Disclaimer: Na na na na... we're livin' in the future, and none of this has happened yet.
A/N: This chapter is a touch shorter than my usual fare, pulling up short at 6,000 words, but then I want you to absorb the two major scenes here. They are important, and where there chappie ends makes sense, as you'll see. Thanks for sticking with me over from Wastelands, thanks for reading and reviewing, and thanks for joining the C2 (those of you that did. I will find those that didn't, and I will exact vengeance). All the best,
joe
Harry Potter and the Heartlands of Time
Chapter One – The Thirteenth Hour
Still the window burns
Time so slowly turns
And someone there is sighing…
~Metallica
I'd been beaten to all colours of the rainbow and all seven shades of shit more times than I could honestly recall.
Despite the ordered chaos in my mind, I knew there were moments of my existence that I would never remember. A thousand little nothings, a million forgotten hours, and yet I had memories stretching back on repeat over a thousand years.
A lot of lives were the same. They all ended the same, and the deaths – however brutal or pointless they had been – all merged into one indistinct blur of agony undone by impossible time-travel. I could remember my first life particularly well now, since the Infernal Clock had done its work.
I almost felt sixteen again. I was sixteen, technically, and as far as the rest of the world was concerned, but the aches and pains of eternity do bleed through the years…
"What do you want, Chronos?" I asked. "After all you have done, all the games and deception, the lies and truths, Atlantis has returned. What could you possibly want now?"
The young man standing before me in the half-light grinned. His identical rows of teeth were perfect, his face unblemished by the ravages of time and war. Dressed to impress in a knitted suit similar to mine, his eyes caught the torch light and broken mosaics danced within his pupils. Beneath that veneer, however, a monster waited. A demon of clawed flesh and blackened skin.
"To help, Harry James Potter. I wish to help you."
"Help me?"
Hang me, I thought. And leave me swingin' for the fucking crows.
I stood at the window of my luxury suite on the top floor of the Roosevelt Hotel, New York City, overlooking Madison Avenue and 45th Street. I had Apparated in and then promptly placed more than three dozen magical ward schemes about the place, ensuring that even when I left the damned suite would never be found again by the Muggles. It was my home away from home – if I had a home – and what amounted to my secret base of operations.
I wouldn't want for anything. There was a bedroom, a kitchen, living area, en suite bathroom, and a commanding view of New York - a city I considered to be the best in the world. Luxury was an understatement, and I had no qualms at all stealing it.
If I had to run and hide, stand and fight. If I had to have a secret base of operations at all! Then I was going to do all of that – and more – in relative comfort.
"Help me," I said again, tasting the words and finding them sour. I began to cough, deep in the back of my throat. I'd had the cough a few days now.
I raised a fine crystal glass full of Glenfiddich 21 to my lips and took a long, satisfying gulp of the amber liquid. It was a spicy batch, aged well in rum casks. I had half a dozen cases stashed in the wardrobe, alongside a dozen or so Armani suits and about twelve cartons of various beers.
Relative comfort, indeed. It was the little things – scotch, mostly – that made the long hours (hours that sped by so fast, in the end) close to bearable.
All that taken into account, I wasn't at all surprised that Chronos had found me here. Chronos was... different. That wasn't a good thing.
"Do I look like I need your help?" The canyons of 45th, stretching off toward Central Park, looked almost oppressive in the fading light. Like the towering skyscrapers could simply give way at any moment. Fragile sanity was the best any of us could hope for, I guess...
"You cannot fight this war on your own."
"Why not?" I coughed again. Of all things, I was coming down with a touch of flu.
"Look how well you have done in the past, yes, yes?"
"The past is dead." To all save me. "Who are you?" I had asked that before, more than once. Chronos had told me I already knew, as we fell locked in battle through the sky above Blackpool... or what was now New Atlantis. Old Atlantis, really, slapped down on the cusp of the twenty-first century. I still didn't know what I was going to do about that.
"Hmm?" I laughed and took another finger of scotch. It burnt in the best way, warming my sore throat. "No answer, huh? Why am I not surprised? We act like we're old adversaries, you and I, and yet at best we've known each other a handful of months."
