The Day of the TimeMage
Part One
The Monolith, Skaro, Stardate 4557.36
This place was different, the Eternal noted. Yes, there were the wide, curving ramps and sliding doors of a Dalek facility. But the harsh white lighting was replaced by a yellow-orange light that flickered like fire. The omnipresent throbbing hum of other Dalek places was absent. The workstations it had seen carried books and scrolls as often as they did computer terminals, and many of the artefacts scattered around seemed more decorative than functional. More importantly, the walls, ceilings and floors were not metal, but carved from the living rock of this, the largest mountain on Skaro. The Wizards had said they needed to be in touch with naturally-occurring materials for their unique abilities to function optimally, but here, by accident or design, they had created for themselves a fortress more impenetrable than even the Citadel of Davros.
Three of the green Wizard Daleks approached it then. "Foll-ow." One said, and they proceeded further into the bowels of the mountain.
This chamber was more familiar, white-lit, and containing devices of a recognisably technological nature, including a tank of clear green liquid. Nearby, surrounded by more Wizards, was a Dalek that the Eternal recognised. This was the original, the first Wizard, distinguished from its' fellows only by a jagged scar on its dome, just above the eyestalk – a relic of some long-ago battle it had refused to have repaired.
It was this Dalek that spoke to the Eternal. "We are rea-dy." It said. "But we must know why you re-quest-ed this."
This was the way of the Wizards, to question orders where no other Dalek would. They had explained that, if their abilities were to be correctly used, they needed to know why they were being ordered to do a specific thing. The Wizard went on.
"Our Di-vine-ers have told us that this is nec-ess-ary for the fu-ture of the Da-leks. But they do not see as far as you, it is not their func-tion.
"It is your func-tion to map Time. Do your or-ders come from the Su-preme?"
"I serve the Da-leks." The Eternal replied. "That may not al-ways mean ser-ving the Su-preme. There are mat-ters the Su-preme is not con-cerned with. They are not its' func-tion."
"We under-stand." The Wizard agreed. "We will be-gin."
It opened its casing, revealing the Kaled Mutant within. It looked the same as any other, except that its' single eye was a vivid green, and held an expression no other Kaled had. Another Wizard reached in and removed a small sample of skin. The casing closed. The sample was taken to another device and inserted into it. The Wizard began to manipulate the controls.
"The gen-e-tic mani-pul-ations must be pre-cise." The scarred Wizard explained. "The ess-ence must be pure. The grow-ing pro-cess will be sim-ple. In-ser-tion will in-volve risk. There are ma-ny ran-dom el-e-ments."
"To deal with ran-dom el-e-ments is your func-tion." The Eternal pointed out. "And mine."
Sickbay, SHIELD Heli-Carrier 'Potomac' 16th July 2042
Harry came up through layers of unfolding blackness into disorientingly bright light. A strip-lighted metal ceiling above, a reasonably comfortable bed below. Discomfort in his left arm suggested an IV. Weird. This wasn't St Mungos' -wizards couldn't cure that curse, so muggles shouldn't have been able to! But this was undoubtedly a muggle facility. The overriding smell of antiseptic confirmed it.
Harry turned his head, as much to make sure he actually could as to look around. He felt a little weak, but not incapacitated. A figure was sitting in a chair by the bed. Harry blinked to try and focus – he didn't have his glasses on, of course. Tall, by the look of him, and thin. Long brown hair, a predatory, hawklike face and a pair of piercing, disturbingly familiar, green eyes. Harry tried to speak, but his mouth and throat were bone-dry, and all that came out was a croak.
The man leaned forward, taking something from a stand nearby. Harry felt a tube being inserted between his lips and the stranger spoke in a smooth baritone. "Drink." He said. "Not too much, now! Good to have you back with us, Harry."
The water was not overly cool, but it did the job. "Where am I?" Harry managed to ask.
"In the sickbay of a SHIELD heli-carrier, about half-way across the US." The man told him. "We're headed for London, so you'll have plenty of time to get your strength back and up to speed. Everybody thinks you're dead, by the way."
