting—my newest piece—sat across from my bed.
It was different.
Darker.
A sky filled with black, smoky fog.
And above it all, two stars.
Crimson red.
Not just stars—eyes. Watching. Waiting. As if peering down from someplace far, far away.
Below them…
A woman, carried by another.
A group of people standing at the forest's edge.
In the distance—a house on fire.
And in between?
A battle-scarred wasteland.
A man, flanked by five others, wounded but walking toward the trees.
I called this painting "Valentine's Reminder."
I don't know why.
It was just the first thing that came to mind.
Along with an odd, unshakable thought—
This had already happened.
The sight of destruction I had painted was sickening—yet, at the same time, overwhelmingly poetic.
As if someone had caused it.
As if, one day, he would be reminded.
Reminded of what he did.
Of what he created.
Of the fate he carved for himself.
… What was I thinking about again?
I sighed, pulling my covers over myself and drifting into sleep.
As dreamland pulled me under, the fog of a recurring nightmare slowly peeled away, becoming sharper—more real.
More physical.
Until it was too late.
A new painting had made itself known.
One that… wouldn't happen for a long time.
…
Flashes of red light consumed the battlefield.
Wherever it touched— ash remained.
Scattered in the wind.
The ones who survived weren't spared. Their skin burned, their bodies scarred, their screams lost in the chaos.
Angels fell— ripped from the sky.Demons lunged, dragging them down.
All creatures— all beings— all warriors fought, not for victory, but for survival.
As if this were the end.
As if this were the apocalypse.
Then—like a camera lens twisting out of focus—the vision blurred.
Shapes. Figures. Destruction upon destruction.
And then—
A scream.
Not just a scream. A wail.
Agony. Unfathomable, soul-breaking grief.
And finally—
Two bleeding, crimson eyes.
RING. RING.
I jolted awake.
Sweating. Gasping. Trembling.
Something wet covered my skin. My cheetah print sleeping gown—soaked.
I looked down.
Frogs.
Frogs everywhere.
I barely even reacted. Didn't care. My fingers tangled in my long, platinum-blond hair, gripping, trying to ground myself.
But I was afraid.
Not of the frogs.
Of that.
Of what I saw.
Of what was coming.
Of him.
Without thinking, I threw off my covers, scrambling to my desk.
Paint. Canvas. Stencil.
I began.
Painting.
Crying.
Tears fell freely, not for me.
For him.
For my husband.
For the pain I could already feel—one that hadn't even happened yet…
… happy birthday.
#Mc POV#
#At the same time#
Sensory deprivation.
That's what it felt like.
Not painful. Not even uncomfortable. Just... strange.
There was nothing.
And when I say "nothing," I mean the literal personification of nothing.
Which, ironically, is also nothing.
You don't understand?
Neither do I.
I think that's the point.
I wasn't supposed to understand.
I floated. No sight, no sound, no touch. My own thoughts felt like echoes in an empty room.
Then—
FLASH.
The void shattered.
Before my eyes, the universe was forming.
Planets. Stars. Galaxies. Life.
The literal beginning of everything.
And I? I was witnessing it unfold.
What I wouldn't realize until much later—this sight was my key to everything.
Everything else?
Just stepping stones.
I should have been mesmerized. I was.
Which is why I didn't notice the black hole forming behind me—
Until I felt it.
The weight of a thousand dying suns crushed against me.
Gravity wrapped around me like an unrelenting fist—
Twisting.Smashing.Collapsing.
I had no time to react.
I was dragged past the event horizon.
Into the unknown.
#Time Skip: Unknown#
I was flying.
The sun's warmth kissed my skin.
The wind rushed past me.
For the first time in my miserable existence…
I felt free.
Everything was perfect.
… Almost.
"Justin."
The voice pulled me from my reverie.
The skies, once bright, darkened unnaturally fast.
No source. No body.
That didn't make sense.
None of this did.
And come to think of it—
My name isn't Justin.
"I'm coming for you."
The voice again.
"Who the fuck is this?" I demanded, scanning the empty sky. "Where are you?"
"I'm everywhere," it whispered.
"And who the hell are you?"
