Disclaimer: Not mine. Not yours. Garfield is a lazy kittie.

A/N: Well, here we are. Thanks for reading and make sure to jot me a review! This chapter marks over 100,000 words for Wastelands of Time, and very nearly 500 reviews. That’s awesome. Needless to say, we’re warmed up now and big things are going to happen. The surface has been scratched, and Harry is beset from all sides it seems.

--joe

*~*~*~*

Harry Potter and the Wastelands of Time

Chapter 12 – Baby, Do You Remember When?

Part Three – The Thief

So I handed him my bottle, and he drank down my last swallow.
Then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light.
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.
He said if you’re gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right…

--Kenny Rogers

*~*~*~*

‘I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards, the soldier’s art;

One taste of the old time sets all to rights…’

Not my words, not by far.

Not even my story.

And yet, so fucking apt.

*~*~*~*

It was 15:13 and twenty-two seconds.

As I gave Fleur five minutes to shower and make ready to leave, I tried to repair the shattered wrist watch I’d bought off a desk clerk in Tivoli only a day ago, give or take a few jaunts back and forth with the Time-Turner. A simple Reparo wasn’t doing the job, yet I was quite adept at the small mechanics of things.

I had to be to survive.

The memories of the future, however befuddled they were, had information on practically everything, save the new stuff of today. One thing my older, deader selves had learnt in their many lives and many failures was the use and extent of magic…

I had learnt how to shatter Time, bend thought, subdue armies using magic – more importantly, I had learnt how to do without.

So I sat at the foot of Fleur’s carpeted mahogany staircase, the back of my steel watch pried-off and its delicate workings revealed to the world. I’d exposed the top plate, no doubt voided the warranty, and saw that the ratchet wheels seemed to be in place… no fault there. Some of the little screws were loose, and the top pivot band was bent – there was my problem.

It would take some intricate magic, just a feather’s touch of power, to stretch it back into shape. I marvelled at the knowledge in my head, from other lives. I’d never seen the inside of watch before, not in this life, and yet I knew the workings of such a device as if I’d been repairing them all my life.

The spring in the main cog was also distorted. I set about undoing the damage and a few minutes later clicked the back plate back into place. In the quiet of the house, below my steady breathing, the soft tick-tick-tick of clockwork emanated from my watch. A job well done.

I smiled a content smile; all too fucking pleased with myself, and wound the watch to the correct time. I thought about it and then set it for 09:23 on the dot, as the minute ticked over in my head. It was approaching half-three here in France, yet next stop was New York, and the time there was six hours ago.

Fleur was taking her time, but that was okay – we had about twenty-five minutes to get out of here before our past-selves showed up from Carcassonne – I made sure of my belongings in my special briefcase as I waited. The leather and brass grips had both been tarnished through flame and folly since the goblins had given it to me.

Okay, contents:

Invisibility Cloak?

Check.

One-half of Voynich Manuscript from beneath Mt. Everest?

Check.

About one million pounds in varying Muggle currencies?

Check.

Forged Muggle documents – birth certificate, passport, and international driver’s licence?

Check.

 

That was the important stuff. It was a good job the briefcase was charmed feather-light.

Oh, and Ring of Concealment?

Check – on my index finger, suppressing my magical signature into one a few years older.

I was all set – just waiting on Fleur.

I glared at the dull band on my finger, marked with a tiny symbol of infinity, the brand of Atlantis, and contemplated the Keys to the Past. It was time, Time, that sealed Atlantis away – that turned a journey into a quest. The Voynich Manuscript was another Key. How many Keys to go? I wasn’t sure. Atlantis held the last.

I wanted a smoke, yet all I had were the half a dozen crumpled sticks I’d nicked off Dudley three days ago. Christ, had it only been three days? Three days and a bit if you counted the hours spent back and forth on account of the time-turner.

Regardless, I needed a smoke. Wizarding cigars were on my to-do list. Along with a few other items of a quest-related nature. No matter what else was happening, Atlantis would consume months of my time, and yet I had to be back for September 1st, or else doom Britain to a very dark fate.

Time would have to be stretched – Atlantis could do that, too. Or rather… Time could do that, around Atlantis.

