A/N: Sorry this took so long. No excuses, just really haven't been writing. Lost the spark, pilot light went out in the storm, you know. Trying to relight it now.


Harry Potter and the Heartlands of Time

Chapter 15 – The Healing Day

And if some suitor comes approaching
Will you let him through your door
And what if I return half-broken
Will you still want me anymore?

~Great Big Sea

I think one of the biggest misconceptions about war – be it this endless one I've been fighting for centuries – or any war throughout the long and bloody history of muggles and wizarding folk alike is that when cities or nations fall, they fall slow.

No, no.

Rome wasn't built in a day, but it could be argued it fell overnight. A tipping point was reached, the point of no return, and the empire became a corpse that didn't know it was dead yet. London, the heart of the world, fell even faster than a night whenever Lord Voldemort unleashed his might upon the unsuspecting anthill. All I could do, all I ever did, was help fight and evacuate as many as possible.

After measuring dicks with the Dark Lord under the Ministry, I'd Apparated northwards to my battleship, hovering cloaked below the storm clouds of a city already crumbling. From the bridge of my ship, I surveyed the madness with the cold, weary disposition of a man who had smoked too many cigarettes, drank from too many bottles, who had spent an age seeking darkness in the world and now couldn't see anything light.

London was aflame. Chaos, badness, all manner of old sins in shiny new ways.

Voldemort had cast an inferius curse across the city, a web of magic designed to bind the dead to the living world, to reanimate corpses, only…

He'd sworn on his magic, an Unbreakable Vow, not to do such a thing. I'd been very clear with the wording. Were we now so far beyond normal, beyond absurd, that the rules and fabric of magic no longer applied to us? Had Harry Potter, Time Wizard, and Tom Riddle, Dark Wizard, stepped outside of the arena and into a game of their own demise? Could we sing our songs to whatever band of merry fuckery happened to take our fancy?

No, that didn't feel right. Felt too east of easy, like a cop out, and a… lack of appreciation for all that had gone before. To all the love from long ago. I sifted through my memories, all one thousand years, and sought to understand how he had—

Ah, I see. The net of inferius magic wasn't tied to Voldemort. No, he'd used a proxy, a ringer, one of his Death Eaters or followers to cast the spell. Voldemort controlled the puppet master, who pulled the inferius' tangled, cold strings. Should've seen that coming… I'd made the same old mistake, the same fatal flaw. After all this time, I'd thought I'd seen it all, that ol' Tom had no tricks left. This time was different, of course it was. This time was for keeps, and the Dark Lord had seen how far I'd gone in the pasts.

He was a cunning snake, I'd give him that.

But, oh but… the curse being tied to someone other than Voldemort left the whole ensemble rather vulnerable. I could kill other than Voldemort. I could burn the heart from the chest of any Death Eater. I grinned. This could be fun.


I am the entertainer. And I've had to pay my price.


One of the worst parts about all this mess, after all this time, was how scarily aware the fragmented pieces of my mind were. I could remember stretches of time, lives long since lost, crossing a span never meant for any human. Even though my body refreshed every loop, the mind – the soul, even – grew all that much older.

And after all the miles on my engine, the odometer ticked over back to zero more than once, tread worn thin, I was due a breakdown. My greatest fear isn't losing this war—I've lost it times beyond count—but winning and having to live after that impossible victory.

I wasn't human anymore, not really, and arguably I was worse than the Dark Lord when it came to abusing lost, ancient, restricted magic. I'd never gone full-horcrux, but I'd committed crimes of equal and greater malice.


They'll write books about you, Harry. Gospels. The boy-wizard who became the greatest lord of time magic to ever live. Or, perhaps to be less grandiose, became time's filthiest whore.


From the war chests on my battleship, I summoned staffs of power to supplement my wand work. With a few silent enchantments I sent the metre-long pieces of metal-strapped-oak to hover around me in concentric circles—forming not only shields that shone white light in their wake, a network of precisely augmented, barriers against attack, but additional firepower. Each staff worked much like my wand, if not a little ungainly. The future had forgotten a lot of the past, but some things surpassed the might of the Atlanteans. Ollivander's creations was one such thing.

Suitably armed and swirling with magic, I stepped lightly from the deck of my battleship, out over the edge and into the sky. Smoke, thick and unnatural, clouded the air, tasting of copper-burnt magic. I fell.

I fell a good half mile, before swooping down around the skyscrapers of London, wand in hand and the Atlantean war staffs spinning around me. Like some sort of comic book superhero, I flew along the Thames, away from the Ministry—that was lost, and good riddance. The new world, the world I would win one day, would start magical society anew, free.

A hive of dementors, several dozen strong, assaulted the muggle Houses of Parliament. I arced that'a'ways, and sent half a dozen streams of white patronus light to repel the assault. The dementors screeched and reeled away, and those that drew close to me I turned to ash with a thought and a smirk.

The streets below me were a blur of people and crashed cars. Only half an hour had swept past since the Dark Lord's attack had begun, but already the heart of London was chaos.

