Chapter Five
Challenges in Charming
"You've almost collected the lot," murmured Hermione, her eyes scanning the list of necessities. They sat at the table in the Hufflepuff common room, the list propped between them to accommodate Hermione's quasi-tangibility. "All that's left for the first, ahem, spell is an Everlasting Elixir and an Invigoration Draft—both easy brews. Once you've got those, you can begin— Oh! I almost forgot…" She aimed an apologetic look at Harry and wrung her hands. "How have you been getting along with the Gubraithian Fire?"
Gubraithian Fire, or Everlasting Fire—not to be confused with the coincidentally named Everlasting Elixir—was an enchanted flame that did exactly what it said on the tin. The charm itself was daunting. When explaining it to Harry, Hermione herself had looked contrite. "You must be able to produce Gubraithian Fire. You know what that is, don't you? It's quite advanced. Few people have been able to achieve it…"
"I've been getting along brilliantly," muttered Harry, shifting in his chair. "Just brilliantly. At this rate, I doubt I'll manage a few everlasting sparks. Especially with this thing." He glared at the hawthorn wand.
The faithful wand had been good enough for what he'd needed in the past, but now he needed better.
"Best keep practicing, then," said Hermione primly. "That's the last you'll need in order to get yourself… over there." She still wouldn't accept that the Otherworldly Ordinance was anything other than utter rubbish, but Harry was grateful she played along to his fantasy. "From there, you'll need to find the more exotic components." She returned to the list. "Heliopath fire, Snorkack horn… a soul… And I haven't the foggiest how to suspend the animation of a hummingbird—you might try asking Professor Dumbledore, Harry. You have spoken to him, haven't you?"
Harry hadn't. Dumbledore was on the list, of course, but like he'd told Tonks, there were so many people he wanted to sit and have a nice cuppa with, and while Harry would normally be excited to see Dumbledore again after all this time, he was afraid what the old man might say. Would Harry's old headmaster disapprove of his, Harry's, methods? Would he be ashamed at Harry's failure during the Battle of Hogwarts? Harry adored Dumbledore beyond what a simple student might a mentor; Dumbledore had been a beacon of hope Harry had always turned to when things were especially terrible. Dumbledore had been and always would be Harry's hero.
Harry winced. "No, Hermione, I haven't. Wouldn't you know that? I thought—" Harry didn't complete the thought, thinking of Snape's unfair television comment.
Hermione patted his hand. "We can watch if we want to. Personally, I like to give you some privacy. And it's not like we know everything that happens." She pondered for a moment. "It's like there's interference on the telly, and the screen goes snowy rather often," she mused.
"Oh, so you overheard the soap opera bit from Snape, did you?"
Hermione smiled wryly. "Maybe. And anyway," she continued, glancing back at the propped-up list, "there's more. Three timepieces of sentimental value—"
"I have one!" interjected Harry, raising a hand. The old watch Molly Weasley had given him for his seventeenth birthday, while no longer functional, held a place of sentimentality around his wrist.
"That's good, but you'll need two more. I suppose you could find those in… either place… Do you know any others you could locate?"
Harry shook his head. "I've thought about that, but the only other watch I particularly cared for was the one that stopped working after the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. I wore it out of habit for a while, but I chucked it in the bin. I don't know where to begin looking for it."
"It doesn't have to be a watch, Harry, it can be anything that keeps time. It can be a sundial if you've got one you're fond of!"
Harry grinned. "I'll keep an eye out for sundials, then. That can't be all, Hermione, what else is there?"
Hermione skimmed the list. "Two pieces of phoenix flint, and a whole, unhatched phoenix egg or a pair of Demiguise eyes—though I suppose you won't be needing the eyes as they're meant for going forward in time rather than backward."
Harry raised his eyebrows at her.
"Oh, don't give me that look! I said they're meant for going forward in time, not that they would! And anyway, the phoenix bits Professor Dumbledore would surely know more about, so you should ask him. Don't make that face, Harry Potter, I know you want to see him!" She crossed her arms. "Is there anything that he could possibly say to dissuade you from your path?"