I heard light footsteps above me on the landing and I glanced up to see Fleur. Her hair was damp from the shower, and she wore a pair of dark denim jeans below a simple white blouse and soft leather jacket. Her boots were thin, and made of a white leather. In one hand she carried a simple luggage case, of Muggle design, yet no doubt bigger on the inside.

She looked great – older, womanly – and brimming with sheer confidence. I felt off-balance in my rumpled suit jacket and scuffed shoes.

I shoved the inadequate, fifteen-nearly-sixteen, thoughts aside. Fleur was a beauty, of that there was no doubt, yet I had certain advantages in the mysterious and intriguing department. I’d also saved her life a handful of times in a matter of days. That made me look pretty awesome, I suppose. Why…?

Because I’m a cowboy… and on a steel horse I ride—

“Let’s go, then” I said, gazing up at Fleur. “Adventure, and what have you, waits for those stupid enough to want it…” I laughed.

“How do you plan on getting us to New York today?” Fleur replied, composed and elegant as she descended the staircase.

I’d been thinking on that, particularly in light of the whole ‘wanted for murder’ thing that had fallen on my head. It would be good to be seen leaving France – or rather, leaving Britain, seeing as how legally I was still supposed to be there.

“Bit of Apparatin’, bit of portkeyin’, sweetheart,” I said, offering to take her suitcase. “Let’s walk and talk beyond your wards – there’s a lot of work to be done.”

*~*~*~*

Thought encompasses time.

Time is relative – time is light. Travel faster than light, and you can go back to a point in time before you left.

Time is light.

Only you can’t travel faster than light – not ever.

Speed isn’t the key to time travel, not at all.

Thought, on the other hand, thought is very much the key.

Yet it does not exist. Do you understand?

*~*~*~*

My stitches across my chest were burning. I’d bandaged them up pretty tight to prevent tearing yet the pressure was irritating, and rubbing against the wound I wouldn’t be rid of for weeks. Along with my constant headache, I ignored it as best I could.

The afternoon outside of Fleur’s family home was as beautiful as it had been the first time around. The sun was warm, the breeze was light, and Fleur’s golden hair shone with the radiance of diamonds.

“You know I entered France under a false name, Ethan Rafe,” I said, as we walked across the ward line and out into the dusty country lane that meandered through lush meadowlands for some miles towards Carcassonne. “Well, I’m thinking if we dive under the radar back into the U.K., then I can leave again as Harry Potter, straight for the United States.”

“You are creating a trail,” Fleur replied.

“I know.” It was a risk – plans could go awry should Dumbledore or the goblins track me down before I was well and truly set for Atlantis, yet I had a feeling that this time around the risks had to run a little higher. “I know – that’s kind of the point.”

“Oh?”

“Only Dumbledore is aware that I’m not in England where I should be. With this whole assassination of the French President for Magic going down, I’d prefer to leave a trail of paperwork that shows me leaving Britain legally, hopefully before the assassination takes place, and arriving legally by portkey in the United States. Time and dated.”

Fleur thought through my reasoning, and couldn’t fault it. However, she knew more than most about my dealings over the last few days, and had been with me at Gringotts on that first day of Waking Up…

“The goblins will know where you are, and zat information may cause problems. They were ready to kill you for all your talk of Atlantis ze other day.”

I nodded. “Yep – them and how many others? – you’re frowning, why?”

Fleur took a second to present the argument I knew was coming. “President Laurent is a good man, ‘Arry, I ‘ave met him once or twice… My father is his friend. How can we let him die?”

“You want me to try and stop it?” My tone was neither frustrated nor deadpan, but vaguely curious.

“How can you not even try, knowing his fate?”

That was a fair enough question. “Because it’s already happened. Don’t you see?”

“It might not ‘ave, if we use your Time-Turner to go back and simply warn ze Aurors.”

It was hard to get one’s head around, I suppose. I’ve had lifetimes to understand Time, and in all honesty I can say that I still don’t. Better than most, but that doesn’t make me an expert, not by far. Still, Time was mine – I knew what I could and couldn’t do, for the greater good.

“You said time could be rewritten—”

“Not without paying a price,” I snapped, a little too harshly. “Not without a sacrifice. Listen Fleur, time travel is a terrible business – it doesn’t work properly, never will – and the chain of events, of cause and effect, always, always drips with someone’s blood.”

