The Unforgiving Minute
I: The First Hour
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June 24, 2008
With a hand that bore the scars of his twenty-seven tumultuous years on this planet, Harry Potter wiped away the blood which had splattered onto the brass pocket-watch with a heavily calloused thumb. It streaked upon the glass, but revealed a few of the Roman numerals placed around the circumference of the watch's face.
Perhaps a cleansing charm would have been more efficient, but this was a moment that Harry knew he needed to remember, one that could not simply be wiped away with a casual wave of a wand.
If he was going to have any hope of succeeding, he would need to remember what he was fighting for.
And why.
Rising from his crouched position, Harry placed the watch into his faded and patched robes, before running a single hand through his ragged, blood-matted hair. It took effort to turn away from the horror that lay in the arched entryway, but the years had hardened him considerably. Long freed from the confines of glasses, Harry turned his pained, green-eyed gaze in the opposite direction, towards the only remaining path he had left.
Moving forward, he grasped the dull grey ladder, set into the dark stone. He descended quickly down the rungs, dropping the last few feet onto the stone walkway. He crouched slightly to absorb the impact, before turning to survey one of the deepest secrets the Department of Mysteries hid.
The cavern had been roughly carved into the black stone in a vaguely circular shape, a narrow walkway hugging its circumference. Beyond the walkway, dropping down about twenty feet, was what appeared to be a bewildering network of gleaming brass cogs, gears, axles and crystalline shapes submerged in an unidentifiable clear liquid.
As he walked, it occurred to him that if during his third year, had they taken the clock face off of Hermione's time-turner, it would have looked reasonably similar to the gleaming labyrinth that lay beneath him.
Reaching another ladder, he swung down it, landing softly on the stone floor below. In front of him, the gleaming clockwork stretched high above, filling his entire visage. Scanning the solid wall of gears and cogs, he found a space nestled between the machinery, just large enough to admit a person.
Though a small sliver of doubt still tugged at his conscience, he crushed it mercilessly and marched towards the opening. He had sacrificed too much to be dragged down by indecision. Too much of his life had already been wasted pondering the consequences of his actions.
Ducking low, his black, sweat-matted hair brushed against a low-lying cog. Weaving between the various protrusions, he threaded his way through, until the passage opened up into a small chamber.
The heart of the Unspeakables' final project.
The small chamber was perhaps twelve feet wide, surrounded by clockwork on all sides. In the center, upon a slightly elevated steel dais, was a single steel column. A long, slender handle jutted from the column, parallel to the floor. Along the outside edge of the chamber, etched into the steel floor, were large Roman numerals, from one to twelve, each digit filled with a mild, gold luminescence.
His heart heavy, Harry withdrew the pocket-watch. Beneath the blood-grimed glass, he beheld the roman numerals that circled the face, noting that it read five minutes to eleven.
Turning the pocket watch over, Harry turned the knob slightly in the clockwise direction until both hands were positioned just before the twelve.
It was time.
Placing his hands upon the handle, Harry began to push against it in the counter clockwise direction. It moved begrudgingly, the grinding of gears long dormant squealing in his ears. As he pushed, the donut-shaped section between the dais and the roman numerals began to move in rhythm with his efforts. A quarter of the way through the first revolution, a brightly colored arrow began to glow from the slowly turning section of ground, lined up directly in front of the handle. It moved slowly past the VIII, a mere foot away from the array of Roman numerals.
The first revolution complete, the various crystals around the cavern awoke, glowing with a dull, golden light. Reflecting off the liquid that surrounded the crystals, it gave the impression of pools of fire nestled within the machinery.
Though momentum should have been on his side, his progress had gotten no easier. Taking a deep breath, he pushed harder to maintain his pace, his scuffed and battered boots pushing against the grooved floor.
Three revolutions. Four revolutions. Five revolutions.
With each full turn, the crystals glowed brighter, and the gears fought him harder. Gritting his teeth, Harry bore down, pushing harder. Magical assistance would have helped things along, but sadly he had only his own physical prowess to rely upon. Croaker had stressed that any magical emission could upset the Big Combination, disrupting the delicate measurements of the machine.
Quite possibly the last thing Harry needed.
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.
Breath burning in his lungs, Harry dug deeper, drawing forth from the well of perseverance that had kept him going for so long, even after all hope had long ago been buried. Straining forward, his back in agony, his spine having been replaced with a white-hot iron, he continued to push, never giving the glowing arrow a chance to rest.