I gritted my teeth and concentrated, focussing my mind and stilling my nerve. This next part always took a fair chunk out of me, even after all these centuries.

"Flee," I whispered. "You must flee."

Call it a bastardised version of the Imperius Curse, more a snare of suggestion, but I cast the spell far and wide, sent my intention cascading down the streets of London like the waves of the sea in storm. Along with the mind magic, which would urge, even compel, the muggles to get out of London as fast as they could, I cast gateways—rough portal magic—all throughout the city.

I was unleashed, as we entered the endgame. Always it came down to this—impossible magic, last acts of defiance, souls wrenched clean with the tips of bloody, less-than-heroic swords. The portals opened across London on the fields and surrounds throughout the Forest of Dean, on the edge of Monmouthshire and just over the border into Wales.

I placed the portals at Tube stations, major thoroughfares such as Trafalgar Square and Regent Street, all along the Thames, across into Portobello Road and as far east as the Tower Bridge. All would be burning and haunted before the sun set.

The toll of such subtle and unique magic hit me like a hammer blow, and I stumbled in the air over Westminster. I felt all at once like I hadn't eaten for days, thirsty to the point of being parched, and that sleep was just a distant memory. So, sort of normal, considering how I usually felt.

The portals and mind magic were old magic, gained in Atlantis, and exacted a toll in life energy modern magic just didn't. A different branch of the same ascending oils that burnt at the heart of creation, but one that made bargains of my soul.

All the while, a part of my mind searched the net of inferius magic for the Dark Lord's lackey—the poor bastard I would obliterate, once I'd followed the twisted web of magic, a thousand knotted shoelaces, back to its source. The thread led north, to parts of the city not as badly touched by the flame and the darkness yet, towards Holborn—no, Fitzrovia—more, closer to the British Museum.

"So be it," I muttered, regaining some measure of strength as the exodus of central London began. Muggles, not sure why but certainly not complaining, poured through my portals, as the Dark Lord's offensive began in earnest.

Behind me, the sky grew dark over the Thames and Westminster. A thick black cloud coiled down from the sky, and started to spread across the city, plunging mid-morning into early dark. From that cloud spawned the entire complement of Azkaban's dementors, as well as dozens of broom-riding servants of Voldemort. Death Eaters. Soon the rest would come, trolls, beasts, and the madman himself to supress any opposition from this poor corner of the world.

There was one point on which both Voldemort and myself agreed—the old world needed to burn so the new one could be born. The Dark Lord just took that belief a lot more literally than I did.


All will be well. Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself.


The British Museum was abandoned, the black cloud plunging London into night adding a layer of malice to the shadows stretching around every corner. I broke through the monumental glass dome atop of the building and plunged into the foyer, still surrounded by staffs, wands, battle magic.

The moment I entered the building I felt the net of inferius magic snap, the cord, the whole house of cards, came a tumblin' on down.

"Huh," I said. Have they sensed me? Have they fled?

No, I didn't think so. I floated across the main foyer, fair bristling with blue arcs of power, eager to bust some heads, and took the grand staircase past the bones of ancient beasts, dinosaurs, toward more modern history—the monarchs, knights in shining armour, the deaths upon the vine, and the Scots wouldn't have invented scotch if they were happy. You know, happier fields of seven castles on seven hills. I shook my head, getting lost down branches of distraction. Sometimes it was a struggle to stay on course, to not slip into old habits. Man, I wanted a drink.

I felt magic up ahead, curses, surges of energy flaring and dissipating, and then—abruptly—nothing, which was somehow worse.

I took another set of stairs up and came to a grand chamber, a cathedral space full of portraits, displays of ancient Britain, getting it wrong for the right reasons. In the heart of the chamber was a ring of seven of Voldemort's Death Eaters—some of them inner circle, judging from the masks.

The Death Eaters formed a rough circle, and I say rough because they were slumped on the hardwood floors, the silver masks spattered with blood, the robes slick with the same. The floor underneath them was soaked, pools of crimson liquid set to congeal.

The Death Eaters were dead—no, slaughtered—and the magic they had been working undone.

In the heart of the circle, sitting on a velvet-lined chair, one leg crossed over the knee, wearing an immaculate black suit with brass-stud buttons, was Chronos.

He rolled his eyes at me in a what-can-you-do sort of way as I floated over, inches above the floor, and came to rest just outside of the circle of annihilated Death Eaters.

"Saved you the job," he said, eyes sparkling, a smile touched his face, then faded to that look of utter sanity I hated more than his bullshit.

"Who broke you?" I asked. "What broke you?"

"Different game, this time, with no zombie army to claim the city. London may actually come through just singed, instead of scorched."

I clicked my fingers and wrenched the masks from the Death Eaters. I recognised them all, of course, but good to keep a count on who was still in the game. Lucius Malfoy glared at me without eyes, his sockets bloody and burnt. He'd died hard at Chronos' hand. Poor Draco—but then what did I care? I'd seen this man die a thousand times.