There might have been, but Harry wouldn't say as much to Hermione.
"I thought not. Now get to practicing—you'll need that fire!"
That night, as Harry readied himself for bed, he contemplated the Stone. Clad in his pajamas, he sat on the edge of his bed and looked to his bedside table, where the Stone lay, infinitely darker than the shadows around it. He was hesitating, just as he had before he'd summoned Ron and Hermione to him.
There were so many people he wanted to speak to, but he didn't have the right words to say to them, and he wasn't at all certain they'd wish to see him, much like Snape hadn't. He didn't think he had it in him to look Ginny in the face and explain why he'd done what he had. Like him, she was prone to anger. Harry didn't want to give her the opportunity to shout at him or, worse by a mile, stab him in the heart with a disappointed look.
There was scarcely a person he knew in life that he didn't want to see via the Stone. But, like Ginny, he didn't want to face their judgement. He was determined to see his new mission through to its conclusion and save them from a horrific future. Then there'd be no reason to dwell on any of this, because it will have never happened in the first place.
Still, thought Harry, as he seized the Stone and blindly turned it thrice in his hand, there was one person he needed to confront, one person from whom he needed guidance.
He felt a slight weight settle beside him on the bed.
"Harry," said the specter.
Harry opened his eyes. Dumbledore sat beside him on the bed, silver bearded and bespectacled as ever. This time, however, Dumbledore looked anything but gentle and calm. His mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyes didn't twinkle.
"Professor," greeted Harry, feeling very nervous, and disheartened at Dumbledore's less-than-genial demeanor. "I wanted a word."
"You want to ask my permission," Dumbledore said knowingly, dispassionately.
Harry shivered at the tone. "Yes." He felt suddenly ashamed, and he wasn't quite sure why.
"And if I don't give it?"
Harry looked away.
"I see," said Dumbledore. He sighed heavily. "My dear boy, do you know the powers you're playing with?"
"Do you?" countered Harry, gnashing his teeth out of frustration.
"Not at all," confessed Dumbledore, which startled the frustration right out of Harry as quickly as it had come. "That's what worries me most." The wizened, old man swung his legs like a child on a park bench. "I haven't the foggiest where that Book came from nor who wrote it. But I know the lengths you'd go to in order to save those you love, and in that regard, Harry, I am afraid."
A ghost of a smile tugged at Harry's lips; Dumble was concerned for him.
"What do you know of the Book, sir?"
"Enough. That is to say, barely anything at all."
Neither spoke for a moment while Harry twirled the Stone between his fingers, stalling rather than contemplating.
Then he said, "Do you approve?"
Dumbledore's legs ceased their merry swinging. "Harry, my boy," he said slowly, "I believe I do!" He smiled that benign, grandfatherly smile, and the tension drifted away from Harry like a gossamer of wistfulness on the sibling winds of memory and nostalgia.
"I… have your permission?"
"No!" chortled Dumbledore, still smiling. "You don't need it, dear boy! You've come a long way in your quest, much further than I had hoped; you certainly don't need the word of a dead, old fool to tell you to go on." Dumbledore pulled a leg onto the bed and turned to face Harry fully. "You go, Harry. You go until there's nowhere left to go but home. Wherever your quest takes you, I have every faith that you'll do what you know in your heart is right."
Mist gathered in Harry's eyes as he struggled to find the words—any words—to say.
Dumbledore saved Harry from himself when he added, "You're the only one who can defeat Voldemort once and for all. I've known this in my very soul since you were a babe."
"But he's so powerful," said Harry in what was almost a whine. Was he three or nearly thirty? "And he's still got Nagini, while I'm all alone. The odds have never been worse! Not only stacked against me but leaning over me, ready to tumble and bury me alive at the barest nudge! How can I possibly destroy him?"
"By acquiring new allies, Harry. Whether Voldemort remains in this world or he's passed on quite literally to the next, you must find others willing to fight beside you… I never intended for you to be alone, Harry."