As he did, the crystals begin to glow brighter, inching towards their saturation point. Begging for more time, waves of heat rolling of the crystals, he pushed onward.
Ten.
Eleven.
Ignoring the agony in his back, which had become comparable to the Cruciatus Curse, he closed the distance to the final revolution, the light from the crystals becoming blinding, their heat making the air waver before his eyes. The light reflected off of the endless brass services, it was like he had been transported to the center of the sun.
Eyes nearly closed, Harry gave a final scream of effort as the point of the arrow came to rest directly in front of the XII.
Twelve.
His screams echoing throughout the cavern, his strength done, Harry began to collapses. As he did, the light in the room exploded, completely blinding him.
To oblivion or salvation, he was bound.
Both were better options than this dead fucking world.
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His eyes shut tightly, Harry was ripped backwards with such force that it stole the air from his lungs. With no breath to exclaim with, he flew through a blur of colors and shapes, unintelligible screams, whispers and shrieks echoing in his ears. Unable to blink, his eyes watered as the all-encompassing wind tore at his robes, tearing the bandolier containing all of his potion vials away.
Panicking, he tried to snatch at them, but it was like he was at the bottom of the ocean, where movement was impossible. Helpless, the greedy wind continued to tear at him, ripping off his robe, revealing his battered leather guards. The chain from the pocket-watch caught on his arm, wrapping around it snugly, cutting off the circulation. Not content, the wind continued its assault, beginning to tear at his wand holster.
Harry, in the face of the impossible, continued to struggle. The potions he could replace, but the…
As if reading his mind, the wind tore the low-slung belt from his prone body. For a fraction of a second, he saw the Elder Wand, snugly positioned with the holster, before it flew off into the unknown.
As one final indignation, the wind ripped away the last vestiges of his clothing, leaving him as bare as the day he exited the womb. He had a moment to consider that things were going to be far more difficult than he anticipated, before being slammed mercilessly against the ground.
He skidded roughly across a soft surface, throwing up dirt as he landed ungracefully in a jumble of tangled limbs. Before he could get his bearings, he began to vomit violently, the spasms wracking his entire body.
His stomach empty, he used the last of his strength to roll onto his back, away from the steaming contents of his stomach. Peering down from above him was an endless blue sky, with nary a cloud in sight. Though pleasant, the sight caused him to furrow his brow. Since when was their a sky in the Department of Mysteries?
He struggled to rise, but black began to cloud at corners of his vision. As the light dimmed, a child's voice rang out.
"Mommy, what's wrong with that man? And where's his clothes?"
A slight smile forming at the corners of his mouth, Harry mused that despite his lack of clothes, wand and supplies; at least the universe hadn't been destroyed by his actions.
Not yet, anyway.
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His perforated lungs sucking in the cold, damp underground air, Harry whipped his wand forward, sending forth flecks of freshly spilled blood, which trailed behind his dark purple curse.
Unable to wriggle away from the stiff embrace of Pettigrew's recently decapitated corpse, the chainsaw cutter struck Voldemort's robed form in the midsection. In a glut of blood, both of them were torn in two. The Dark Lord's upper half fell backwards, spilling his innards out onto the cracked stone floor in a steaming pile.
Without hesitation, heedless to his own blood loss, Harry surged forward, flinging another spell. It struck in the crook of his elbow, severing the appendage. Voldemort's lower arm, his long, white fingers still wrapped tightly around the Elder Wand, flew off into the darkness.
Voldemort, his crimson eyes filled with equal parts hatred and fear, held out his remaining arm.
"Potter," he rasped, "wait-"
Before he could finish the sentence, Harry's spell had already collided with his forehead. It vaporized the Dark Lord from the eyebrows up, in a grotesque spray of blood, brain and bone. The impact knocked him down again, his form still.
"Master!"
Swiftly turning, he saw a killing curse strike Neville. As he fell, Bellatrix Lestrange rushed towards her fallen master, her violet eyes freed from the last restraints of sanity. Snarling, Harry flung a cutter, which severed her jugular in a crimson spurt, but didn't slow her progress. Before he could cast again, his wife surged forward, thrusting her wand forward.
Ginny's curse struck Bellatrix in the back, detonating the last surviving Lestrange's midsection in a rain of blood and guts. With her final breath, she pitched her wand forward. Tracking its movement with his eyes, he saw it land beside her fallen master.
Little good it would do him.
