DISCLAIMER: ALL OF THE CHARACTERS AND SCENARIOS BELONG TO J. K. ROWLING AND/OR WARNER BROS.
A/N: Just this, thank you J. K. Rowling for giving the next generation an epic.
A/N P.S. I would sincerely appreciate comments to help me write a better story.
Harry Potter and the Infinitely Plastic Universe
Prologue:
Late June, Previous Year:
It was almost 10 p.m. when Millard Randels, PhD, entered Number 22 Downing Street. He presented his identity card to the somber faced guard who checked it against a list of authorized visitors. Even after passing though a metal detector and a search of his person, the process was repeated by a representative of Special Air Service. Finally, the Prime Minister's new assistant, Kingsley Shacklebolt, looked Millard up and down before checking his identity card against yet another list. Millard looked at ease with the increased security, having been a part time consultant for a number of different ministries within the British government; interspersed with his normal position as a Professor at Cambridge University. He was called in whenever there was some intractable problem that the government scientists couldn't crack. His enjoyment of the challenges his position afforded him belied his calm, neat appearance. He was a little taller than average, thin, in his mid-forties, graying, and carried more than a little of the air that marked him as a university professor.
As Millard finally stepped into the Prime Minister's office he quickly scanned the room making small observations of what had and had not changed since he was last there three years ago. Casually he noted the Anne deBerarge coffee table had a small chip in one of the legs and the 1892 replica of the Sea Giant trading vessel was dustier than should be appropriate for this office. Also the rather fine antique rug in front of the fireplace was covered in ashes. However there were three other distinct changes that were decidedly odd. First, surrounding an unremarkable painting of a slightly frog-like man there were obvious signs of recent construction. The wall had been re-plastered with no overt indication as to why. Second, directly across from this painting the Prime Minister had installed one of the new ELPROMA NTS-300 GPS Time servers. Attached to it was a rather large bright red LED display of the local time precise to some ridiculously small fraction of a second. In fact the last digits on the clock changed so fast they showed only as dimly glowing number eights. Third, immediately adjacent to the time server was an extraordinarily accurate reproduction of the H-4 timepiece that had won the prize for discovering the way to calculate longitude for ships at sea.
The Prime Mister sat a small table situated between the clocks and the painting and allowed Millard to scan the room before standing up to greet him. "Thank you for coming so late, Dr. Randels, I have so little time nowadays with all the events of the last few weeks. I trust the trip over was of no inconvenience." The Prime Minister said in the cultured tones of one well used to public speaking.
"No trouble at all Mr. Prime Minister. It took me just a second to pop over from John Harrison's flat. And, as always, I serve at the pleasure of Her Majesty the Queen regardless of the trivialities." Millard said in the perfunctory voice of someone used to formality.
"Please sit down" the Prime Minister cordially offered as he pointed to one of the two chairs. As Millard moved to take the seat nearest him, Mr. Shacklebolt came into the office carrying a pot of tea, two cups, and some sugar and cream. He quickly and quietly moved across the small space and placed the tray soundless between them. "Thank you very much, Mr. Shacklebolt, a spot of tea would be a perfectly charming idea. Do I have any further appointments this evening?" the Prime Minister enquired while reaching across for the teapot.
"No Mr. Prime Minister, Dr. Randels will be your last." Mr. Shacklebolt replied.
"Excellent, then I would appreciate if you would finish up the daily and get it to the Ministry before leaving. I don't want to jinx our recent communications, but I am looking for improvements.", the Prime Minister finished conversationally.
"Of course, Mr. Prime Minster.", Mr. Shacklebolt said while nodding his head and began moving towards the door.
"Would you like some of this enchanting tea Dr. Randels? It is from a small island just off of the Indian coast called Lypton and has a very mild flavor?", the Prime Minister asked Millard.
"That would be fine. So what may I do for you this evening Mr. Prime Minister?", Millard asked pleasantly.
"I would like to talk to you about this damnable weather. Heathrow has been fog bound for two weeks and, as you are quite well aware of the West Country, suffered from what can only be described as a mini-hurricane.", the Prime Minister replied rather flatly.
"Yes, I can imagine why. The weather does seem to be on everyone's mind nowadays. In fact, the last four issues of Nature seemed to be wholly dedicated to the subject. I believe much of the chaotic weather patterns we are experiencing are the direct result of climate change. With every systemic change there are localized patterns of complexity. However, I would like to remind the Prime Minister of the old saying 'Coincidence is not Correlation; Correlation is not Causation'. Whereas there is increasing evidence of a general warming trend, as far as I am aware there is no conclusive evidence that this is anything other than of natural trend of heating and cooling experienced by this planet over its history." Millard concluded in a tone that indicated he had had this conversation many times and my have even used it in his classes.