Harry chose not to dwell on that sentiment now, not when his emotions were already frayed and frail. But later, when no one would see him, he would smile privately.
Then an idea came to him. "I know, sir! Once I cross to the other world, I'll find you! I mean, it won't be you you, I know, but it will still be a version of you, and any version of Dumbledore can beat Voldemort."
Dumbledore looked uncommonly bashful. "I fear you may place too much confidence in my abilities, Harry, but I thank you for the sentiment… All I ask is that you be careful: If other worlds exist, there is no telling what you may find there. You may find yourself fighting against, as you put it, a 'version' of Harry Potter who believes you could be in league with Voldemort." As Harry gave Dumbledore a blank look, the headmaster added, "An extreme scenario, I'll admit, but one that is possible, if not feasible."
"I'll… I'll be careful, sir."
"Good! And with that settled, I believe you had need of me?"
Harry smiled. "There're a number of things, actually."
And so Harry and Dumbledore talked. Harry asked Dumbledore many questions, like would Dumbledore have tried such mysterious rituals had he been in Harry's place—"I do believe I would have certainly tried!"—and whether it seemed, in Dumbledore's educated opinion, whether such a venture might succeed—"It sounds possible, at least in theory."
And Harry asked Dumbledore about phoenix eggs and flint: "Phoenix flint is quite common to those of us who've cared for such a bird in our time. You see, phoenixes are prone to coughing fits—not unlike a cat, in fact—but rather than furballs, phoenixes produce little pellets." Dumbledore held up two fingers to indicate a size of a marble. "And sometimes these pellets contain tiny gemstones. Quite beautiful, in fact."
"Fairly valuable, I expect, these gemstones," said Harry.
"Indeed. They're not perfect stones by any means, but they're pretty, and when worn, they have the ability to shield the wearer from the frigid temperatures of high altitudes. Phoenix eggs, meanwhile, are quite rare—rarer than the birds in question, as a matter of fact."
"Do you know where I can find an egg, professor?"
"Not at all!" said Dumbledore with far too much cheer. "A phoenix has never been witnessed laying such an egg, but they surely exist, as a precious few have been found in nests atop mountains throughout history. Given that phoenixes are reborn upon death, one might expect that phoenixes should be quite common now after centuries of reproduction, but the opposite is true: No one knows why, precisely, but there are never more than a handful of phoenixes to exist at any one time. Where do they go? Is there some great undiscovered nest, a community to which they retire once they've attained a great age?" Dumbledore splayed his palms. "No one knows."
"What do you believe, sir?"
"Me?" The old man leaned forward, clasping his hands atop his knee. "I'm rather fond of the notion that a phoenix who is ancient and ready for what comes next will simply be no longer, winking out of existence entirely."
"That's rather sad."
Dumbledore smiled. "Isn't it just?"
The pair gestated that rhetorical question for a somber moment. Meanwhile, the practical part of Harry's brain was attempting to stitch together a plan, but nothing Dumbledore had told him helped in creating one. If an egg was to be needed, Harry would need to solve that problem himself. The flint, at least, he could acquire from Fawkes—the other Fawkes, the anti-Fawkes of the anti-world.
Harry rolled his shoulders, feeling the stress of the day pull on his limbs and weigh on his eyelids. The visit was over, the reunion of mentor and student at an end, at least for the nonce. It was time to share the first of their many goodbyes to come.
Dumbledore was of a like mind. "I do believe that concludes our little chat for the evening," he said as Harry failed to hide a yawn that endured for no fewer than eight seconds. He stood and smiled at Harry. "Should you require my assistance, whether intellectual or practical, you know where to find me. Until then, toodle-oo!"
Harry cursed as he cut his finger on a chunk of stone. In a fit of anger, he whipped out his wand and invoked the Banishing Charm, blasting it past the head table and right out the glassless window at the back of the Great Hall. Ten seconds later, there came a great splash as it landed in the lake below.