"Nice shot, Gin," Harry said, turning to his common-law wife, a smile forming upon his weathered features. The price had been immeasurably high, but they had finally done it.
Riddle was fucking dead.
"I'm afraid not, Potter," a voice wheezed from behind him. Turning, Harry felt the anti-apparation wards collapse around them.
Despite missing his lower half and most of his head, Voldemort had managed to pluck Bellatrix's wand from the floor. Before he could do more than raise his own wand, Voldemort, his face splattered with gore, favored him with one final cold smile, before disappearing with a loud crack.
Harry surged forward, but it was for naught. He, Ginny, and the other few surviving members of the Order had been left behind in this underground ruin, deep beneath the Fens.
Voldemort had escaped.
The Horcruxes were supposed to be it. Destroy them, Voldemort becomes mortal.
What the fuck had they missed?
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"Sir, can you hear me?"
Weakly, Harry felt his eyes flutter, beckoned by the pleasant female voice. He was apparently lying down, on some sort of soft surface, providing a comfort he hadn't had in ages. Was it the night of Bill and Fleur's wedding, when-
Like delicate streams of fire, her hair splayed across the lush grass. Her eyes were closed slightly, as if breathing itself required careful attention.
"Ohhh…Harry," she whispered huskily as the back of his hand moved downwards from the pink hardness of nipple, puffy with her arousal. Downwards he trailed, across the pale, taut flesh of her stomach, brushing across her lightly freckled thigh, inching closer to her-
Eyes flying open, the vision of better days dispersed.
He was in a small, private room of muggle design, judging by the heart monitor next to his bed, and the medicine cabinet on the far wall stocked full with pill bottles. Sparing a single glance to his right, he saw an IV sticking out of his arm, attached to a mobile saline drip.
"Good afternoon," the room's other occupant greeted, a young woman in bright turquoise scrubs, her coppery hair pulled back into a tight bun.
"I've got to leave," Harry mumbled, attempting to enter a sitting position, but the nurse placed her hand over his chest, halting his progress.
"You appear to have been through a lot, and need your rest," she said, her tone allowing for no discussion on the matter.
"No time to rest," Harry snapped, his blood beginning to re-circulate, bringing feeling back to his weary limbs.
With a sigh, her face scrunched up in annoyance, she raised up her right hand. Poking out from between her delicate, slender fingers was a plastic cylinder, topped by a bright red button.
"One push of this button, and I send morphine into your system, sending you back to sleep. That is, unless you want to behave. What's it gonna be?"
Fuck.
For a fraction of a second, he considered reaching out and breaking her neck with a sharp turn of his wrists, but quickly banished the idea. Though throughout the years the gap between himself and a common Death Eater had narrowed, he thought it better to have some moral superiority.
Besides, there was no guarantee he would get there before she pressed the button.
A scowl upon the heavily scarred visage of his face, Harry leaned back into the bedding.
"Much better," she said, lowering the device.
"Where am I?"
"Lewisham Hospital," she answered.
A fucking muggle hospital. Great.
The wheels of memory turning, Harry recalled landing in a park after being tossed through the vortex of time. Must have been a muggle one.
"What's the date?"
"That would be June 24th, 1995" she answered. Harry's face immediately broke into a wide smile.
It worked.
He may not have any of his potions or the Elder Wand, may have landed in the wrong place, but he had arrived on the right day, and most important of all, still had-
"And the time is," she continued, glancing at her bright pink watch, "quarter to four in the afternoon."
Harry's breath caught in his throat. Five of his hours were already gone. Everything he had carefully planned out was now completely unworkable.
"Fuck," Harry said to himself softly, in disbelief. Nearly half of his time had burned while he slept.
Sighing loudly, the nurse withdrew a familiar timepiece from her pocket, and held it out to him, the chain looped lazily through her fingers.
"This is the only thing we found on you. I assume that it's yours."
Harry nodded, transfixed by the gleaming brass, for a single moment forgetting his dilemma. It seemed that at least one piece of his former life had survived. Wordlessly, she approached closer, and pressed the pocket watch into his hand.
Several inches above where his curled fingers clutched the watch, several red, angry lines crossed his arm perpendicularly. Their slight sting was a miniscule price to pay for such a memento, but the hour hand, which was just past the five, reminded him that there was still much more to do.
Only seven hours remained to destroy all of Voldemort's horcruxes, and prevent his resurrection.