My blood – your precious blood, Fleur. Damn it all to hell and back. I hated having to lie, but if I told Fleur the truth now – that I could, in fact, save the life of this man, Thomas Laurent, all it would cost was three days and one of my many throwaway-deaths, would she even try to understand?

No, she’d be simply horrified.

And I wasn’t guaranteed another shot at saving the world this time around. I felt that in my very bones, in the air and in the passing of every lost second. I was barely staying alive and afloat as it was, what with Saturnia and Chronos breaking the flow as I knew it. If I were to die, and go back, not only would it hurt beyond pain, but I’d put myself three days behind my newest enemies.

They knew Time as I did – and as the rules didn’t apply to me, with my knowledge of times to come, neither did it apply to these would-be gods. I couldn’t afford another death, not even a moment of lost time – I was, I suppose, as mortal as the next man.

“Was it just mere ‘appenstance zat found you outside Gringotts in time to save my life, ‘Arry? Or did you know the future and change it?”

The question surprised me, as Fleur had never made the connection before, not in any of the lives and times I could remember through the maelstrom of burning memory. Surprised me and stumped me.

I let the moment stretch on a touch too long, floundering for a suitable reply. “I was just there by chance,” I said, and the look Fleur gave me said, quite clearly, that she was not convinced. “Look, if a Time-Turner could fix this, don’t you think the Aurors themselves would use one to stop the President’s death?”

Fleur paused to think about that. I saw a reluctant acceptance of time and fate slide across her face. She nodded. “Oui, you ‘ave a point,” she said quietly.

“If there was anything I could do, I’d do it, but right now we have to get moving – as far away from France as possible. This whole side of the world isn’t going to be too friendly towards me after tonight.”

Fleur smiled, a touch wistfully. “And what of me? Travelling with a wanted fugitive? What shall I tell my parents?”

“Those Aurors tonight are going to think I’ve kidnapped you, aren’t they?” That was something I hadn’t considered yet. “Well, we don’t want to worry—”

An alarm bell started ringing in my head. I turned back toward the château just in time to see Fleur and myself appear barely fifteen feet away, loaded down with shopping bags from Carcassonne, just outside of the ward line.

“Oh shit…” I whispered, stifling a chuckle. Time’s up…

Next to me, Fleur’s jaw dropped. Acting fast, I clutched for her forearm and Disapparated as silently as I could, before Time proved me wrong on the limits of the Time-Turner and I tore a hole in the fabric of reality. Fucking paradoxes… paradoxi?

Whatever the plural is, bumping into myself without expecting it, changing the past like that, could quite literally explode in my face. It had happened before, lives and lives ago when I’d tried to do exactly what I’d just told Fleur I couldn’t.

Alter the past with a Time-Turner... back when I was young and stupid and far too quick to die. Oh, damn it all.

Paradox equals bad.

I’d Apparated too suddenly to be able to bypass the international border wards that formed a tight net around most nations on the face of the planet. Fleur was squeezed tight against me as we landed barely half a mile away in the same field I’d appeared in twelve or so hours ago, accounting for the Time-Turner, gutted and bleeding.

“Did you see us?” I asked Fleur, as she righted herself and her suitcase from the emergency-transportation. “I really am a little weedy thing – what’s a girl like you hanging around a guy like me for?”

Fleur recovered fast. “Ze thrill and excitement,” she said, deadpan, straightening her jacket and hair. “So zis afternoon, upon our return from Carcassonne, we were standing behind… ourselves, oui?”

I could never be sure about that. It’s hard to view Time as anything but a straight, linear line. A purpose of sequential events moving a relative individual from A to B. Yet what came first, the chicken or the egg? Time was more of a sphere than a line. For the sake of time-travel as the Time-Turner would have it…

“I guess so,” I said. “Hard to fathom, isn’t it?”

“Very much so.” Fleur chose to smile. “What is in America, ‘Arry, that you would ‘ave me come with you?”

The meadowlands were warm and inviting, peppered with golden buttercups and soaked in sunlight. I was tempted to sit down and rest, take another sweet five minutes out, yet there was no time – not anymore. It had been a long day, with long months to go.

“Honestly not much,” I said. “There’s a man there, and a woman, who will be accompanying us to Atlantis. Most of the supplies necessary to last us the trip can be bought while we’re there, then we have to come back to this part of the world – to Europe, and lost, lovely Latium…” Where we sometimes, if I’m lucky, pick up a certain shape-shifting Auror. 