Searching the Great Hall for wands was sticky business. He accidentally stepped on a bone every now and then, and whenever he levitated a large pile of debris out of the way, it was always to reveal another grouping of skeletons in ruined clothes. He'd vomited twice already, and he'd lost count of the number of times he'd gagged. Whenever Harry found a wand, he pocketed it for later examination and continued on, picking through the remains of friend, foe and castle alike.
Harry had been practicing the charm to enchant flames to burn forever—Gubraithian Fire—without success. He hadn't expected to succeed, not straight away, as it was something he'd only known few to accomplish, namely Dumbledore and Voldemort. Still, the Patronus Charm was an advanced bit of magic, and he'd mastered that after six months, so he had faith he'd manage it. Eventually.
The problem, however, was that he didn't have six months or longer to spend muttering the same infernal incantation; he'd already spent a fortnight trying to get the charm to work. Ron had suggested a new wand, and Harry, while not enjoying the prospect of digging through the remains of people he'd known, had to admit that the idea held merit. Anything to speed things along.
He broke for lunch after three hours. He retreated to the kitchens, less to get something to eat and more to simply put walls between himself and the carnage. He scattered his collection onto one of the tables and began judging. There were upwards of four dozen scavenged wands to examine, so Harry went straight to work.
Most wands he felt nothing from. He waved them about and muttered an incantation or two, but they were lackluster at best. Three downright refused to do anything at all for him. Others felt timid or unsure of him, whereas some were intrigued or excited by the prospect of a new master. Of the former category, Harry discarded almost instantly, throwing them back into the collection, as he didn't have the time to spend cajoling them for their service; of the latter, he felt more hopeful, and tried persuading them to his cause.
Two wands in particular he fancied. One he didn't recognize, but when he tested it with a Summoning Charm, the last bottle of Firewhisky in the room zipped toward him with more force than he'd expected. Years of Quidditch caught up with him as he snatched the bottle out of the air without so much as a flinch. With a nod of approval, he levitated the bottle back to the counter and swapped to the other wand, an ebony instrument about a foot long and vaguely familiar, though he couldn't place it. He tried a second Summoning Charm. This time, he did flinch as it rocketed toward his face like an angry Bludger. Harry only just managed to duck in time, and the near murder weapon shot by and smashed to pieces against the wall behind him, showering him with whisky and shards of glass.
He stared at the ebony wand in wonder. "You're coming with me."
In the month since his trip to the Black Forest, Harry had made good progress towards the realization of his vision. He was only one spell away from accessing an alternate universe and just a handful of reagents from an alternate future. He'd even acquired for himself a new potions lab.
With Skully the Inferius' help, Harry had cleaned out Snape's old Potions classroom. They'd pushed the desks against the walls, sorted and boxed up all the instruments he didn't need, and laid out everything Harry would require for the Otherworldly Ordinance. A trio of silver cauldrons were lined up, with the Firecrab shell at one end. The blackboard had been erased, and the Ordinance's recipe copied onto one side. The near empty storeroom was empty no longer, housing all the ingredients, tools and assorted bits and bobs Harry would need and some he might. He'd also brewed and stocked the storeroom with extra potions: vials of Pepperup Potion and Essence of Dittany, jars of Burn-Healing Paste, several Blood-Replenishing Potions, phials of Sleeping Draft and Wideye Potion, and a large bottle of Antidote to Common Poisons, just to name a few.
He'd never enjoyed brewing potions, but he'd had plenty of time while he worked on enchanting Gubraithian Fire, so he'd made the most of it. Moreover, he'd needed something to work on; sitting around and doing nothing but practice, practice, practice to no discernable effect was disheartening. But he thought to himself, What takes time but doesn't require a lot of skill? Potions!
It was rather simple, really. It was all about following instructions, after all. It didn't require any special abilities or excessive wandwork. He used the Stone to summon the greatest potions experts he knew, and with them by his side, Harry had all the experience in the world.
"—and I knew another young fellow, Barnaby, was his name," yammered Slughorn, gesticulating far too much, "not very bright, you know, ran for Minster for Magic once—poor soul, nobody voted for him—but imagine my surprise when he approached me during the party, pulled down his trousers, claimed he'd been bitten by a Jarvey and asked, quite politely, if I had any Deflating Draft on hand!"