Hearing indignant yells, Harry tensed. Without warning, the door to his private ward was thrown open, admitting two crimson-robed Aurors, trailed by an irate, older nurse. Their arrival wasn't surprising, considering that his arrival into the past had probably fried the Unspeakables' monitoring equipment.
More than anything, he was lucky that they hadn't arrived while he had still been comatoase.
"You two have no right to be here!" she yelled, face reddened, her booming voice projecting absolute authority. To her disbelief, however, her orders were ignored by the two Aurors, as if she were no more significant than a fly.
Harry's eyes hardened as he surveyed the two. One was younger, probably fresh from the Auror academy. He had a slight build, not unlike Harry's, and a face that burned with embarrassment as he glanced nervously towards his partner, as if looking for guidance.
A look of distaste upon his hard face, John Dawlish paid no attention to his partner. Dawlish, who had saved his own floundering career by attaching himself like a leech to Umbridge, and following her all the way to the Muggleborn Registration Committee, sent a glare at the nurse.
"We're on police business," he said dismissively, before regarding Harry.
"Right," the older nurse replied with a derisive laugh. "Maybe I'd 'ave bought that on Halloween, but you jokers are a few months early. You show me your badges, or you show yourselves out."
Dawlish, his mouth thinned to a line, began to reach into his robes, clearly going for his wand.
Feeling the familiar rage wash over him, Harry raised his hand, imploring for Dawlish to stop. It was this sort of inferiority complex towards muggles that had strained their relations so badly during the war. Being ignored was one thing, but being treated as an inferior race was another.
"It's alright," he said calmly, "let them ask their questions."
His nurse threw a look at him, one which clearly implored for him to shut the fuck up.
"Please?" Harry begged, throwing her a wide smile. It probably clashed spectacularly with the weathering his features had taken over the years, but it must have spoke to her in some fashion, since it prompted a moment of indecision.
"Fine," she relented, "you have five minutes."
"And these two," the head nurse said, jabbing an angry finger at the two Aurors, "better 'ave some fuckin' ID when I come back."
Dawlish merely snorted derisively, while the Junior Auror suddenly found his feet very interesting. Not exactly surprising that Harry had never run into him during the war. If he had lasted more than a year, it would have been surprising.
"Cunt," the head nurse said under her breath, before heading towards the door. His own nurse sent him one final questioning look, to which Harry responded with a sharp nod, urging her to leave. She shrugged at his response, following her boss out the door.
As soon as the door closed, Dawlish turned and withdrew his wand, sealing the door.
With the experienced Auror's back turned, Harry kicked off his sheets and swiftly rolled off the bed. Jumping up, he grabbed the IV stand by its head, and swung it around in a long arc. The heavy, wheeled base smashed into the young Auror's stomach, knocking the breath from him in a loud whoosh. The impact flung him backwards into the medical cabinet, shattering the glass front, scattering bottles of pills and medicines across the pristine floor.
"Fuck," Dawlish cursed, turning, wand raised. Ripping the IV from his arm, Harry quickly looped the length of plastic around the Auror's arm and forced it upwards. The Auror's stunner hit the dropped ceiling with a minor detonation, reducing the cheap fiberglass to dust.
Grunting, Dawlish tried to bring his wand arm down, but Harry neatly stepped to his right and delivered a vicious head-butt to the taller Auror's chin. The force of the blow sent him stumbling backwards, into the wall.
Quickly grasping the IV stand again, Harry swung it as hard as he could, directly at the Junior Auror, who was still sprawled against the broken medicine cabinet, a dazed expression upon his face. His eyes widened like a deer in headlights, he only let out a low moan as the stand's base struck him in the side, driving him back into medicine cabinet, which collapsed under the blow.
As the Junior Auror tumbled to the ground, Harry turned his attention back to Dawlish, who was shaking off the cobwebs. Beginning to raise his wand, Harry darted forward and grabbed the man's wrist, turning it in sharply. With a hiss of pain, Dawlish dropped to his knee, attempting to relieve the pressure on his wrist. Spinning around the Auror, Harry pulled the wrist higher and pressed the bulk of his repositioned weight upon the back of the Auror's head, driving him face-first into the tiled floor with a loud crunch.
His senses prickling, Harry dove to the right, narrowly avoiding a stunner. With a sudden burst of speed, he jumped up and dove behind the hospital bed, providing a rudimentary cover from the spellfire.
"Y-y-you b-better surrender," the Junior Auror threatened, his voice shaking.
"What's your name, kid?" Harry asked, ignoring the idle threat.
"A-Adalius Pucey."