"Oh, wonderful!" Harry groaned. "That's three times, now! 'Master of Death' is just a title, you know, not a bloody professional qualification!
"Anyway, who the fuck – pardon me – are you?"
The man gave a thin smile. "Ah!" He said. "That's the complicated bit!"
Ministry of Magic, London, 28th June 2042
"Denzil Bablake, Daily Prophet," The reporter introduced himself. "Colonel Potter, is it true that the so-called Black Council no longer exists?"
"That would be an exaggeration." Harry told him. "Recent strikes by Aurors in several countries, with the support of WAND and UNIT wizard staff, have to all intents and purposes eliminated their so-called 'covens', or active units. At the same time, their 'circles', or intelligence-gathering units, have been rolled up by Whitelighter squads. They are, to all intents and purposes, blind, deaf and helpless.
"Yes, Mrs Krum?"
"Colonel Potter." Ginny said, a slight smile on her face. "Anyone who knows you could infer from that answer that you still consider the Council a threat. Is this the case?"
"Most certainly." Harry replied. "Any group of powerful and disaffected Dark wizards will always be a threat. However, we are still actively engaged in seeking the principals out, and we will find them. Hopefully before they can regroup and cause any further damage.
"Young gentleman in the green robes?"
"Zacharias Tweedlebob, the Quibbler." Was the response. "Is it not the case, Colonel, that the Black Council are receiving aid from extra-dimensional entities?"
"We have no clear evidence of that." Harry replied. "It is true that among the suspects arrested, there are ritual magicians. It is also true that among their papers have been found rituals to summon such entities, commonly called 'demons'. So far, however, neither our Sensitives, nor the experts of the Brotherhood of the Sword, have detected any dimensional breaches, and we have not encountered any such entities. We will remain alert for such incursions.
"Mr Fudge?"
"Minister Potter," Jeremiah Fudge emphasised his refusal to use Harry's UNIT rank, "the readership of the Torch -along with a great many others -wish to know whether or not you will acknowledge that the disaffection of the Black Council, and its' attraction of so many adherents, is almost entirely due to your continued policy of denigrating and abolishing traditional wizard values and culture?"
"Considering that that has never been part of my policy," Harry said, "I can scarcely acknowledge it. It is true that some years ago, certain standards were promulgated by this Ministry for the proper treatment of sapient magical species. In this we lagged behind our fellow-wizards in the United States, who legislated such standards – and indeed went further in the matter of House-elves – in the 1860s
"That certain advances in magical techniques have evolved to mirror muggle technology was not an act of policy, but inevitable given the yearly influx of Newblood wizards into our world. History -both muggle and wizard – shows that such advances invariably drive a degree of cultural change. But participation in such change is entirely the choice of the individual. You don't have to buy a Talk-Mirror, or a scrying glass tuned to Wizard TV or the Wizarding Web. Nor is it compulsory to marry outside the wizard community, or to send wizard children to muggle primary schools. Many choose to do these things, many do not. I have no policy on the matter and my views are that people can live their lives as they choose, within the law.
"You have a supplementary?"
"I do, Minister." Fudge said. "If you do respect our ways so much, why do you continually allow and encourage muggle interference? Especially as the Black Council is an entirely magical matter?"
"You should check your facts, Jeremiah." Harry told him. "Every action that has been taken in this campaign has been taken by wizards: Aurors, Whitelighters and Council Wardens. Some of the wizard operatives, it is true, work for organisations such as SHIELDs' Wizardry, Alchemy and Necromancy Department, or for UNIT Phoenix and Basilisk teams. But although the parent organisations are primarily muggle-run, these sections are entirely magical in their focus and staffing, with the exception of administrative support.
"In this context, I might point out that the lack of fatalities in the Explosion Hex incident at the Leaky Cauldron last month was entirely due to the prompt and professional actions of the muggle Emergency Services and the muggle doctors at various Accident and Emergency departments. Given that the Hex destroyed the Disillusionment Charm that hid the target from muggles, we were not in a position to act quickly without risking exposure. As it is, the numerous muggles involved have all had their memories altered, so that we remain secure.