"Longer than that, Harry James Potter. Much longer."
"I remember a lot, but I don't remember that."
He looked troubled. Worried, even. I poured him a glass of my scotch. I even used the fine crystal. It tasted better in crystal. Somehow purer.
"Time... would not permit it," he eventually said, accepting the offered drink.
"Time is mine," I said, with a weight of insurmountable authority in my words. I tapped my chest, just across the silver scar delivered to me in another life by sword-wielding demons, and just above my heart, and the shard of eternity buried there. "I am why the destruction of the Infernal Clock didn't fracture the fucking universe, Chronos. Time... it exists within me now."
I had been staring without blinking at the hundreds of cars caught in traffic down below. My eyes had blurred with tears.
"That's not true," Chronos whispered. "That can't be true."
"A razor's edge," I said, chuckling, and balanced my glass on the tips of my fingers. "Always a razor's edge." The glass shook and I nearly dropped it, the precious liquid within sloshing against the sides. "If I die... Time dies with me. Now more than ever."
"You are not as important as you think, Harry Potter."
"Yes, yes I am." I sighed. "Why are you here again?"
Chronos took a sip of his drink and grimaced at the taste. Not a scotch man – there were too few of us – I'd have to get some red wine in or something. Bah, children's booze.
"To help you destroy the Dark Lord Voldemort and snatch victory from what would appear to be inevitable defeat."
"Ah, yes."
"We must quest for the Twilit Diamond, Harry."
Harry... I suddenly felt like I had been here before. That this had all happened before. This room. This conversation. The scotch and the fading sunlight of a mid-September day. But I had no memory of this, not now and not ever. I would have remembered Chronos, I was sure, and I certainly would have remembered any mention of the...
"The Twilit Diamond," I said. "No, there's no such thing."
"It exists."
"Bollocks." I coughed again, the sting of it tearing at the back of my throat. More scotch should soothe the burn.
Chronos shook his head and placed his glass on the windowsill, and a hand on my shoulder. I tensed, in case he tried to tear my throat out, but there was sincerity in his eyes. After all the years, I knew honesty from malicious intent. As well as any man, I suppose, I knew when to trust chaos.
"You spent lifetimes searching for it once. You spent lives, Harry Potter. Precious worlds you sent screaming into the void so you could have your happy ending and Voldemort could be vanquish—"
"And I never found it." I shrugged his hand away. "Wasted time, Chronos. The Twilit Diamond is a fairytale, a myth. All those years and I found nothing more than scraps of papyrus and dust."
"It can destroy him." Chronos let those words hang in the air. "It has the power to unmake all that Lord Voldemort is, and all that he has wrought. You could end this war, once and for all, without ever raising your wand against the Dark Lord again."
"Yeah, and if snitches were sweets I could shit a pair of wings and—"
Chronos cursed. "Die alone then, Lord Harry Potter – Time's Last Fool. Die and take us all to Hell with you! Better that than to see you burn this world again."
Why are you smiling, Chronos? Why try and draw me into a confrontation neither of us can win? However fucked in the head we were, the pair of us, we both had an end game. I knew what mine was – shit, I knew what Voldemort's was – yet Chronos was raw insanity strapped to a rocket. Had time done that to him?
Time had done it to me.
"Where is the Diamond then? If it exists, buddy, where is it?"
"I do not know—"
"Well fuck me, I'm surprised."
"—but the Atlanteans might!"
My fist clenched around the glass and I took a very deep, very careful, breath. If I'd been holding it in my mythril hand the crystal would have shattered. "You stay away from that city," I said, as clearly as I could. "It is sealed away for a reason, do you hear me? Until I've decided what to do with it."
Chronos fell silent at that.
"Was this your game from the very start?" I asked, disbelief colouring my tone. "Surely not. Bring Atlantis hurtling across time so you can ask wizards long dead where the magical diamond is stashed?" I laughed. "Oh, you're going to be so disappointed."
"You know nothing of me." Still smilin', boss, still oblivious... "Harry James Potter, how can you be so blind after so long?"