I’d given Tonks a note explaining as much on my first day back.

“A day or two in America?”

I nodded. “Three at the most. It shouldn’t stretch on more than that.”

“I will ‘ave to Owl my parents as soon as we arrive. I don’t want them finding out through ze Aurors zat you ‘ave kidnapped me. My father, in particular, will be most wrathful.”

“Not a good first impression,” I agreed with a nod.

Fleur quirked a single perfect eyebrow. “Oh, so you are looking to make a good impression with my father? I see…”

I ran a hand back through my unruly hair. A memory came to me, of witnessing the aftermath of a Death Eater attack on the Delacour château, once upon a time. Fleur’s family, her mother, father, and sister Gabrielle, slaughtered and sacrificed to my arrogance.

“Ah, I frightened you, no?” Fleur said, her radiant face eclipsing the very sun. “You look lost for words… Imagine that, ‘Arry Potter defeated by soft teasing.”

I didn’t deserve such kindness – I never would. Monsters inevitably destroy such a good thing.

“We should get moving,” I said, with false cheer. “As lovely as this scene is, buttercups and a pretty girl, we’re leagues behind Voldemort and barely running parallel with Chronos’ crowd. Can’t forget our enemies, can we?”

That last was almost wistful. I laughed.

I had a moment to prepare for this next Apparation, and seeing as how it was across the Channel and through two border-networks of wards, as well as side-along, I made sure not to screw it up.

“Onward we fare, Mademoiselle Delacour!”

Our forms shimmered and faded as I subverted the Apparation wards surrounding two countries and slipped back into Britain. We faded entirely from the south of France, leaving naught but bent blades of grass to mark our passing.

*~*~*~*

There’s smoke. A lot of smoke.

Who’ll be still standing when it clears?

*~*~*~*

International portkeys had to be booked weeks and sometimes even months in advance. A direct breach into a foreign territory from an illegal portkey caused no end of hassle and paperwork, as well as a loss of face for the country of origin, and as such travel was heavily restricted by the Ministry.

Unless you knew how to make them – like Dumbledore – in which case the Ministry, the Department of Magical Transportation, had a blanket ward across the entire United Kingdom to immediately detect and dispatch a troop of highly-trained hit-wizards to trace or even stop the use of the portkey.

Unless you knew how to fool such detection wards – like Dumbledore – in which case anywhere in the world was pretty much a stone’s throw away.

Not unlike Dumbledore, I knew how to make portkeys.

The goblins could make them with their own particular brand of magic and those weren’t detected by the Ministry. Well, they were, but the Ministry turned a blind eye as per the accords of the Fourth Great Goblin Rebellion of the… thirteenth century? Yeah, I think so.

Of course if you’re willing to pay through the teeth for one, an international portkey can be arranged in a matter of moments from the posting just south of Dover along the archaic, chalky white cliffs breaking the sea. Ministry owned and operated – PORTUS (The PORTkey Under-Station) was all legal, all above board, and all recorded. That was the most important part of my devious plan.

It was here that Fleur and I had successfully infiltrated the United Kingdom. It felt good to be briefly home, gazing out at the soft grey sea and breathing in the heavy, salty limestone rolling in off the cliffs. Usually it was a month or so before I managed to get back on native soil, yet circumstance had demanded another road this life around.

And, if I’m being honest, I didn’t want to spend much time back home just yet. Not until my headache abated (if it would this time) and my memories worked themselves into some sort of order. The ground of this small island is soaked in blood, of the past and of the future. I’d seen so many people die here, under British sky, time and time again. No, I had few fond memories of this part of the world…

“A nice view,” Fleur said, as we walked along the outskirts of the coast, the English Channel away to our right and a slight drop of about seventy feet to the frothy swell below.

I nodded. “Clear enough day.” In my mind, I saw the sky aflame, scorched like burnt caramel mixed with toxic clouds of sickly-green vapour falling like rain. The world’s end. “You can just make out the French coast. See it?”

“Oui, ‘Arry.”