"Any more questions? Mrs Krum?"
"Colonel," Ginny said, straight-faced, "is it your considered opinion, along with everyone else, that the editor of the Daily Torch has his head really far up his arse?"
"You might say that," Harry replied with equal seriousness, "but I couldn't possibly comment!"
"I hate bloody press conferences!" Harry growled. "Whose idea was it to have them, anyway?"
"Yours." James Potter told his father. "Part of your transparency and accountability policy. Now come on. Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron are waiting in the side-alley. You're getting your weekend off, Dad, before you get any grouchier!"
"Some weekend off, with you hovering around. Don't you have anything else to do, like running Whitelighter Branch?" Harry grumbled.
"Dave's got that." James said easily. "Dennis posted me as your bodyguard, old man, and I'm sticking by you until the shitstorm settles. Unless Gabbi's going to be about? Mum still wants to know if you two are serious."
"She is, and we're not." Harry stated. "I think the phrase is 'friends with benefits', if your mother really needs to know."
"Fuck-buddies. Got it." James said. "Well, Gabs is as lethal as they come, so I'll let her look after you."
"You know, I can look after myself!" Harry protested.
"That's the issue." James told him. "You're about as close to being a force of nature as it gets, Dad. You 'look after yourself' and it takes a week to clean up the mess! You need a bodyguard to protect the bad guys from you – a Wizard of Mass Destruction, Dennis calls you.
"There they are!"
Hermione and Ron were waiting by their car near the street end – Harry was to have dinner with them – waving. Harry and James began to walk toward them, when it started.
Some kind of portal – an arch of blue light – appeared in front of them, and three figures jumped out, brandishing wands.
James took one down at once with a lightning Stun Hex, But another had targeted Harry, yelling "Avada Kedavra!". Everything seemed to slow down for Harry. He could see the jet of green light coming for him and had time to think Not now! before a black shape swooped down, intercepted the curse and fell to the ground with a croak.
As time regained its usual momentum, Harry realised that the shape was his pet raven, Quoth. His rage-fuelled, silent, Killing Curse sent its target the length of the alley.
Meanwhile, having parried a Stun Hex from the third assailant, James had fallen foul of a heavy Impedimenta that had slammed him into the wall, winding him. Harry had time to recognise the attacker as Cormac McLaggen before he heard "Cor lapis!".
A deadly cold spread through his body, and his legs went from under him.
Ron's long legs had covered the distance in seconds, but not quite fast enough.
"McLaggen!" He roared. Cormac spun and Ron disarmed him with a flick of his wand, before dropping it and closing with him.
Cormac McLaggen was a big, powerful man, but Ron was bigger, angrier and trained in Krav Maga. McLaggen went down with a scream that almost drowned out the sound of snapping bones.
Then the alley was full of Whitelighters. James ordered them sharply to get the live attackers into custody, then joined Ron and Hermione where Harry lay.
Holding Harry's head in her lap, Hermione looked up with a tear-stained face. "StoneHeart Curse," she said in a choked voice, "there's nothing we can do. He's dying."
"Oh, no he isn't!" This was a new voice, a rich alto. "Not after all this! Not if I can help it!"
Ron felt himself pushed aside by a strength that easily surpassed his own, and a woman dropped to her knees beside Harry. She was tall and perfectly formed, wearing an outfit of black material that covered her from throat to heel, but fitted like a second skin. A mane of equally black hair fell halfway down her back, and she had a sensual oval face dominated by fierce golden eyes. She grabbed a locket that hung at her neck and held it in front of Harrys' face.
"Harry!" She said. "Harry! Look at this! Look and remember!"
Harry was conscious. The cruelty of the StoneHeart Curse was that it killed slowly, painfully, and that the victim remained awake and aware until the very end. But Harry had felt pain before, had overcome it before. He peered at the locket. There was something, something familiar. His eyes widened. Of course! He thought.