"Blind? No, no, Chronos, no, no." I saw the truth of the monster. "You and those like you – Saturnia, and I suppose the Orc-Mare – you stand apart of time. Of Time. You are not an element of the whole. You exist… merely alongside. Blind? I see you for what you are... I see nothing."
Chronos' smile faded at my words. He paled and his expression turned hostile. "Did you ever stop, Harry James Potter, did you ever take a moment away from your warmongering, and wonder why that is? Why… I exist at all?"
"Tell me." I shrugged. "Cast away the charade and lay your hand on the table, buddy. But you ain't holding a pair of mythril aces, are you?" I laughed. "No, no… the deck is stacked even against Time's fools. I guess even demonic demigods are fucked like the rest of us."
Chronos snarled – physically snarled, raw and inhuman – with rage. A split second later and he was laughing, which was somehow worse. "You don't look too well, Harry. I'd get that cough checked out."
And then he disappeared. Such is magic.
I finished my scotch and made a start on the glass he had left behind.
The dust of civilisations trickles through my hands like rain…
The Twilit Diamond was a farce.
It had to be.
I was sure of it. And yet, across all the years and all the lives there had always been a ring of invisible truth to the rumours. Legends of Atlantis had endured ten thousand years after the city had fallen, even in Muggle society, because it had been real. It had existed.
And exists again…
Was the Diamond the same?
Things were different this life around. Chronos had seemed honest in his desire to find the impossible truth.
No, I did not have the time to be chasing fairytales. Not again. If I had another thousand lives to spare then perhaps it would be worth the loss of one more world. A loss only I had to remember. But I didn't have a thousand lives. I'd wasted all those forgotten chances.
I couldn't waste this last toss of the dice seeking a gemstone that could supposedly bestow or steal magic itself. A diamond – Diamond... – of the old gods.
A mythical stone of such untold power, whether it existed or not, should stay buried, I decided. Too much potential to fuck up. Although magic was all that was holding Voldemort together. To rob the Dark Lord of that… well, it would be interesting to see how quickly he imploded.
I fell out of my thoughts and looked out again over New York City. The sun was rising to the east and all my joints felt stiff. Hell, I'd been sitting by the window all night, since Chronos' abrupt departure. It had felt like five minutes.
I started coughing, harder than ever before, and I could taste blood in the back of my throat. Damn it all, I was going to need to raid an apothecary in the not-too-distant future—
My awesome room was on fire.
Fawkes appeared before me in a blazing rain of golden sparks, wreathed within a circle of white flame. Dumbledore's familiar was the only creature – save Chronos, I had learnt last night – that could find me here in my stolen suite. The magnificent phoenix clutched a piece of folded parchment in his talons.
The bird alighted on my knee and dropped the parchment in my lap. I picked up the note and ran a hand down the phoenix's beak. It sung softly, each note a boon. To have befriended such a creature... Albus Dumbledore was a better man than I would ever be.
"'lo, Fawkes," I said. "What's all this about then?" I unfolded the note. It was written in Dumbledore's spidery, almost frail, script. "How is the old man, hmm? I was going to stop by in a day..."
Words failed me as I read the note. The ink hadn't even had time to dry on the page, a few of the letters smudged, but I read it again just to make sure I understood what they had done. What they had dared to do.
I stood up – quickly – and Fawkes flapped to the windowsill with a shrill cry of annoyance. I ignored the blasted bird. My eye twitched with barely suppressed rage. The bottle of scotch on the table next to me was nearly empty – I hadn't had that much, surely – and this time I didn't bother with the crystal. I took a few healthy swigs and crushed the bottle in my hand.
The warmth of the alcohol steadied me, cleared my mind for a moment, and I took a deep breath, letting it out slow. It was time to move. I stepped across the suite to the bedroom and drew my wand.
In the mirror above the dressing table I cut a sharp figure in my suit. The look on my face would have been calm if not for the snarl I couldn't seem to put down. I was heading back to England, it seemed, sooner than planned. But there was one thing I needed first...
The heavy wardrobe doors swung open with a flick of my wand and there, on a shelf of its own, was my undeniably awesome captain's hat. A little scorched from the battle over London, a little bloody from my fistfight with Chronos...