A pause.
Then—
"That doesn't really matter. It's too late. We are coming."
I had never been afraid before.
Not once in my life.
Fear was a foreign concept.
But in that moment?
For the first time, I felt a sliver of it.
"Who is coming?"
The clouds churned, swirling violently.
Thick, suffocating.
Deep green and crimson lightning crackled through the sky, illuminating the storm in unnatural hues.
Thunder rumbled like an omen.
Then—
I saw them.
Three swirling masses of smoke.
Powerful. Unrelenting. Rapidly approaching.
And from one of them—
A face.
Smirking.
Cold. British accent.
"We will be your doom."
I barely had time to register it before my brain latched onto a bizarre realization.
Why the hell does he look like Grindelwald?
Before I could process that thought—
They moved.
The three clouds converged—
And hurled toward me.
I plummeted.
Lightning tore through me.
Pain—unimaginable pain—coursed through every cell.
I, who had once been the Devil's right hand,
screamed.
Then—
Another face appeared.
Different. Familiar.
And through the storm, a voice—
"Wake up, Justin. Wake up."
I wake up.
Sweating.
My surroundings are both unfamiliar and familiar. Comforting, yet strangely distant.
Then—suddenly.
Instincts that aren't mine surge through me. My body tenses, my breath slows, my muscles coil—ready to strike, ready to kill if necessary.
But… it's just a room.
My room.
Posters line the walls—Thomas Edison, Nikola Tesla, and Martin Luther King Jr. (Not a scientist, I know, but a man of intellect nonetheless.) Everything is where it should be. The bed beneath me—my bed—solid, grounding.
And standing beside it…
A little girl.
She looks at me with wide, expectant eyes.
I blink.
My body is tense, my mind sharp, ready for an enemy that isn't there.
But all I see is her.
A little girl.
She can't be older than eight.
Maybe nine. But that's pushing it.
…No, Alex is definitely eight.
What?
I feel a unbearable migraine overtaking my brain as I focus back on the girl.
Tiny. Messy curls.
Wearing pajamas two sizes too big, hanging off her frame like she stole them from someone older.
She tilts her head, studying me.
Like she knows me.
Like she's waiting for something.
"Justin?" she whispers.
My breath catches.
Not because of the name.
But because of the way she says it.
Soft. Familiar.
Like she's said it a thousand times before.
And somehow, I feel like she has.
I feel like I know her.
I do.
I don't answer.
I don't move.
The room is too quiet.
Then—
She smiles.
Soft. Bright. Like the sun breaking through storm clouds.
"You're finally awake."
Confusion settles over me like a thick fog.
"It's time for school, Justin," she says. "Mom made me come wake you up."
I take a good look at her. She looks exactly like Alex from Wizards of Waverly Place.
Wait a second.
She is Alex.
What the fuck.
#Time Skip: 3 Hours#
My name is Justin Russo.
For the past eight years, I've lived with my family—my little sisters, Alex and Maxine, my dad, Jerry Russo, and my mom, Theresa Russo. We live on Waverly Place in a three-story building that, somehow, my dad managed to turn into a partially functioning restaurant. And he owns it.
Yeah. In New York, no less.
But that's not the strangest thing about today.
Three hours ago, after a dream that felt too vivid to be just a dream, I woke up with memories—memories that don't belong to me. Whether they're from a past life, a mental break, or just my brain short-circuiting, I have no idea.
But they won't leave me alone.
They make me question everything I thought I knew.
Am I real? Or am I just a character—someone else's imagination given form, written into existence for their entertainment? A Disney sitcom.
Is Alex real? Is anyone real? Is anything?
Justin, you're smart. Think. If your reality wasn't real, you wouldn't be here right now, having this existential crisis. Right? Your reality is as real as you make it.
But no matter how much I try to rationalize, those memories keep whispering in the back of my mind.
Where did they come from?Why do I have them?And most of all… is Perry okay?
That name lingers, sticking to my thoughts like gum on a sidewalk. In those memories—whether they belong to me or someone else—he was important. Someone worth risking everything for. Someone worth dying for.
And now, I can't help but wonder… how did things turn out for him?
