A/N: Whaaaat? Another update so soon. It's almost like I want to finish this story. Good news, everyone - my writing powers have returned to me. I have an update schedule that I intend to stick to. Unless I get hit by a bus, expect weekly updates every Wednesday to this story. I estimate the story will be complete by the 10th of August if I maintain my writing. I intend to do so.
Harry Potter and the Heartlands of Time
Chapter 16 – Road's Fire
'…the wine that leads me on,
the wild wine
that sets the wisest man to sing
at the top of his lungs,
laugh like a fool—it drives the
man to dancing… it even
tempts him to blurt out stories
better never told.'
~Homer, The Odyssey
So, I was Chronos, Chronos was me, though we were so far removed from one another—by time, circumstance, and sanity—that perhaps it made no difference one way or the other. For all that mattered, we were so far apart as to be polar opposites. North pole, south pole, no pole.
Me travelling one way, he the wrong way. I'm sure I'll have my reasons. It certainly helped to explain some things, like why he alternated between helping me and wanting to kill me. Well, no, not entirely. I'll chalk that up to our loose grip on the crumbling cliff edge—you know, where we're at our happiest.
"Or he could be lying," I muttered, piloting my battleship above the ruins of London. A lot less ruinous that usual, old London town. Mostly the centre of the city, Trafalgar Square across the Thames to South Bank, Leicester Square and up Regent Street, across Holborn and the Museum, of course, had been laid to waste.
Buckingham Palace was in one piece, if a little scorched, but then the royals had their own protections. All in all, it was a win. The dead numbered in the thousands, the infrastructure beyond repair in the next decade, but in the past I'd seen the city reduced to ash—burned off the map.
This is a good thing, I told myself and almost believed it.
The Ministry was gone, and good riddance. A big chunk of south London had fallen into the Ministry, overwhelming the enchantments, destroying the old powerhouse. Glad to have it gone—we'd rebuild, somewhere a lot more… bright, in the sun.
Voldemort had fled, for now. Fled was the wrong word. Retreated. Most of his inner circle had been slaughtered by Chronos. As always, it was coming down to the last few pieces on the playing board. And, in the end, a titanic, world-ending battle between me and him.
The cerulean gemstone from my granddaughter sat warm against my chest. You use that to win, Chronos had said. The very beginnings, the outskirts of a plan, had begun to form in my mind. Checkmate? Possibly. I was excited to find out after all the years and tears. And that alone was a miracle. It had been a long time since I felt something as decent as hope.
A squad of Atlantean soldiers appeared on the deck of my battleship, stepping sideways out of nothing in that annoyingly easy way, with old grumpy and sour High Lord Astaroth—Supreme-Infernal and King of Atlantis—at their head. Several staffs of power were levelled at me. I leaned casually against the control column of my ship and heaved a heavy sigh.
"Afternoon, boys," I said. "Looking to be involved in this mess?"
Astaroth stepped forward and motioned for his guard to lower their staffs. "May we parlay, Time Warrior?"
Damn, I hated that title. I shifted the ship into park, hovering about a thousand feet above the Thames. Smoke, hot and heavy, the stink of copper—a burning tang—clogged the air. "What in this or any world can we possibly have to say to each other?" I asked.
Astaroth inclined his head, awarding me a point. "I agree," he said, in stilted English, high-accented, somewhat poncy, but with a ring of truth. "I agree that we have our differences, our misunderstandings, and I accept that, though you have the look of youth, you are centuries my elder. However, Harry—may I call you Harry?—I would have you watch this."
Astaroth tapped his staff against the deck of the battleship and a clear chime rang out, loud and clear, pure and true. I couldn't help but feel uplifted, renewed. The staffs of his guard began to glow and I sensed the gathering of great magic.
"What are you…" I trailed away. I sensed nothing dark, no malice in the magic, and that was rare of spells at this level. Most of the big stuff was inherently bad stuff.
I cast my own small enchantment, on my eyes, and the world flipped into currents of magic—visible currents, bands and clouds flowing through the air, all colours, the magic in the world. From Astaroth a pure silver cord, as thick as the trunk of an old redwood, sped north on the wind.
North to Atlantis.
I followed that band with my mind, casting my sight along its length, and came in seconds to the city of Atlantis on the north-west coast. The city I had saved from the fire, from the once upon a time end of death and destruction. A city of wizards and witches—no, something else, something… with more understanding. Not using magic, but of magic.