Dumbledore wiped a tear of laughter from one eye. "Oh, Horace, I laugh at that story every time you tell it!"
"That's why I tell it so often!"
Harry listened only absently, his attention absorbed by the burning torch across the room as he attempted to enchant its fire.
"Focus, Potter!" chastised Snape.
Harry started.
"Everlasting Elixirs are N.E.W.T.-level potions for a reason! Stir in the dandelion root before the mixture boils over and consumes us all!"
Harry hastened to do as he was told. The potion, which he hadn't realized had turned black and bubbled like mad, instantly cooled in both temperament and color, becoming a bright, refreshing blue.
"Remove from the fire and let stand for twenty minutes and not a moment sooner," barked Snape. "Then it can be added to most any potion your simple mind desires."
"Now, now, Severus," admonished Slughorn. "The boy's a natural—I should know! I taught him for a year."
Snape scowled. "And I had the misfortune of being his professor for five. Believe me when I tell you that this boy has no more aptitude for potions than a pixie does for glassblowing!"
"I disagree," Dumbledore interjected conversationally. "I think pixies make perfectly vial little things."
Slughorn burst into laughter. "Oh ho! Good one, Albus!"
Snape looked like he wanted to try his luck by sticking his head in Harry's cauldron.
"Levity aside," continued Dumbledore, "Harry needs our help, Severus, not your sarcasm."
"I daresay he doesn't need your terrible puns, either."
Scenes like this were no stranger to Harry. This had been the twelfth time in as many days that the four of them had convened in the classroom to brew one potion or another. All of them were more than competent, and all of them contributed in their own ways, beyond simplifying brewing instructions: Slughorn brought the stories and humor, Dumbledore the insight and conversation, and Snape the brutal honesty and unabashed sarcasm. Harry simply did as they instructed.
It was their tutelage that saw Harry restocking the storeroom, even though he'd had to make another trip to Diagon Alley for supplies. He had lacewing flies stewing in one of the silver cauldrons, his freshly brewed Everlasting Elixir in another, and—most exciting of all—another brave attempt at Felix Felicis in the last.
The Liquid Luck had been a right chore to brew; Slughorn had been invaluable then. Harry had called for Slughorn and Slughorn alone to walk Harry through it, and by the end of the day, Harry had a cauldronful of luck and no eyebrows—those he'd charmed back on later. All on its own, the golden potion splashed about playfully in its cauldron, little droplets leaping here and there across its surface like a pod of miniature, mischievous dolphins. Harry had plans for that potion, but it wouldn't be finished brewing for six months, a sad fact that made Harry more than a little impatient.
Wanting something to do while the Everlasting Elixir cooled, Harry started about brewing, in a regular pewter cauldron he procured from the storeroom, an Invigoration Draft—another concoction the Ordinance called for, albeit slightly modified. Harry had vague memories of the recipe from his schooldays and knew it only took an hour to brew.
As he stirred the potion—and Snape stood beside him, muttering chiding and deriding comments and, reluctantly, the occasional tip—Harry considered the last time he'd brewed an Invigoration Draft: He'd bottled it and brought it to Snape only for the spiteful bastard to smash it on the floor. And here they were, over a decade later, and Snape was assisting him in brewing the very potion he'd wasted so long ago.
When the time came, Harry added shaved bicorn horn and butterscotch; neither were typical ingredients.
"Why?" demanded Snape.
"I found a new recipe that calls for it," Harry riposted. Using the ebony wand, he struck the potion with a bit of conjured fire until thick, syrupy bubbles appeared on its surface. The bubbles burst, and the brew turned to its textbook aquamarine color.
"Intriguing," muttered Snape, sounding, for perhaps the first time that Harry could recall, quite genuine.