"I can appreciate your skepticism, Dr. Randels. But I am faced with real impacts that have already resulted in the death of British citizens. Colonel Franklin in the West Country has requested immediate logistical support and cursed the lack of available resources to deal with the destruction. I'm not asking you predict the weather, but I believe that it is only going to get worse and I need to do something." the Prime Minister's voice raised in uncharacteristic frustration. The Prime Minister abruptly stood up from his chair, walked to the window, and gazed out to the darkness.
Millard's eyes slightly narrowed and, after an uncomfortable pause, he cautiously responded to the Prime Minister's obvious frustration by saying, "Its almost like that old American saying, 'Everyone complains about the weather, but no one does anything about it'."
This seemed to pacify the Prime Minister as he returned to his chair not saying anything, but simply taking a sip from his tea cup.
"The last thing I want to say concerning this is that I understand that this topic is rather controversial right now and, to use another American phase, that every Tom, Dick, and Harry has an opinion. But it is your community, the scientific community, to which I am turning. I mean if I want to know about jewelry I would go to a jeweler and if I wanted know about pots … ", the Prime Minister stopped, sighed, and rubbed his eyes attempting to assuage the visible exhaustion that he felt. "Listen to me; I have finally succumb to cliché's. All must be truly lost", the Prime Minister jested with himself.
Millard intently looked into the Prime Minister's eyes and said decisively "I know that change always spells trouble, but I absolutely assure you Mr. Prime Minister, I will do all within my ability serve Her Majesty the Queen at this time."
"Yes, I will deeply appreciate whatever you can do for Britain.", the Prime Minister said with the barest of smiles. "Now I must return to other concerns. Please, send in Mr. Shackleton and have him bring in the budgetary analysis for our on-going disaster relief operations." The Prime Minister waved dismissively as he picked up a folder and began to review its contents.
Millard stood up from the table, bowed briefly to the Prime Minister, and made his way to the small desk just outside of the Prime Minister's office. After informing Mr. Shackleton, he made is way to the streets of London and began walking. He started without any real direction taking each step with a slow, measured pace. It was only after about three hours of this that his gaze slowly raised from the street and leveled on a distant horizon.
He made his way directly back to a flat he maintained in the city, packed a small bag with a change of cloths and sundries, and then went to his computer. He quickly typed an email to the Dean of Cambridge University, expressing his intent to go on hiatus from his position; to some friends that he would be traveling; and to various others to make arrangements for an extended absence. Lastly, he picked a map of the West Country and headed out the door.
Coincidently, at the moment Millard was talking with the Prime Minister another meeting was taking place, though in a wholly different setting and with wholly different participants. Many miles north of London and deep within a massive expanse of woods, the Centaur delegation cautiously approached the shoreline of a lake. The oldest member knocked a blood red arrow into a crudely wrought wooden bow. Drawing the bow back, he launched the projectile far into the lake where it unceremoniously vanished below the placid surface with barely a sound and even less of a ripple.
The representatives waited patiently as the night drew on. Only the youngest member rocked back and forth unable to completely restrain his mounting tension. Finally, with a sound of splashing water and an odd clacking noise, an object landed at the feet of the centaurs. The oldest of them reached out with a spear and lifted a necklace make entirely of shells. With sadness he looked at each of the others and said in a deep, deep, gravely voice, "Then it is to war we shall go."
The youngest member lowered his head and the others turned to him. They brought out a canvas bag that was damp and leaking water. It was filled with a spongy form of moss that glistened with some sort of inner light. "Remember," the oldest centaur began in a gruff and demanding voice, "you must eat some of the Gillyweed every day. Any longer and you will die and have failed the herd." Nodding, the youngest centaur took the bag and went down to the shoreline. Looking into the cold, clear waters he noticed a pair of eyes that held the same sorrow and fear looking back at him. In concert, the two beings took a mouthful of their respective magical herbs and began to chew. The bitter taste of the Gillyweed made him wince as he finally swallowed the last bit. His counterpart also showed displeasure at what looked to be a type of grain held tightly in a seal skin bag. Neither of them looked back as they approached the slim boundary that separated their two worlds. The effect of the weed and grain was almost immediate. The young centaur began to gag and grab his throat as gills formed on the sided of his chest. His hind legs began to shrink and soon vanished entirely. With a massive splash, the young mer-centaur fell into the water, greedily sucking the life giving liquid into his lungs and out his gills. Waiting for him was a delegation of the Mer.
His counterpart's transition was every bit as dramatic as his. A large equine body formed where a fishes' muscular tail had once been. Gasping, but quickly gaining strength the centaur-mer stood upon her new, still wobbly legs, for the first time. She bowed her head and said in a shreiky, high pitched voice, "The Chieftain of the Mer, my mother, sends her greetings to the Lord of the Centaurs." The oldest centaur briefly nodded his head and pronounced, "The Centaurs welcome you."
With that the herd turned to re-enter the forest. Lagging behind, the oldest centaur, when he knew none of the others could see, looked back at the lake and quietly said with a great sadness, "Goodbye my son. I will not fail you." Then he followed the others into the woods, his home.