The city was singing.
The silver towers shone with ethereal light, hundreds if not thousands of people held their staffs, their focus, toward the sky, and poured power and light and song into the silver band that stretched all the way back to Astaroth aboard my battleship.
I had seen magic in my time—I had seen its potential to destroy, to corrupt, to manipulate and undo. Hell, I was responsible for perhaps the greatest corruption of time magic that would ever exist… and yet I'd meant well, hadn't I? It had been about more than just winning. I'd wanted to save my friends. I'd wanted a happy ending, as lame as that sounded.
Astaroth strode to the edge of the deck and looked down at the ruins of London. He sighed, blinked, and then thrust his staff forward with a tremendous cry. All that power, all that distant intent, culminated in a fountain of white light exploding from his staff.
The light fell on London, visible now to the naked, un-enchanted eye, and perhaps the greatest piece of magic I'd ever witnessed in my long life set the city to right.
The fountain multiplied, became a waterfall, became a flood, and everything the light touched… became well. Shattered windows repaired themselves, torn up sidewalks, ruined buildings, all came back together. The destruction of that morning was reversed, undone. Set whole.
It was time magic I was seeing, of a sort. I could gleam that much from the complex incantation. Astaroth and the Atlanteans were winding back the clock on the damage—on a city-wide scale.
London healed in utter, majestic silence.
The show lasted for perhaps five minutes and when it was done Big Ben chimed the hour—four of the clock—whole again, unbroken, unbound. I stared down at the city, stunned. It was like the attack had never happened. And I had no idea how the Atlanteans had done it. They understood magic on a level so profound as to make the rest of us seem like amateurs. Well, perhaps not Voldemort or myself, who had gained knowledge in their lost city.
Knowledge but not understanding, whispered Saturnia's—sweet Tessa's—voice in the back of my mind. Still so young, Harry. Even you, still so young. Miles to go before you sleep.
Astaroth ended the spell and turned to look at me. "Nothing we can do for the dead," he said softly, sadly. "There is no light in this world to restore those beyond the veil, but we have done what we can. We will do more, before the end."
"Help me," I said. "Help me defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort."
Astaroth held my gaze for a long moment and then shook his head. "You know that is not how it will all end, Harry. We will do what we can, but the task is yours, and yours alone."
Closing time.
That evening, after an impressive feast in the Great Hall, I gathered all those I would need for the days ahead in Dumbledore's office.
Hogwarts was now the unofficial heart of the British Wizarding World. And, let's be honest, always had been. Refugees from the Ministry had been filtering in all day. The Atlantean magic had repaired the old place, but none felt safe there. If Voldemort could destroy it in an hour, then what was the point?
The castle, the school, was the last bastion of the brave and the fearful, the young and the restless. Already the grounds were spotted with tents, kitchens. Along with Hogsmeade, a shanty down of the downtrodden and desperate, the angry and the willing, was emerging from the fires of London.
I always envisioned, back in the long centuries ago where I had hope of an end to these shenanigans of mine, that the new Ministry would be built somewhere between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade—and turn this place into a proper city, step out of the shadows, do some good in the world. Of course, I never got past the Voldemort hurdle and the world always burned, but perhaps this time…
"God, I really am hopeful…" I muttered.
"What was that, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.
"Lost in my own thoughts." I glanced around his office. The portraits were packed to the brim with sticky beaks eager to hear the next move. Half of the Order of the Phoenix—and Fawkes the actual phoenix—were crammed into the office, alongside a bunch of the castle staff and students.
Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Luna, of course. Snape, McGonagall, and Flitwick. A scattering of Weasleys, Remus, Moody, and Tonks, who I hadn't seen in weeks since we broke through from Atlantis. She offered me a tired smile. There was a conversation that needed to be had with her before too long.
All in all, not an unattractive bunch of people. And perhaps the right sort to save the world.
"The Atlanteans stopped a step short of calling us allies," I said. "At best, I think they'll work the clean-up crew after Voldemort and I," my scar twitched in pain, "start hurling our weight around. Here's where it gets interesting. Here's where we can ramp things up into the end game, ladies and gentlemen."
"What does that mean, Harry?" Hermione asked, on the edge of her seat. She was pale, her eyes bloodshot and cheeks tearstained, but I knew she would be strong.