I ask myself this over and over, all while trying to tune out Harper's incessant chatter. The migraine that started this morning hasn't faded. If anything, it's getting worse—like my brain has finally reached its limit, trying to process something it was never meant to understand.
I shake it off, forcing myself to focus on Alex and Harper.
"Alex, is it just me, or is Justin acting weird?" Harper asks as we pass the cafeteria.
I glance at her and immediately regret it.
A necklace made of charcoal. A shirt and pants crafted entirely out of garbage bags. Shoes—somehow—made from crab shells.
I stare, caught between horror and an odd sense of admiration. It's grotesque, yet… weirdly impressive? In a deeply unsettling way.
Alex barely spares me a glance. "I dunno. Justin is Justin."
I look at her, then at Harper, then at the world around me.
She's so much like how she is in the show.
No.
This isn't a show.
I barely resist the urge to groan.
I'm going to lose my mind.
Then again…
Maybe I already have.
#Time Skip: 6 Hours#
School ended an hour ago, but my mind still felt stuck there, tangled in thoughts I couldn't shake.
By the time I made it to the subway station, I felt like I'd barely survived a war zone. The migraine that had been gnawing at me since morning pulsed harder. I took a slow breath, scanning my surroundings. People rushed past me, lost in their own little worlds. Birds fluttered overhead. The sky stretched above—vast, endless, and… real.
This is real. This is my life.
If those memories—his memories—were remnants of a past life, a mental break, or just my own imagination running wild… it didn't matter. Because I am not him. He is me. And if that isn't true, if we're truly separate, then one thing remains certain.
His life… was lonely. Cold. Unforgiving.
If he were here—whoever he was—I'd tell him, this is a gift. A new life. A family. Siblings. Things he always longed for, even if he never admitted it.
And now, I have them.
There's an old saying—something about how we don't question a gift, we just take it. Or was it something else?
I exhaled, barely above a whisper.
"Goodbye to the past… and hello to the future."
A future filled with hope—unlike his.
The subway doors slid shut, and with a low rumble, the train pulled away from the station.
Walking into Waverly Place alongside Alex, the familiar scent of grilled food and warm spices filled the air. I spotted Jerry—Dad—working behind the counter, handing off an order to a customer.
His gaze lifted, and he smiled. "Hey, Justin! How was your day?"
I set my bag down on a chair. "Alright. How was yours?"
Dad paused, studying me for a beat too long. "You're acting different. Something happen at school?"
I forced a smile. "Nah, I'm fine. How's Mom?"
Another moment of scrutiny, then a small shrug. "She's in the back, working the grill. Once things slow down here, she'll be upstairs making dinner." A hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. "Go say hi to your mom."
I nodded and turned toward the back.
As I stepped away, I barely caught his muttered words.
"What, no hug? Tch. Kids these days…"
I chuckle to myself as I step into the downstairs kitchen, the familiar scent of spices and freshly baked bread lingering in the air. My mom stands by the sink, washing dishes with a focused intensity, her hands moving methodically through the soapy water.
She has black hair with a slight reddish-brown hue that catches the light, and she's wearing a bright yellow shirt tucked into blue jeans, a cooking vest tied snugly around her waist. The slight frown on her face says it all—she loves cooking but absolutely hates doing the dishes.
The counter is cluttered with loaves of bread and neatly sliced meats, waiting to be put away. I weave around them, stepping behind her before wrapping my arms around her in a tight, somewhat awkward hug.
"Hi, Mom," I say, unsure of why I suddenly feel the need to do this.
She barely glances over her shoulder, still scrubbing away. If she had to do this, she was going to power through it as fast as possible.
"Hi, Justin," she says with a smirk. "How was my little genius's day at school?"
I unhook my arms from around her and take a step back. Okay. That was… awkward.
"It was alright," I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets. "Harper wore—well—another one of her fashion statements today. Otherwise, nothing too interesting."
Mom pauses for a second, giving me an inquisitive look. It's the same look Dad gave me earlier. The same look Alex barely concealed when I wasn't paying attention.
Why do they keep doing that? Do I look different? Is something wrong with me?