The locket opened, apparently by itself, and a flood of golden light shone in Harrys' face. It lasted perhaps fifteen seconds before going out, but in that time, he changed. His face and body flowed like warm wax into a different form. A short, stocky, rather plump man with short-cropped silver hair and a round, cherubic face. The eyes, however, remained the same penetrating green.
"Sil? How did you…?" The voice was a light tenor.
"Never mind." The woman said. "Are you all right?"
"Yes and no." The man got to his feet. Then James levelled his wand.
"Dad?" He asked. "Is that you? Did you Transfigure yourself? Or are you somebody pretending to be Dad? Who's she?"
"Too many questions, too little time!" The man said irritably. He lifted his hand, it was glowing with more of the golden light. He clenched it, and seemed to make an effort, the golden light faded. "Suffice to say, young man, that I was me, then I was Harry, now I'm me again but in a very short time I shall be someone else.
"Sil, I've purged the curse, but it's taken too much out of me. I'm regenerating, it can't happen here, but I don't think I can hold it much longer."
"Here, let me…" The woman called Sil stepped forward, but he stopped her with a gesture. "Not this time. That last change took too much power, you've barely enough to function. You need to get back as much as I do.
"You – James! You're a Whitelighter, aren't you? I need you to Orb us to Hogwarts. The Room of Requirement, right away!"
"I can't take you into the Room." James said doubtfully. "It's always in flux unless somebody's in there.
"Besides, I don't know if I can trust you. Where's my father?"
"Young man, if you want to know the truth about Harry Potter, I'm the only one who can tell you!" The man snapped.
"We're coming, too." Ron spoke in a tone that brooked no denial. The old man simply nodded.
"All right." James said. "All right."
DuMorne Estate, Louisiana, 28th June, 2042
"You are sure?" Justin DuMorne was a tall, saturnine man with a penchant for elaborate black and gold robes.
"Oh, I'm sure, all right!" Jeremiah Fudge told him. "McLaggen cast a StoneHeart Curse and it went home. If Potter isn't already dead, he will be within an hour or two. Depends how strong he is. There's no countercharm or potion that will purge that curse."
"And you say none of our people got out?" DuMorne asked.
"Afraid not." Jeremiah shrugged. "James Potter stunned Simpkins right off, Potter killed Denacre, and that big brute Ron Weasley got McLaggen. Multiple injuries, by the sound of it. McLaggen is the only real loss, especially given what he knows."
"Which in any event, is not enough to help them." DuMorne stated. "Even if they bother to interrogate him, which I doubt. McLaggen is a thug, and thugs are ten a knut. For the rest, c'est la guerre. I do wish, though, that you had been able to remain to confirm Potter's death."
"So do I!" Jeremiah admitted. "Would've done me a world of good to watch him suffer. But by then the place was hip-deep in Whitelighters, and I had to get out before my charm was detected."
"Quite so." DuMorne allowed. "You have been, and still are, far too valuable an asset to lose, Jeremiah. When there are no longer any no-maj's in the world, and their damned technology has gone with them, our people will need leaders such as yourself. Men who can truly restore the old ways."
"Why Potter?" Jeremiah asked. "Not that he didn't deserve it, and not that he wasn't a threat, but I'd've thought your nephew, or Spardas' brats, would've been higher priority."
"Threat was not the issue." DuMorne explained. "At least, not on the individual level. My nephew is not only a Council Warden, and a wizard as powerful and clever as Potter, he is also the Winter Knight, and as such, rather more than our people could handle. Leave Harry Dresden to me!
"Dante Sparda, and his nephew Nero, are Demi-Nephilim, immune to most kinds of magic as well as no-maj weapons. They will need, and receive, special treatment in due course.
"More importantly, none of them are public figures, unlike Potter. This was not murder, but assassination, Jeremiah. By now, the word will have spread. Every Ministry and Bureau will be in lockdown. Whitelighter and Auror squads will be recalled from the field to guard officials and buildings. There will be investigations, internal inquiries, perhaps even purges. There will be panic, even among the White Council."