"This will draw Voldemort here," I said, troubled. "Do you want to fight him? I don't think we're quite there yet."

"Perhaps just a scuffle then," Chronos offered. "A bit of a practice match. Keep him busy here while London evacuates."

I nodded. "Potentially a good idea."

"Can't let me have even that, eh? You arrogant asshole."

I banished the spinning staffs and dropped to the floor just outside of the ring of Death Eaters. A simple courtesy bench, donated by the family of so-and-so who loved this museum, rested nearby. I took a seat and sighed at Chronos.

"Can we talk?" I asked.

Chronos blinked. "You've figured it out, haven't you?"

I nodded slowly.

"Took you long enough."

"What I can't understand is… why? For what purpose? Why would I… you… why would you ever go back? Why hint at other things, and outright lie about who you really are? What's the end game? Why did it have to be a lie to begin with?"

Chronos shrugged and licked his lips. He rubbed at his forehead, as if it pained him. When he removed his hand, a faded—warped by time and circumstance—lightning bolt shaped scar had appeared on his skin.

"I'm you, Harry, going in the other direction—going back in time, until I find her."

"Find who?"

"Saturnia, of course, before she becomes Saturnia. Here and now, these weeks and months, are when we crossover. Soon I'll wake up further upriver, closer to her time—to when Tessa was sent back, to when she became Saturnia. And there we'll live happy for many years."

"You intend to go back? You are going back. Time magic, but in the other way."

Chronos drew patterns in the blood at his feet. He nodded. "I've lived all of this, Harry. This is the first life of yours we've met, because you win. This time you win, and live a good long life after all this madness. You met Lily, yes, yes? Our granddaughter. She gave you that cerulean gemstone, which you'll use to win. So yes, after a long life—lives—I'm going the other way. I'm a spectator, for the most part, watching the poker game of my life. Occasionally playing a hand. I intend to go back, Harry, back to Atlantis in its youth and pride, and take the name Janus."

Full realisation dawned on me like a swift kick to the balls and I laughed, laughed aloud. "Oh, hell. You… me… you set all the traps, all the hidden pathways to Atlantis, to the Fae and Forget. You set them for me, for the younger me… the one who makes the deal to fuck us over for the last thousand years."

He laughed—I laughed—we laughed. "Had you fooled for a few of those lives, didn't I? Those deaths built up character, allowed you to become unhinged enough for what lay ahead. No way you could have survived sane." He looked offended at the very idea. "The way I see it, Tessa and I will build those traps and scatter the clues across the world together. Coming back the long way round, as I am, means I already know we do that. We succeed—but it's all ahead for me. I think, with her, I can be at peace. Rest. Set up this whole mess, then die one last time. The time that counts for all."

"How old are you now?"

He shook his head.

I ran a hand back through my hair. "You've lived more years than anyone has a right to live."

That smile touched Chronos' face again. "And that's you saying that, to yourself, Harry. I don't envy you the years ahead. You lose yourself for a time, entire decades, but you find your way in the end."

Voldemort appeared next to the ring of his Death Eaters, just to the side of Chronos and in front of me.

"Hello, Tom," Chronos and I said together.

Voldemort surveyed the dead, softly glowing crimson eyes jumped between myself and Chronos. I made no move to raise my wand, Chronos dug at some dried blood under his fingernails, seemingly disinterested.

"What does this profit you, Harry?" the Dark Lord asked.

I shrugged. "I guess I'm just against armies of reanimated dead on principle, you know. And anything that puts a damper on your day."

Anger flashed in his eyes, clear as day, dark as night, all that tosh.

"Would you rule a world in ruin?" Chronos asked Voldemort. "You can't kill him," he said, shrugging a thumb toward me. "You just can't. Why not use some of that knowledge you gained in Atlantis and leave this world, seek another, end the madness?"

"I do not hear you," Voldemort said. "You are… a remnant."

Chronos looked hurt, but only briefly.

"Rather a ruin, Potter," the Dark Lord spat. "Rather the sun turn black than you win."

He sidestepped into nothing, disappeared back along the hidden ways, off to make someone's day miserable.

"How do I kill him?" I asked Chronos, who had stood, his expensive leather shoes squelching in a quarter-inch of Death Eater blood.

Chronos grinned, a glimmer of that flavourful madness returning to his eyes, which was somehow more comforting that the raw sanity. "I can't tell you that, Harry."

"Why the hell not?"

Chronos chuckled. "Honestly? I don't remember. I just don't. I willingly gave up a lot to lose a millennium of pain. Our final days in this timeline were part of the bargain. You win here, Harry. You do. But only if you stand, only if you're brave. Should you falter before the end, this will all go away." He waved at the world around him. "Like those twenty thousand other lives you lived. It can all still fail."

"Will it be worth it? Do I… do we… ever feel satisfied?"

The demigod of time, the man in the fine suit, Harry 'Chronos' Potter, grinned at me. "No happy endings…" he said.

"…but there can be happiness," I finished. "Shit."


A/N: Hopefully I can get some more out soon.

Cheers,

joe