"Well, first of all, the castle needs a few upgrades to its security schemes. I'll handle most of that, wards and enchantments, but professors, headmaster, it would also be good for you to work some stuff in there, as well. And don't tell me about it. The less I know there the better."
"Why is that?" Professor McGonagall asked. She looked at me strangely, more than a little afraid. Did she know what I was these days? I couldn't remember. Perhaps Dumbledore had mentioned the wreckage of time in my wake… those sexy wastlelands.
I considered deflecting, then chose to answer honestly. "When we get to the final throw down, after the last horcrux is dust, Voldemort and I… we sort of lose our filter." I licked my lips and chuckled, and given the looks from the others I looked on the wrong side of sane. "We sort of meld together, not physically, but mentally." I tapped my scar. "He sees me, I see him. At that point, all bets are off, all plans laid bare. Only one of us survives. It has never been me."
A few confused glances probed my way at that—from those not in the know. It was of no consequence.
"Your next move?" Dumbledore asked.
"Horcrux hunting. Some are easy, some are hard. It's of little consequence at this point, but it does make it easier. Makes it certain. When I put him down, I want to make sure he stays down this time." I slammed my silver hand into my knee. It hurt.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, counting backwards from five, found my calm. "Atlantis changes things, perhaps for the better. Headmaster, I would suggest sending an envoy. Yourself, perhaps, as the best representative of modern wizarding Britain we have. Ask them for aid, for help. I don't trust them, not entirely, but I want to. They may be able to provide some protection for the castle we've never seen before. We'll need it, before the end."
Dumbledore considered, then nodded. "And if they refuse? If they turn hostile?"
I chuckled. "Well, a few hours ago I would have said I'll burn their city to the ground, but given the glimpse of power they showed me, I'm not feeling so confident anymore. Perhaps it was all for show… but I don't think so."
I met as many eyes in the room as I could, jumping from face to face. "We have to face the very real possibility that the only ones left standing after this fight we'll be the Atlanteans. If so, Voldemort becomes their problem. I would like for things not to fall so far."
"What are you going to do, mate?" Ron asked. "I mean, what are we going to do?"
"Road's Fire," I said.
"Eh?"
"We're going to link Hogwarts to the rest of the world with some super cool, super old, portal magic. Link the castle to the seats of power—the Americans, the Russians, the Chinese, just to get started. This fight is going global." I stood and cracked the knuckles of my good hand. "And then after we'll get pizza and mojitos."
Tenuous at best. I existed somewhere between tenuous at best and the next best swig from a bottle old enough to order its own drink.
My favourite pizza place was Lombardi's on Spring Street in New York City. Time after time, I always ended up back here. The store was founded in 1905, and claimed to be the first pizzeria in the United States, built on a busy corner in Manhattan's Little Italy.
It was the kind of place where you could taste time. Where the love and care, the droves of people who came and went, created an atmosphere of pure magic. Good magic. I felt well in such places, unfortunately rare as they were.
Beautiful, smoky-crusted coal oven baked pizza, drenched in Italian sauce, a mound of mozzarella, basil, and from there a plethora of meats and fine vegetable toppings. Delicious decadence.
I strolled into Lombardi's just after their lunch rush. I may be circling the drain when it came to sanity and good decisions, but I always remembered the best time of day to grab a slice or two of something timeless.
Taking a seat in one of the booths, I heaved a heavy sigh of relief and rubbed at some new broken ribs. On the table I dropped a mangled and melted silver cup, fractured through its heart and scorched along its rim, with a decisive and final thunk.
Helga Hufflepuff's cup, circa late 10th century, more recently home to a corrupted remnant of the Dark Lord's soul.
Voldemort had sensed me destroy it and a bolt of anger had surged down our connection, but also something else, something… far more worrisome. He had laughed at me, and I got the sense that he did not care, in the grand scheme of things, that I'd destroyed a piece of his soul.
Which annoyed me to no end, as I'd bled for that damn cup thousands of damn times.
I shifted in my booth seat, ribs aching. Gringotts had gone into lockdown after the destruction of the Ministry, sealing the bank and all the vaults—including Bellatrix Lestrange's, where the cup had been hidden. The goblins had not wanted to give up their treasures easily, of course. I had been lucky to get in and out with only a few broken ribs. I'd had to slaughter, though it bothered me not at all, a handful of the snivelling, thieving creatures in my escape.