"And with panic, paralysis!" Jeremiah concluded. "Brilliant! We'll have all the time we need!
"But will this affect WAND and UNIT?"
"Only marginally." DuMorne admitted. "But without backing from wizard authorities, their numbers are few and their magical resources limited.
"The only remaining threat is Stephen Strange, but even if our ally Mordo cannot stop him, he can delay him long enough for us to do what we plan.
"Come, old friend, it is time we went East!"
"As the Archmage commands." Jeremiah said with a smile.
Hogwarts Castle, 28th June, 2042
James Orbed them to precisely in front of the wall where the main door to the Room of Requirement could be found. Not that there weren't other doors. They tended to appear where needed. But this one was the only one where the person wishing to enter could decide what sort of room they needed.
"We need the place where things are stored." The old man said.
Ron concentrated for a moment, and the door appeared. They went through, Sil taking the lead. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, taking them to a large, rather sinister-looking cabinet made of black oak.
"Don't recall seeing this before!" Ron said.
"I should hope not!" Sil replied. "I set the perception filter decades ago. You saw it, you just didn't notice it."
She produced a key and fitted it into the door. It opened, and light shone out into the Room, accompanied by a faint hum. Ron, Hermione and James exchanged glances. Things were starting to make sense. At Sils' gesture, they went in.
As they expected, the space inside was much larger than it should have been. Stairs and ramps indicated that there were even more spaces to be found. The hexagonal control desk was there, as well, with the piston-like cylinder in the centre. But the walls were covered with some kind of symbols, arranged in what seemed to Hermione to be complex equations. There were also ornate mirrors and other devices of an obviously magical nature scattered around the place.
"This is a TARDIS!" Hermione announced. "You're a TimeLord. Was – is- Harry a TimeLord?"
"Not exactly." The old man said. Then his hands, and this time his face, began to glow again. "Stand back!" He commanded. "I've never done this before, and I'm late! There's a lot of build-up…."
He threw his head back and flung out his arms to the side. Streams of golden energy poured out of him. James was about to throw up a shield when he saw that the console and the walls seemed to be sucking eagerly at the energy, drawing it in and absorbing it.
The same was happening to Sil, who was arching her body and writhing in a manner that made even Hermione feel rather hot under the collar.
The figure at the centre of it all seemed to stretch, growing taller and thinner. Then something happened to the face, and he gave a cry that was half-pain, half-triumph. The golden glow was snuffed out. Ron noticed that the lights were now brighter, the hum deeper.
Where there had been a short, plump, elderly man there now stood a very different figure. Tall -a good three inches taller than Ron, six-and-a-half feet at least. Thin, but not weak-looking, in his late thirties at most. Long brown hair framed a face with a strong jaw, a straight, thin-lipped mouth, a high forehead and a fierce beak of a nose. But the eyes were unchanged, a vivid green, intense and piercing.
"Whoa!" He said in a smooth baritone. "That was a head-rush! Sil, are you all right?"
"Never better." She replied. "All the regeneration energy you were throwing about recharged me nicely. Helped the TARDIS, too."
"You are a TimeLord!" Hermione said.
"Not exactly, as I told you." He replied. "Look, not every inhabitant of Gallifrey is a TimeLord. As in the majority of intelligent races, most are muggles but some are wizards.
"Now at the age of eight, certain Gallifreyan children who have shown the right aptitude are allowed to look into the Untempered Schism. That's a gap in the fabric of reality from which the whole of the Vortex can be seen. From that point on -if they survive and stay sane – the muggle children become TimeLords. But the wizard children become TimeMages.
"I'm a TimeMage." He looked at his arm – several inches of wiry arm and wrist protruded from the sleeve of the robe. "A TimeMage who needs a change of clothes - robes are forgiving, but there are limits.
"Sil, get this heap to Cardiff. The regeneration energy helped, but she needs a good charge. Back in a minute."
He disappeared up a flight of steps. Sil busied herself at the console. The piston began to rise and fall, and a whooshing, groaning sound filled the air for a few seconds.