I placed the hat on my head and nodded. I was ready. I would have to be.
If Dumbledore's message was to be believed, then the Ministry of Magic had just declared war against me.
Call it stupid.
"Potter, stop! Please stop… Take him!"
Call it brave .
"Again and again – and again and again and AGAIN! FOOLS, ALL OF YOU!"
I clapped my hands and pure Gubraithian fire – Dumbledore's everlasting trick – burst from the heavy cracks crisscrossing the marble floors. I wanted to cause a ruckus, to make sure they remembered just who they had tried to stop…
And send a message to the rest that I was not to be fucked with. Not like this.
Green, I thought. Green and red and blue. The flames were quite beautiful, flickering across the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, licking at the heels of the recently restored Fountain of Magical Brethren and dancing within the copper pillars and golden elevator grilles. I could taste burning copper, like a mouthful of blood, and delighted in the destruction.
The crowds had fled, the Aurors were disarmed and bound at my feet. I strolled over to the fountain, dodging the flames that would burn forever more, and unzipped my fly.
"Let me guess," I said to the Aurors, relieving myself in the magical waters of that morning's breakfast scotch. "Courtroom Ten?"
Call it doing what was right for what may have been the wrong reasons.
In a rather graceless move I sent a wave of energy hurtling towards the two Aurors standing guard outside the courtroom. The pair of them took it in the chest and slammed into the heavy closed doors, throwing them wide open and crashing against the inner walls within.
I strolled right on inside amidst cries of shock and outrage, straightening the collar on my fine Armani suit, radiating an air of unquestionable authority and power.
The courtroom was packed. I was reminded of my hearing in this dungeon, under the scrutiny of Fudge and his cronies. Dark stone and dimly lit torches. That felt like a thousand lifetimes ago… and it had been. Sure enough, up on the highest benches Rufus Scrimgeour presided over the room atop of his podium, surrounded by the collective weight of the Wizengamot.
This was the first time I had met Scrimgeour in this life – the first time he had met me at all. A rangy looking man with greying hair, wire-framed spectacles and a long face. He was a man of action, or could be, and more than once he had died in my name. Died to protect me. I should have respected him for that. But what he had done today did not demand respect. Retribution, perhaps, but never respect.
The rest of the lower benches were full of witches and wizards. I recognised most of them – some Order of the Phoenix, some Death Eaters – and some I could call friends. The poorly lit room stank of dusty parchment and fear.
"Potter, Harry," I said. A gasp rippled through the crowd as I was recognised. "My invite must have gotten lost in the post."
Scrimgeour recovered first and waved the Aurors in on either side, half a dozen of one and six of the other. It didn't matter. My gaze had fallen upon the chair with the restraining chains in the centre of the room, and the person who sat gingerly upon the edge…
Fleur Delacour sat in tears, her hands cupped protectively across her stomach. Across our child. She looked at me in equal parts fear, relief, and uncertainty. I don't know which expression hurt more, or which was the most fiercely beautiful.
But that didn't matter either.
I had been furious before – upon receiving word from Dumbledore of this farce. It was why I had stormed the Ministry. But seeing Fleur now, alone and reduced to tears by the power-hungry and weak-minded sycophants of the Ministry, most of which would happily serve Voldemort when this government inevitably toppled, my fury turned to something cold.
Something narrowed, focused, and very, very dangerous.
I was no longer… angry. Angry was too soft of a word. There were no words for how I felt.
Here was the mother of my child. The poor, abused woman I had exposed to the awful majesty of pure Time. The Wastelands of Time. Here was Fleur, my sweetheart, alone before the rampant hate and fear of a corrupt governance machine.
"I seem to have arrived just in time." My voice sounded hollow in my ears, as if spoken from far away. Did I look as beyond anger as I felt? Something of my emotion must be showing? None of the people here would dare raise a hand against me, surely, knowing how I felt.
"Surrender your wand, Mr. Potter," Rufus Scrimgeour said, his tone demanding nothing less than obedience. "There is much you need to answer for, young man."