Gryffindor's sword had done the rest.
"You want a drink to start?" my waitress asked. She looked me up and down. "Rough day?"
I was beaten up, a little singed around the edges, unshaven and wild. A discerning waitress, used to the hustle and bustle of New York, may have been inclined to wonder if a young fellow down on his luck such as myself had the means to pay his way. I made a show of dropping a stack of twenty dollar bills on the table, swiped from an ATM on the opposite block, and sat up a little straighter.
"Long day at work, yeah. Little sore. And beer," I said. Just one wouldn't hurt. "Yes, please, a stein of whatever beer is coldest."
The waitress nodded and relaxed. "You know what you want for lunch, hon?"
"Your margherita pizza, throw some pepperoni, anchovies, and red onion on there, would you?"
She scribbled down my order and disappeared, leaving me with a curious but kind smile in her wake.
I took a moment to breathe in and out, slowly, surely, almost enjoying the hurt in my side.
My beer arrived and sat glistening in the glass, tall and frothy, ice cold. The bubbles climbed the side of the glass. The scent of a good, decent lager wafted my way. I sat staring at the glass for the next ten minutes, desperate to drink, struggling against it. Here was the true battle of the day. Not against goblins or the horcrux, but against my nature, my addiction. My poison.
The pizza arrived and I dug in, watching a nice frosty coat develop on the outside of the beer stein. Halfway through lunch I picked the stein up, admired the weight of one solid litre of golden liquid, and brought it to my lips. Here I paused and put the stein back down in the ring of water on the wooden tabletop.
Once I'd finished my lunch, I left the entire stack of twenties under the edge of the pizza tray—next to a full beer—and left the restaurant. I had work to do.
Walk away now. Just… walk away. And be a simple kind of man.
I parked my awesome battleship just above the shoreline of the lake, on the edge of the Forbidden Forest close to Hagrid's Hut, and made my way down to the castle. Over my shoulder, I hauled the sack of stolen relics, recovered from the Ministry just before it fell and from a few other choice locations scattered across the globe.
One benefit of playing this game so many times was that I didn't need to waste time tracking down the obvious necessities. This world was full of secrets, hidden crypts, lost treasures. I can't claim to know where to find them all, but after a thousand years and twenty thousand lives, I knew more than anyone else.
I made my way along the lake, enjoying the stroll across the grounds and the early afternoon sunlight. There was a chill in the air, heading toward the colder months now, but even that was pleasant. Brisk. A few days off the sauce and things seemed all the brighter. Ah, there's that hopeful feeling again. Be careful with that, Harry. You may start enjoying life again, and that'll hurt when it all comes crashing down.
On the grand, green-grass fields in front of the castle, the oval of manicured lawn alongside the driveway and road that led to Hogsmeade, I found the headmaster and a handful of others hard at work. Since our meeting last night, they had been constructing several tall stone circles with obsidian altars at the heart.
It was a rush job, but magic was a wonderful thing. Six stone circles, about ten metres across and wide, had gone up overnight. The headmaster had been resourceful and sourced the obsidian from the stores below Rome in the Magnus Fontis, that ancient, secret library where this whole adventure had started. That felt like years ago now, but surely it hadn't been that long?
I paused. Shook my head. No, not years. Time sometimes got all muddled in my head. When you've lived as long as I have, a year can feel like an hour. Blink at Christmas and it was Halloween, that kind of nonsense. It was easy to get lost.
"Good afternoon, everyone," I said. "This is some top-notch stone circling."
"Good afternoon, Harry," Headmaster Dumbledore said. "I trust you are ready to enchant these portals?"
"Did you get owls and messages off to everyone we'll be a portal'ing. In the past, opening a gateway into the headquarters of the Chinese Secret Wizarding Police without permission went poorly."
"Missives were sent and received through the International Confederation of Wizards. All agreed to the portals, given the unprecedented opportunity such magic presents." Dumbledore stroked his beard. "Though I am sure you know, this is mostly about self-interest. None of them are doing this out of kindness, or a desire to see the Dark Lord defeated."
"Everybody wants something." I shrugged. "We can work with that. I'd be more concerned if they were doing this out of the goodness of their own hearts. That I wouldn't trust."