The Portkey Terminus appeared, from the outside, as nothing more than a dilapidated warehouse surrounded by rusted wire fences and overgrown shrubbery. There was a neon yellow sign that looked shiny and new bolted to the fence – it read:

WARNING

DANGER OF DEATH

A little caricature of a tiny silhouette-man being struck by a black bolt of electricity completed the warning to stay away. If that failed, there were a hefty amount of Muggle-repelling charms surrounding the facility. They hummed in my mind like the buzzing of a bee, beneath the pounding of the memories...

There was a steady stream of traffic going in and out of the building, visible to those magical folk that could see it. It was the summer holidays so every other wizarding family was either going away or coming back, and this led to a surplus of travellers entering the cavernous foyer of the warehouse, as well as the usual travellers portkeying to and fro.

Bright, mighty lights hung from the high-ceiling, spheres of burning magical fire, and dozens of luggage bags and suitcases floated at knee-height, or were lumped on weighted-down house elves tottering back and forth.

I tried to blend in, yet Fleur alone stuck out like a rose among weeds. Her icy cool stare and high chin deflecting more than a few lingering looks. There was a fair swath of people who recognised the famous Harry Potter, as well, for much good I could do them at the moment.

Inside PORTUS the dilapidated façade disappeared under the more traditional heavy brickwork of the wizarding world, similar to Diagon Alley and the Ministry. Slabs of green marble paved the floor and there were two main thoroughfares – one for Arrivals, and another for the Departure lounge beyond check-in and ticket purchasing.

“You attract the strangest looks, ‘Arry,” Fleur said, as we headed towards the check-in desks just before the security check points on the far side of the foyer.

“You’re attracting a fair amount of attention yourself,” I replied.

“Non,” Fleur said, shaking her head. “The looks I attract are simple to understand – amazement, lust, even misguided love. The veneer of a certain charm, a leetle jealousy from ze other women.” She paused. “The looks you attract, ‘Arry, are…”

Almost automatically people were getting out of our way, clearing a path out of the way of the ‘Chosen One’ as the Prophet had dubbed me, and the stunning French beauty by my side.

“Go on,” I said.

“These people are afraid of you.” Fleur scanned the crowds. “Or, afraid for you.”

I nodded in understanding. “They’re afraid of who I should be.” I’d seen it before – oh many, many times. Too many times. I think I’d had this conversation before, in another time, another place. Another world, another life…

“And who iz zat?”

“Voldemort’s nemesis.” I chuckled. “That charming hero we’re looking for.”

“Ah, I see.”

I think Fleur was beginning to see just how dangerous I was – if the Bone-Man and demon entourage hadn’t done that already – and kind of liked it. Both of us were old enough to know better yet too young to care. As for these strange looks I was attracting…

If I was being honest to myself, then I was half-expecting the looks to transform into shock and fear as the word spread that I was wanted for murder or assassination or whatever. Yet either it hadn’t happened yet, or word hadn’t spread. Bullshit frame-jobs aside, with the way my week was going I was fully expecting something unlikely to bite me in the arse.

I was pleasantly surprised to bypass two Aurors on duty without incident and approach the check-in counter, Fleur still at my side and a smile on my face.

“Hey there,” I said to the mature woman behind the desk, a pointed black hat sitting atop her strawberry curls. The silver letters on her golden name badge read: Sara.

The woman’s smile faltered and her eyes flickered from me to Fleur, where they widened, back to me again and up to my scar. Her mouth formed a tiny ‘o’ before she could stop it. “Good afternoon,” she stammered.

“And to you,” I replied, aware of the streams of people moving behind and around me. I kept half my focus searching for Death Eaters, for demons, for anything in between. “Hope you can help us today. Fleur and myself,” I gestured to the French witch, “need a portkey to the States as soon as possible.”

“Oh my, a holiday?” the woman, Sara, asked. “You don’t have a reserved ticket?”

“Unfortunately not. I was hoping to jump on the next available ring – if it needs to be widened, I’m willing to pay first-rates to save time.”

Sara’s stance softened with relief. “In that case, I’m sure we can arrange something within the hour. Mr. Potter, isn’t it?”

“It is – and this here is Fleur Delacour, my very legal travel guardian.”

“Bonjour.” Fleur inclined her head.

It was a simple process, really, yet without Fleur I would have been refused passage – being underage and all. The security check-point was yet to come, too.