"Are you okay?" I asked, stepping across the dark stone floor toward Fleur.
She raised her hand, and her face begged me not to come too close. I felt something twist in my chest at that, but it was to be expected. After all that she had seen through the shards of the Infernal Clock… Sanity, at all, was a miracle.
"They 'ave asked many questions about you, 'Arry," she whispered, not quite meeting my eyes. "They say I will be sent to Azkaban for not answering."
"Do they now?" I said softly.
The Aurors had surrounded both Fleur and myself, keeping a wide perimeter but effectively sealing us in. Twelve wands were arrayed against me. I held my own pointed toward the floor.
"Your wand, Potter!" Scrimgeour growled. "Do not make this harder than it already is. You are required to submit to trial on a list of charges that—"
"List?" I said. "What list?"
Scrimgeour nodded to one of his aides. The young witch flicked quickly through a stack of documents and handed the Minister a thick sheaf of crisp parchment. "Where to start, hmm? Breaches of the statutes, illegal Apparation, portkey creation—"
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. As I did, the entire world around me slowed to a dull crawl, and a sharp lance of raw pain pierced my heart. I winced, rubbed my chest, but a grim smile settled across my face.
It had taken some practice, but I had made the shard of the Infernal Clock buried within work for me. Not always, not often. But now… I could slow down time with a mere thought – for everyone save myself. And Voldemort, of course. Our battle in the skies above London had shown that.
But the talent still had its uses, however uncontrollable it could be. I moved amongst the Aurors now, plucking their wands from their hands and pocketing them. I took my time and swiped the list of charges from the Minister's hand, before returning to my initial position and shutting off the remnant of eternity.
Time sped back up.
Fractions of a second had passed for all save me. The Aurors stumbled, taking nervous and confused steps back, and I winked up at the assembled Wizengamot, patting my pocket full of wands.
"Now let's have a read of these charges," I said, tipping my captain's hat back on my head. Uncertainty, cast better than any spell, ensured I had the room's full attention. "Hmm… quite a list. Let's start at the top and work our way down. Oh, I see. Well, guilty, guilty, guilty, not guilty…" I tapped each charge as I decided my own verdict. "Guilty, guilty, oh most definitely guilty… guilty, not guilty, guilty, guilty…"
I cast the parchment aside and with a flick of my wand it burst into flames.
"You get the idea," I said. "And you can also add public urination to the list. Heh." I reached into my inner suit pocket and pulled out a slim bottle of cool, frosty Vieux Temps. A rather nice French Beer. I had grabbed one from the suite before Disapparting across the sea.
I popped the tab, "Cheers," and took a long swig of this fancy French beer. Fancy French beer because I'm somewhat of a flowery twat. Heineken would have been just as good, but I wanted to send a particular message, the kind that only came from top-shelf booze.
"'Arry…" Fleur sniffed. She didn't look well. "Are you mad at me? For running away?"
I blinked, near-shocked at the absurdity of her words. Mad at you? "Sweetheart, I love you. Here, this will take you home." I pressed a shiny sickle into her slim, pale hand and whispered the activation word. "Be safe…" The portkey whisked her away, back to France.
Scrimgeour made an attempt to get the situation back under his control. He didn't know how I had disarmed the Aurors, but he wasn't going to let it faze him. "Right then," he said, clearing his throat. "Take a seat, Mr. Potter," as if he'd given me leave to release Fleur, "we have a lot of questions for you."
"Is that so?" I took another sip of my beer. Cameras flashed, quick-quotes quills scratched, and I resisted the urge to bring the Ministry screaming down upon the fools all around me. "I have just one for you, Minister Scrimgeour, just one…"
My presence was forbidding. My words… they could be very intimidating. I cut a striking figure, alone against the supposed might of the Ministry. No one dared interrupt me. I knew it was only a matter of time before more Aurors arrived, and I had no desire to fight them.
"I always somehow expect better of you." I turned away from the Minister of Magic. "But I guess your office and incompetence just go hand in hand… Tell me, do you think you can stop me?"
No one answered my challenge, and I started to leave.