I dropped my sack of priceless magical objects on the grass and riffled through it, looking for the old incantation tome and the set of portal crystals I'd pilfered. Ah, at the bottom, of course.
Six small marbles of softly glowing blue light rested on my palm. I called over a couple of the Seventh-Year's Dumbledore had enlisted to transfigure the stone circles and passed the marbles out.
"Place one of these on each altar stone and make sure to step back out of the ring," I said. I raised my voice to address everyone nearby. "Anybody not wishing to be sliced in half should exit the stone circles now!"
The students scattered, Dumbledore chuckled. I opened the tome in my hands, Road's Fire, an ancient Roman book, bound loosely but effectively. The spine creaked, the pages crinkled, but the old ink, the incantations and enchantments, were perfectly legible even after all this time.
I scanned the page and thought I could have done this from memory, almost. A few of the spells surprised me, but most of it was familiar from the times in the past I'd created this network, linking the centres of magical power together. That felt like long ago, too, and I suppose it was if we're counting in lives as well as years.
"Fascinating," Dumbledore said. "May I study that once you are done, Harry?"
I found half a grin. "You always say that. And yes, of course."
I spent the next hour (precious time in short supply, though stopping for pizza doesn't count) moving from stone circle to stone circle, laying the groundwork, waving my silly wand about, placing layer after layer of spell and enchantment, tying them all together. It was neat work—dull, pedantic—but neat, clever. I even broke a sweat. Dumbledore followed me the whole time, casting his own diagnostic spells, admiring my handiwork, making sure the castle's ward schemes and defences didn't dilute the power I was pouring into the stone circles.
"What's left of the Ministry approach you yet?" I asked, once all the spells save one were cast. All that remained was the final incantation, the cherry on top. Once that was in place the portals would open—six magnificent tears in reality, pressing two points from across the face of the world together in one rather straightforward gateway.
Dumbledore nodded. "The Minister survived, as did the majority of the Wizengamot. They are housed in Hogsmeade, trying to restore some form of governance to our world. People are scared. I did invite them to parlay with the representatives from the magical governments, however I was rebuked. They may come around, they may not. Frankly, I believe matters no longer concern them. All our hopes lie with you, dear boy."
"That's a worry."
"I am not worried, Harry. Not in the least."
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. A smile touched my face. "You saw how many times I failed, my corpses littered the grounds of this school like a fall of rotten, bloodied snow."
Dumbledore placed his wrinkled hand on my shoulder. "I saw how many times you refused to give in. I saw your resolve unbroken. I would have spared you your fate, Harry, if I could."
"I know. You always say that, too."
"But it has made you into the man you are today. Slightly unhinged, but then aren't we all in one way or another?" Tears rolled into the old man's beard. "Dear boy, I called you. Hard to break such habits, especially when you look so young." He chuckled. "When the day is won, Harry, perhaps we can have a cup of tea and remember the friends and family lost to this struggle."
You can win, Chronos whispered. If you're brave. If you stand true. I nodded once, not trusting myself to speak.
Clearing my throat, I cast the last incantation, that purple-red cherry, and six obsidian altar stones began to glow with a pale blue light. Six beams of the same light shot into the air, splintered, struck the stones of their respective circles. Within the depths of the stone rings, reality tore, a sound like rushing wind over water.
Six identical portals opened in six unique locations all over the world—the portals opened in offices, in fields, in secret wizarding headquarters.
Dumbledore gave me a look, one of respect, of magic well cast, and I bowed with a small flourish.
Wizards and witches were visible through the half-dozen portals—of all shapes, colours, and sizes. The Chinese, the Americans, the Russians, the Australians, the Indians, and the French. More would follow, other portals would be opened, but for now here was my army. Here was what was needed to defend the castle.
"These negotiations are always painful," I said, as the first brave souls stepped through, wands at the ready. They relaxed when the magic didn't fail and took deep breaths of the marvellously fresh Scottish air. "Bickering at first, compromise at last, but in the end the castle gets its protection. After all, Headmaster, it's here where the Dark Lord's fist will strike hardest."
"Hogwarts is no longer a school, is it?" he said. A thousand years of death and destruction, and I couldn't hope to match the look of harsh sadness in the headmaster's eyes.
Still, no sense gilding the turd.
"No." I clenched my fists. "It's war camp."
A/N: Please review. Next update scheduled for the 28th of June.