“Here are two travel-permits to the United States – if I can get you to fill them out whilst I see what’s available, yes? – I think there’s a four-thirty to Washington that can be widened…” She trailed away, shifting through a packet of documents with her wand, and turning to one of her colleagues along the long counter.

Five minutes and two three-month holiday permits into the United States later, Sara beamed and told me it would be three hundred and twenty galleons to get us on a five o’clock portkey ring to Springer Mountain, Georgia, United States, Planet Earth. The location didn’t matter so much so long as it was close. I just hoped the paperwork wasn’t lost – it didn’t hurt to have a back-up if, when, this political assassination charge came back to haunt me.

“The charge can be credited against your Gringotts vault, Mr. Potter, if you can just fill out this slip…”

More paperwork – brilliant. This little slip was going to set every alarm bell in the goblin nation ringing. The little blighters would know I was in America before the day was out. Couldn’t be helped. I thanked the witch behind the counter, signed away three hundred galleons, and Fleur accepted two pieces of official-looking parchment in return.

We had our tickets, I was back on the grid, and the portkey left in just over an hour and a half.

I remembered to screw the Ring of Concealment from my finger as Fleur and I moved through security into the Departure Lounge. The Aurors on duty scanned our wands (much like in the Atrium of the Ministry), matched it against our magical signatures (I was fifteen-nearly-sixteen no doubt about it), and had us sign another set of clearance papers before we could proceed.

Beyond security we moved into the latter half of the warehouse, which had a large viewing window looking out at the sea beyond the vast cliffs and rows of generic-cushioned wooden chairs bolted to courtesy tables stacked with dog-eared copies of Witch Weekly and the Prophet. No matter what world you’re in – Muggle or Wizard – airport/portkey terminals are nigh on identical in their blandness.

“We are to depart from Chamber Nineteen, ‘Arry,” Fleur said, casting an eye across the ticket-parchment. “Merlin’s putáin, I cannot believe all zis is really ‘appening today.”

Believe it, baby. “Oh, we’re just getting warmed up.” I laughed at her expression. “Today is normal, for the most part, the real impossibilities are to come.” We were near the large long window that covered all of one wall, stretching away to the far end of PORTUS. “It’s a normal day out there, the sky is blue, the sea is choppy… Atlantis, though, is most certainly not normal. The sky is torn, the sea is dry – Atlantis is magic unleashed and untamed.”

Perhaps I should have felt guilty at the all-too-subtle manipulation, but I didn’t.

Heathen gods, Chronos had whispered. Yes, yes…

“Where did your knowledge of Atlantis come from, ‘Arry? How do you know what you are doing?”

Heh, did I know what I was doing? Barely, barely at all and no, not at all. I paused in my reply, looking into Fleur’s eyes, and for a moment saw her on fire, her eyes bursting onto scorched cheeks and her platinum-blond hair slick with her blood-my blood-and blue flame. People scream in a death like that – long and hard and forever in a second.

I opened my mouth to reply—

“Harry?” A familiar voice. “Harry!”

Fleur and I turned on the spot and there was Neville Longbottom, striding towards us in simple black robes, his bouncy light hair longer than I remembered and a goofy grin on his face.

“Neville,” I said, genuinely pleased, and offered him my hand.

My head throbbed as I tried to recall the last time I’d seen him. Fifth-year, the Hogwarts Express, barely a week or two ago, but then… it had been years. Years after he’d taken a Killing Curse to protect Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones from death… just one way Neville had gone out over the aching lifetimes in my head.

He always died in style. That was something, I suppose. Some people aren’t meant to do anything less.

Some people aren’t meant to grow old either.

“How are you?” Neville asked, glancing at Fleur and blushing.

“Heh, well,” I said. “I’m… well. You remember Fleur, from the Tournament?”

Neville nodded. “H-hi.”

“Bonjour, Neville,” Fleur said, and stepped closer to kiss him first on one cheek, and then the other.

I was always a little put-out by that. Fleur hadn’t kissed my cheeks when I’d come stumbling and bleeding into her yard some… fifteen, sixteen hours ago. I was being an idiot. Felt odd that it was still the same afternoon. Time-turners are funny like that.

Neville seemed to swoon and blink an awful lot as Fleur retreated, a knowing smile on her face.

“So, you’re off somewhere for the summer?”