It was an easy task, and within the hour, the recipe was complete, and Harry began vialing it, adding a single drop of the cooled Everlasting Elixir to each dose. The Everlasting Elixir, as Snape had begrudgingly reminded him, was meant to drastically increase, with naught but a single drop, the shelf life of another potion; this made the elixir instrumental to a potioneer because a single brew of the stuff was enough for a potion shop to keep its products fresh for weeks.
After the day's brews were finished, he thanked the professors for their help—even Snape, who kept his gaze pointed away from Harry, his arms crossed—and spent the next two hours putting a drop of the Everlasting Elixir into each and every substance in the storeroom. Hermione would have been appalled at the thought, but Harry really wished a house-elf had been available; it really was quite tedious work. Once finished, Harry checked on the stewing lacewing flies and lucky potion before extinguishing the lights and beelining to the kitchen for supper.
As Harry entered, he angled the ebony wand at the hearth and lit it with a spell before attempting to enchant the fire.
Nothing.
Harry sighed, rolled up his sleeves and set about cooking.
It had become routine for him now: Whenever he saw a fireplace, a torch, a half-eaten sandwich—anything he didn't need that was remotely flammable—he'd set it aflame and attempt the charm. He had hoped that a more powerful wand would give him the edge he needed, but there was still no progress on that front. Sure, with the ebony wand he was more powerful than he'd ever been since his old holly and phoenix feather had snuffed it, but what did it matter if he couldn't catch up to Voldemort?
As Harry butchered the garlic, he felt his back pocket vibrating. He reached round only to find his new wand thrumming in his grasp. Harry immediately tossed it on the counter and eyed it with suspicion.
The ebony wand, he'd noticed, was prone to accidents. He'd cast a number of spells only for them to turn to fireworks halfway to their target, and sometimes it grew so hot to the touch that Harry had to drop it. Sometimes Harry wondered if the wand wasn't simply playful.
"Oh, bollocks!" The knife had slipped, and a narrow line of red was growing on Harry's finger. He hissed at the stinging and stuck the digit in his mouth.
It was the third time he'd nicked his finger on something that week, and twice again the week before! He'd also stubbed his toe on a chair, slipped down the front steps, spilled antidote down the front of him, dropped his wand in one of the basement toilets, sat on his glasses, and accidentally catapulted a spoonful of sugar into his own face—all in the last month! It was like the universe was getting as many jabs in as it could before the Liquid Luck was ready.
"Stupid, stupid," he chanted as he grabbed a fistful of garlic and threw it violently into the pot. But at the last possible second, the crashing of settling debris in the Great Hall above distracted him. His hand missed, caught on the pot handle and knocked the steaming vessel to the floor. He took a step back in surprise, slipped in the mess, fell, landed on his head, and spent the next four hours unconscious on the kitchen floor with soup in his hair.
It was snowing.
Harry pulled his cloak tight about himself and scooted closer to the fire.
It was well past midnight, but Harry couldn't sleep. He'd risked his way up the Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower, where he found a little room at the top that had had its roof shorn off during the Battle, exposing it to the stars and elements. He supposed he could've taken a Sleeping Draft—he had plenty of them now—but he didn't want to sleep. He wanted to think. He wanted to be alone, and he wanted to think.
Every few minutes, he'd jab his wand at the fire he'd built for warmth and try to grant it immortality. He liked to think that it were he, not the cold wind, that made the fire flicker.
He'd found the Book in October; now it was December. He'd spent the last six weeks pointing his wand at fires and trying to make them burn for evermore. Would he ever manage it? Or would he be forced to find some other way to bridge the gap between worlds? Maybe there was an alternative to the Rite of Returning. Maybe there was a spell that cursed someone out of existence entirely, past, present and future. Maybe there was a spell that granted wishes, like a fictional genie. Couldn't there be something—anything—else that he could do? There were plenty of pages in the Book—so black it might've been forged of darkness itself—he hadn't looked over. The thing was practically endless; Harry suspected it was enchanted to never run out of pages.
Harry jabbed at the fire again.
Nothing.