But then, just like Dad, she shrugs it off and smiles. "It's Harper, honey. What do you expect? Nothing unusual there." She flicks the water off her hands and smirks. "And come on, admit it, it's kinda cute."
I raise an eyebrow, but before I can protest, she adds, "Besides, you do know she likes you, right?"
She winks at me, and I groan.
"Mom, why?" I shiver at the thought, cringing.
That only makes her laugh harder, practically doubling over at my expense. "Sorry, honey, I just had to poke fun at you. Your reaction is priceless!"
I groan again, rubbing a hand down my face, but despite myself, I can't help the small smile tugging at my lips. Shaking my head, I turn to leave the kitchen.
Just as I'm about to step out of earshot, she calls after me, "Oh! Tell Alex and Maxine to hop in the shower for me, will you? We'll be closing soon, so be ready for dinner!"
"Yes, ma'am," I call back, already heading upstairs.
#Time Skip: 2 Hours#
The five of us—me, Alex, Maxine, Dad, and Mom—sat around the couch, plates filled to the brim. Tonight's dinner? Lasagna.
A home-cooked meal. Something he—the me from before this life—never had.
Mom gets up from the table, heading toward the kitchen, while I dig in. One bite in, and—God—it's delicious. Warm, cheesy, perfect. I barely lift my fork for another bite when—
POP!
Confetti explodes around me.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JUSTIN!" they all shout in unison.
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth, blinking in shock. My eyes dart around the room—streamers, balloons, a cake waiting on the counter.
"What," I say flatly.
I couldn't believe it. I really couldn't believe it. I'd spent my birthday with them for years, but for some reason, this time… it hit differently. Deeper.
I felt like crying.
Until—
Suddenly, my stomach churns. A wave of nausea hits me hard.
"Justin, you've been awfully quiet," Mom notes, eyeing me with concern.
Before I can respond, Alex cuts in. "I wouldn't worry about it. He's probably mad about what I did to his toothpaste."
I snap my head toward her, jaw tightening. "What. Did. You. Do?"
She blinks, tilting her head innocently. "Wait… you didn't barf earlier?"
A second later, my body answers for me. I lurch forward and vomit everything into the trash.
My mother sighs heavily in the background. "So much for a happy birthday," she mutters, rubbing her temples.
Dad slowly turns to look at Alex, his expression shifting into something she recognizes all too well.
"Alexxxxxx!"
Alex groans, already bracing for the lecture. "Oh, come on! How was I supposed to know he'd react that badly? I only swapped his toothpaste with cake frosting—"
"You WHAT?!" I manage to choke out, still hunched over the trash can.
She shrugs. "It was supposed to be a harmless prank! I didn't think it'd make you puke your guts out."
Dad sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Alex, what have we said about experimenting on your brother?"
"That it's hilarious?" she offers with a cheeky grin.
"That it's not hilarious!" Mom chimes in, shooting Alex a glare.
Maxine, clearly not wanting to be left out, chimed in with a smirk. "I think it was kinda funny."
I groan, wiping my mouth with a napkin. "Great. Best. Birthday. Ever."
Dad lets out a long, exasperated sigh. "Maxine, do not encourage her."
Maxine shrugs, grinning. "What? It was kinda funny."
Alex smirks, nudging her. "See? Someone appreciates my genius."
Mom, still rubbing her temples, groans. "I swear, if you two team up, I'm moving out."
I slump back into my chair, exhausted. My stomach is still doing flips, and my birthday dinner is officially ruined.
"Alright, alright," Dad claps his hands together. "Enough chaos for one night. Justin, why don't you head upstairs and rest? And Alex—" He points at her sternly. "You're on dish duty and trash duty for the rest of the week."
"What?! That's so unfair!" Alex protests.
Dad crosses his arms. "Would you rather we ban you from pranks entirely?"
She gasps. "You wouldn't!"
Mom raises an eyebrow. "Try us."
Alex immediately shuts up, grumbling under her breath as she starts gathering plates.
Maxine, still smirking, leans toward me. "Worth it, though, right?"
I groan, dragging myself upstairs. "Not. Even. Close."
Happy birthday to me.