Nevilled nodded, looking embarrassed. “With my Gran. We’re going to Spain for a few days to see my Uncle Algie. Ever since the Ministry came out and admitted that You-Know-Who’s back, he’s been Apparating off to the continent looking for a troll-dealer. You know, for protection.”

I snorted a laugh. “A troll? Wow.”

“Yeah…” Neville shrugged. “How about you, Harry? Where are you going?”

“America, actually, on business.”

“Business?”

“He means we are going to find ze lost city of Atlantis, don’t you, ‘Arry?” Fleur said, tilting her head to one side and pursing her full lips.

Oh, ha ha… I would’ve returned fire, but Neville’s grandmother chose that moment to appear as if from nowhere, trailed by a wobbling stack of suitcases which were levitated by a very pale house-elf with large, light blue eyes.

“Gran,” Neville said. “You remember Harry Potter – and this is Fleur Delacour.”

Although she wasn’t physically intimidating, Neville’s grandmother held herself as a strong and powerful woman, capable of dealing with Death Eaters or worse. Her face was old, cracked with lines, and powdered heavily. She wore a fox-fur scarf above solid green robes and that impressive hat topped with a stuffed vulture.

“Ah yes,” she croaked, grasping my forearm. “Neville tells me the pair of you gave those traitorous Death Eaters a run for their worthless skins at the Ministry. Just like my poor Frank and your dear father in their day.”

I wanted to break free of her grasp but I didn’t think I could. “Neville saved me a lot of pain and my life that night, ma’am,” I replied. My memories were murky at best of the Department of Mysteries. I could recall Sirius dying with pretty good clarity.

“Excellent, simply excellent, boys,” the old woman crowed. “And Mademoiselle Delacour, I trust your father is well? How fare’s the French Ministry?”

“Oui.” Fleur smiled, yet I caught it falter. No doubt she was thinking of President Laurent, who would be dead soon, if not already. I knew her father was a consultant on his staff, as well as patriarch of one of the oldest families in France. “Both are well.”

“Come, dear, you must have more than that. Tell me if we can expect that handsome man back on our soil soon.” Gran Longbottom detached her vice-like grip from my arm and seized Fleur’s, marching her over to the seating in the lounge. “Come along, Milky.”

The extremely pale-skinned house elf followed Neville’s Gran and Fleur, levitating their luggage before him, and leaving me with Neville and commiserations for Fleur.

“You have an albino house-elf named Milky?”

Neville shrugged, and smirked a little. “That elf’s older than I am. Probably out-live us all – him and Gran.”

To that I could only slowly nod.

“So how are things really?” I asked a moment later.

Neville was eyeing Fleur and his Gran from a distance, leaning against the giant window behind us. “Well, I’m not travelling with Fleur Delacour, Harry, but things are okay. I got a new wand – cherry and unicorn hair.”

“Cool.” I hadn’t anticipated running into anyone I knew this early in the summer, and with what was to come… Neville presented an opportunity. “Listen, Nev, I’m probably going to be in the papers and such over the next few days – and not for all this Chosen One stuff.”

“I was wondering about all that,” he said carefully. “You really going to face You-Know—

“Voldemort,” I cut in, and to his credit Neville’s eye was the only thing that twitched. “And yes, no sense hiding it, I’m going to challenge Voldemort, and I’m going to kill him.”

There followed a heavy few seconds, pregnant to the point of bursting, which hung in the air as Neville digested the scope of what I promised. “Good,” he said after the air had cleared. “Good. He could do with some killing.”

From what I could recall of Neville, as mixed up as my memories were, a year ago he would have cowered from the mere prospect and mention of the Dark Lord’s name. Neville Longbottom had really come into his own over our fifth-year at Hogwarts.

He’d had to, we all did.

We all changed.

Hell, there was a vast difference between who I am, and who I used to be three, nearly four, days ago. Neville was closer to my end of the spectrum than most – in part due to his parents’ fate, and the fact that the monsters that may as well be called their murderers were on the loose – committing all the old crimes on a new generation.

“I’m going to kill them, Neville, I’m going to kill them all.” Slowly. “For my parents, for yours… for my own fucking satisfaction.” That felt good – it always felt good to say that. “You with me?”