"That should do it." She muttered, half to herself. "Two in the morning, perception filter set. Good four hours charge should be all she needs."
"You were Quoth, weren't you?" Ron asked.
Sil looked at him. "Oh, you're clever!" She said. "How did you work that out?"
"Not so clever." Ron said. "I just notice things. I knew it was Quoth swooped down to block that Killing Curse. Hedwig did the same thing for Harry the night he left Privet Drive for good. We never found poor Hedwigs' body, so I wanted to make sure Quoth at least got a decent burial. But no body. You, on the other hand, appeared out of nowhere; no Apparation, you didn't Orb or come by port-key or portal, and not a Transmat, either.
"So, you must've been Quoth. Your boss and you were talking about you needing power, so I'd guess you're some kind of android or cyborg."
"Ron doesn't miss much." Hermione told Sil. "And yes, he's a lot brighter than he cracks on to be!"
Sil nodded. "You're right, I'm an android -organic but synthetic. I metabolise sunlight for power, or Vortex energy while I'm in the TARDIS. My name's short for 'Epsilon' – I'm the fifth version he built. I suppose the nearest thing you human wizards might have is a familiar spirit or a golem. I'm a bit of both.
"Yes, I was Quoth. I was also Hedwig, which is why you never found the body."
"So you're an android who can Transfigure herself? " James raised an eyebrow. "Impressive!"
"It's not Transfiguration." Sil told him. "My systems incorporate Qys technology. The Qys are – or were, they may be extinct now – an old, reclusive race of artists who specialised in creating new bodies for themselves that they could switch between at will. The spare bodies are kept in a pocket dimension centred here in the TARDIS, so the computers here can adapt them to whatever world we're on.
"I used a cat to keep an eye on Harry all those years at Privet Drive. Then the owl while he was at Hogwarts. But when Hedwig was killed, I had to switch to the raven, get out of here and find Harry. Took a couple of years, but I did it.
"Back in the alley, I had to do an immediate remote switch, and it took an awful lot of power."
"Just who is this TimeMage?" Hermione asked.
"You can call me 'the Deacon', or just Deacon." Said the TimeMage, coming down the stairs. He was now wearing a black velvet frock coat, black trousers and ankle-boots and a frilled white shirt. His hair was tied back in a pony-tail. As he approached the console, there was an urgent warbling sound and an object popped up out of a slot. The Deacon picked it up. It was a metal rod about nine inches long with a grip at one end and a globe at the other. As he examined it, the globe opened like a flower, revealing a crystal inside that scintillated with all kinds of colours.
"Wondered where that'd got to!" The Deacon said. "Had some upgrades, as well!"
"Well, she had to have something to occupy herself with for sixty years." Sil pointed out.
"What is it?" Hermione wanted to know.
"Ah, the eternal questions of Hermione Granger!" The Deacon said. "No, wait, you're Weasley now, aren't you?
"Anyway, this is a Probability Probe. It analyses the probability of what I want to make happen actually happening, detects and eliminates excess variables, and suppresses the Butterfly Effect. It does other things, but that's its' main function. You might call it a 'Quantum Screwdriver'.
"TimeMages use them instead of magic wands, just as we use equations instead of spells."
"ENOUGH!" James thundered, at the end of his patience. "Look, you great long streak of yesterdays' dishwater! I don't care if you're a TimeLord, a TimeMage or a tie me kangaroo down! What. The fuck. Happened. To my Dad?"
The look that came from those brilliant green eyes was chilling in its' familiarity. It was the look Harry used to give his children when they were an inch away from crossing the line. Even as a grown man, it stopped James in his tracks.
"Harry Potter," said the Deacon softly, "died from complications of bacterial meningitis on November the 13th 1980, at the age of three-and-a-half months. He was cremated here in the TARDIS by Sil, and his ashes were buried in a corner of the churchyard at Godrics' Hollow. His parents never knew. The only people who did were myself, Sil, a doctor named Sam Beckett and a staff nurse called Melody Pond.
"I suppose I owe you the whole story…"