He'd spoken to his parents. And Remus and Sirius. That had been another one of those conversations he'd been apprehensive to start. In hindsight, Harry was angry with himself for postponing it for as long as he had. He had been keeping such an encounter at arm's length, unconsciously protecting himself, he realized; now he fervently wished he'd gone after the Resurrection Stone years ago—or, better yet, that he hadn't relinquished it at all. He'd received many hugs and sentiments, particularly from his mother, and Sirius had even made him laugh. Once the ice had been broken, there was an entire lake of things to talk about, and they'd spent the entire day swimming from one topic to the next.
Remus had encouraged Harry to continue his training, citing the Patronus Charm as a reward for perseverance. "Keep at it, and you'll be surprised at what you might accomplish," he'd said. "Most wizards are incapable of conjuring a corporeal Patronus because they give up after the first few attempts. You didn't then so don't now." Then Remus had tapped Harry on the chest, above his heart. "Listen to this, and you can't go wrong."
"And by Merlin, have yourself a good shag," Sirius had said, thoroughly shattering the moment.
While Harry's indignant mum gave Sirius what for, Harry's dad laughed. "Have some fun, Harry. Don't be so serious"—he'd glanced over at Sirius, who was too preoccupied to hear—"all the time. Experience the joys of life." That's when he'd leaned in close and whispered, "I'll make sure your mother doesn't see the fun bits."
Even now, sitting alone by the fire, Harry felt embarrassed. Surely dead people weren't watching the living all the time. Were they?
He brushed the snow from his beard and wetted his lips, which were cracking from the cold. He felt his eyes growing heavier, and this time he didn't fight the pull of sleep but let its gravity suck him into its embrace.
Almost.
The fire popped, startling him back to wakefulness. He'd need to be sure to put it out before retiring for the warmth of the Hufflepuff dormitories, lest he accidentally burn down what remained of Hogwarts. Using his wand, he levitated the broken leg of a desk and added it to the fire. Five minutes more, he thought.
Turning his gaze to the sky, he could make out the faint flecks of white that drifted from invisible clouds. Beyond the confines of the firelight, it was utter, inky blackness. The unknown…
Harry was suddenly struck by the sheer possibility of what he was attempting. Alternate worlds, time travel… He could do so much with those. His first thought was of using the ability to travel to different worlds as a means of killing Voldemort, again and again. The number of worlds he could save from Riddle's villainy with just a—pop!—you're dead. Have fun, the rest of you! Would he become renowned, like Merlin? Harry Potter—Interdimensional Defender of the Innocent and Obliterator of the Tyrannical! He laughed at the thought.
If it struck his fancy, he could travel from universe to universe until he found one he liked. He could settle down in the perfect place with the perfect woman and perfect friends and have a perfect family. Maybe he'd finally get that pony. Perhaps he'd find a universe that was more advanced than this one; perhaps he'd stop exploring different Earths and begin exploring different planets and stars. Would he eventually end up like the protagonist of one of Dudley's old computer games, blowing up aliens in defense of humanity?
Or he could use time travel to create the perfect future. Being forewarned of future events, he could then change them. Would Ron and Hermione finally have one row too many and get a divorce? Rewind! Was there a gut-wrenching Quidditch accident that left the Appleby Arrows' Keeper bedridden in Saint Mungo's? Rewind! Oops, Harry's soufflé collapsed. Rewind!
As Harry envisioned more and more possibilities, his eyes grew ever heavier. So lost in fantasies was he that he forgot the cold, forgot that he had a warm, many-quilted bed waiting for him downstairs, forgot to at least add a bit more wood to the fire so that he wouldn't freeze to death in his sleep.
Imagine Harry's surprise when he awoke late the next morning to find the fire still blazing.
Author's Note
The moment draws near.
Part I nears its curtain call, but more parts will follow. How many parts are there? I can't rightly say. I don't know where the partitions fall specifically, and some parts are longer than others. But I can give you the word count as it stands so far. Currently, I have written approximately 85,000 words over 13 chapters, and I reckon the finished product will likely be double that. So expect this story to land somewhere in the range of 150k-200k words.