Suppressing a snort, Harry made his offer.
"Well, Adalius, my time's short, and I need to be going, so I'll make this short: You let me walk out that door, and I won't hurt you."
Young Adalius, after all, had just been doing his job. No need to push this any further if unnecessary. Besides, if Adalius was every bit the pussy his younger brother, Adrian, had been, he'd take the offer in a second.
"N-n-n-no, I can't-" was as far as he got before Harry, crouching low, began to rush the wheeled bed at young Adalius.
Fuck it, he had his chance.
The young Auror tried to hit Harry with another stunner, but it went flying harmlessly over his head. The rapidly moving bed struck Adalius in the thighs, knocking him backwards into the wall. Popping up, Harry delivered a sharp jab to the jaw, putting all his weight into the punch.
The junior Auror immediately went slack, his eyes rolling to the white. Pinched between the wall and bed, he slumped forward, unconscious.
His senses flaring again, Harry immediately dropped to the ground, a stunner just barely missing him. He spun quickly and scrambled towards Dawlish. The Auror swayed uncertainly on his feet, his nose and mouth still leaking blood. Broken, jagged teeth peered out from between his lips, snarling much like a feral dog too stupid to realize it can't win.
Harry leaped up from the ground and hit him with a flying tackle, driving him into the opposite wall. Moving back slightly, he sidestepped a poorly aimed punch from the Auror, and grabbed Dawlish's arm. With a fluid motion, he jerked it forward. The Auror was pulled forward, face-first. Harry brought his knee up, directly into his face. The blow flattened the Auror's nose against his face, causing it to once against spurt crimson.
His eyes unfocused, Dawlish slumped to the ground, the wand falling from his slack fingers.
"You always were a poor excuse for an Auror, John."
Hearing no reply, Harry reached down and plucked Dawlish's wand from the floor, firing a quick stunner at the prone man.
He gave the ash wand a brief glance, before shrugging. It wasn't his old wand, and it certainly was not the Elder Wand, but for now it would have to do. Moving quickly, he divested Adalius of his Auror his clothes.
"Sorry there, Adalius," Harry said while lacing up the boots, addressing their unconscious former owner, "but my need is greater than yours."
Quickly cleaning his new crimson robes, Harry considered obliviating the pair of them, before discarding the idea. Time was of the essence. After all, a few seconds here and there might make all the difference at the end.
For a moment, he considered his next step. His healing potions could have been replaced easily at Diagon Alley had he the time, but his time was precious. He'd just have to take greater care in avoiding injury.
No, far more disconcerting was the loss of the extractor. It had taken months to prepare, time he clearly didn't have now. Without it…
Well, it couldn't be helped. All that mattered was stopping Voldemort. Everything else was secondary.
Everything.
Consulting the pocket-watch, he saw that the hour hand was positioned just shy of the five. The fifth hour was drawing to a close, leaving only him with only seven remaining.
Fuck.
Feeling time slip through his fingers, Harry apparated from the hospital room with a small pop.
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Author Notes:
Here it is; the first full chapter. The next one will cover the sixth hour of Harry's desperate quest to stop Voldemort. I think it will be up within a week.
This story spawned from my current frustration with my main story, Sitra Ahra. It is still in progress, but has been fighting me every step of the way, and I'd rather write something different than nothing at all. The Unforgiving Minute is completely planned out, and will be ten chapters long, somewhere in the range of 70,000 – 80,000 words.
There's a fairly subtle Stephen King reference within this chapter. First to find it gets a shout out in the next chapter. Any guesses as to Harry's apparation destination? Correct guesses will net a user a similar mention.
This story was a plot-bunny that darklordmike put up for adoption. He's been missing for the past eight months from the world of fan-fiction, but his guidance in my early months of writing was invaluable, and to him, more than any other person, I credit with my writing skills. Thanks for the help, Mike, and may you once again in the future come back to the fandom.
Thanks to Mira Mirth for helping me hash out a lot of plot details. She is a constant source of inspiration and guidance. Also thanks to scaryisntit for his input.
Many thanks to the lovely Princess Serine for the beta work. That girl never fails to amaze with her quick turnaround.
Any questions or comments will be replied to. I love feedback, as it serves to keep my muse interested, and is very much appreciated. A simple "liked it" or "it sucked" is all I ask.
DLP Thanks:
Einstern, Lord Anarchy, greywizard-dumblemort, richardc29, Necrule Paen, CaffeineAddict