"Potter, stop!" A side door to the dungeon-court swung open and from within, sealed beneath folds of midnight darkness, swept a wave of cold, bitter agony and the screams of my dead mother. "Seize him!"
Twin Dementors flew into the room, still under tentative Ministry control, and descended upon me – wraiths of terrible nightmare come to feast upon my soul.
Dementors , I had time to think. I hate Dementors… Even after all the years, all the time and all the crimes, boss, I still feared the awful things. Fear incarnate. Immortal creatures of the Forget, burdened for all time to harvest souls and unmake all that could be just and true.
Over those same years, I had hardened my fear into something else. Something with the weight of my impossible life thrown behind it. I let the Dementors reach me, not bothering at all with a patronus charm, and felt their effects magnified a thousand, thousand times.
I let them into my mind – let them work their horrific brand of magic. All warmth fled from my limbs, all happiness. I hadn't been that happy to begin with, but to each their own. Memories of pain and loss swam to the forefront of my consciousness. Memories to feed the beasts. I let them enjoy their last meal for a few heartbeats… then forced other memories to the surface.
Older memories.
Powerful memories. Of all that I had ever been and ever would be…
I poured Time. Pure, raw time. The strength of ages, the grit of ancient worlds… The Always and the Forever flowed through my mind – through the shard of eternity buried in my heart – I unleashed a silent maelstrom upon the foul and ragged Dementors, borne under the starless midnight skies of Oblivica!
I showed them all that they were. All that they would ever be. Mere lesser demons, a spawn of a forgotten time, cast against the sheer endless bounds of the infinite.
I seized their entire being and I turned it to dust.
Call it what you will, but be warned. There is no going back.
Not this time.
Silence.
Blissful, blessed, fearful silence.
The entire courtroom regarded me in abject disbelief, just doing what people do, as they watched the two Dementors disintegrate before their eyes. One minute they were there, oppressive and bearing down on me and my shattered soul, the next…
"Dust," I whispered. My voice carried well in the silence. Across the silent crowds and into the far corners of the damned dungeon. "You touch those under my protection again… If any of you dare! And dust—" I growled and spittle flew from my mouth, "—is all that I'll leave of you."
Someone dropped a pin in the back of the Wizengamot benches.
"Is that a threat?" Scrimgeour found his balls.
I took a final sip from my beer and raised the bottle toward the Minister of Magic. "A threat? No…" I hurled the bottle into the base of the bastard's podium. It shattered, echoing loudly, in a most satisfying way. "It's a fucking guarantee."
Then I grinned, because this had turned out rather well, all things considered. "I'll let myself out."
I turned and swept out of the courtroom, my footsteps echoing loudly against the dark stone.
No one tried to stop me.
No one dared.
A/N: Now before I get a 1,000+ reviews/emails/flames screaming that the 'Twilit Diamond' is the biggest deus ex machina you've ever seen and that I'm a whore's son for taking the easy way out in this story and you're going to find me, gut me like a fish and dance merrily in the blood and gore to Celine Dion (true story, I once got a review like that - you see? Make them memorable, folks), have faith - on the surface it may appear like I'm stacking the deck to wrap everything up nicely, but this is me, folks - Joe. Motherfuckin' JOE. I'd never make things that simple, mostly because I still have no idea how this damn story will end, but also because I love you. I love you very much and would not take you out to Mickey-D's for dinner when you come to me in your little black dress and heels expecting to be wined and dined.
No, no, no... although to be fair, you should've worn the fishnets, because that just works for me.
Although I must confess a lot of you did break my heart by not joining the DLP C2 the last time I took you out on the town. Seriously, the prologue for this story was quality - like a $500 dollar-a-head state dinner - and only a handful of you called me the next day, thanking me for a wonderful time. So this is going to be a regular thing now, where I threaten some sort of awful plot twist unless you join the DLP C2, which can be found in my profile here. So join, ladies and gentlemen, join or I'll turn this into a Twilight crossover... featuring MPREG. And I don't want any of ya telling me you'd actually like that to happen this time, because you are liars - all of you. No one likes Twilight.
All the best,
Motherfuckin' JOE!