What a thing to ask someone. Yet Neville could understand the why and the how behind my god-awful question. I don’t doubt he’s imagined killing Bellatrix Lestrange more than once. Sometimes it was the only justice the innocent could be afforded.

He nodded, God damn it all, Neville nodded. As I had known he would. His jaw, still carrying vestiges of his chubby years, was set hard.

I grinned. “Then listen closely, because there’s work to be done…”

I proceeded to lay out a few plans and bits and pieces of plans that would come into play later in the summer, and once Hogwarts started again after September 1st. I warned him not to believe anything he read in the papers about me over the next few days, not elaborating on the assassination I was being framed for, and to expect owl post before the end of the month.

It wasn’t much longer after that that his portkey to Spain was set to leave, and he departed with a brief farewell and a contemplative look on his face, folded into his brow. I’d sworn him to secrecy, especially when it came to Ron, Hermione, and Ginny – I had plans for those three, too. I’d be sending more than a few letters over the weeks to come.

“You look relieved to be free of Gran,” I said to Fleur, as she joined me once again by the window. Our portkey still wasn’t for the best part of sixty minutes.

“Merde, that woman could gossip as ze world fell apart around her.”

“Oh, don’t tempt fate,” I said, chuckling. But it wasn’t funny. Why wasn’t it funny?

Because it had happened… I shook my head clear of some pretty terrible memories. My headache was worsening – I wasn’t feeling well. My stitches were burning a hole in my side… No, wasn’t feeling well at all.

In fact I felt like shit.

What time was it? Heh, hell, I realised with a start that I didn't know, and had to look at my watch. That alone scared me more than demons or madmen, Bone-Men or Orc-Mare, descending upon the world.

I’d set my watch to New York time. Doing the math, local time was 16:01 and forty-two seconds.

*~*~*~*

How often do I feel that strange perception, beyond mere words to explain, that reality has shifted… that nothing was as it had been.

That nothing was as it should be.

*~*~*~*

At a quarter to five Fleur surrendered our tickets to the attendant at the door of Chamber Nineteen, on the opposite side of the Departure Lounge from the long, panoramic window.

International mass-portkey travel was a simple process, really. Along with fifty other people all heading for the United States we filed into a plain stone room, floored with that same heavy marble that covered the whole facility. The room was bare save for a chalky limestone dais that supported a large, thin ring of wood, grooved with brass-iron hand bars – the Portkey – which had been extended to fit in two extra passengers. A simple bit of magic, yet they’d charged me three hundred galleons for it.

Who was the idiot?

Fleur and I stayed to the back of the group, away from the families with children, the floating mass of suitcases and luggage, some supported by two or three tiny house-elves, and away from the glances we had been attracting for the last hour and a half.

We each gripped one of the brass handles when instructed and as the clock on the wall and the clock in my head (which I was maintaining with a dogged diligence) I felt a familiar old tug behind my navel and we were off.

 

There. Mission Accomplished.

I’d left a paper trail that would hopefully help to exonerate me from any wrong-doing in a political assassination, and in so doing I had alerted the Ministry (which meant Death Eaters, which meant Voldemort, which meant darkness and murder), Dumbledore (which meant the Order of Phoenix, which meant worry for my friends), and no doubt the Goblins (which meant bounty hunters after my head, which meant more fighting, more killing).

Still, can’t help but be satisfied with a job well done.

The Portkey lasted a touch longer than average, due to the extra distance travelled outside of the United Kingdom, yet the world spun back into place in a matter of seconds, smelling heavily of springtime and shining as bright as midday – which it very nearly was.

Springer Mountain in Georgia was a beautiful place, warm and humid this time of year. There was a footpath at its summit that extended some two thousand or so miles north towards Maine, known as the Appalachian Trail. A hiker’s dream, six months of near-solitude, with nothing but the adversity and the wide expanses of empty nothing. The way my life was heading, it was beginning to sound like paradise.

A paradise that would burn like so much else if I didn’t get my act together.

“Well, here we are, ‘Arry,” Fleur said softly.

The large portkey-ring, and the fifty or so other travellers complete with luggage and house-elves, had appeared on a similar dais to the one we had just disembarked from. Shrouded within an apparent wilderness of lush green foliage and a canopy of over-hanging trees, we were very much out of sight of the Muggle world.

“Please proceed beyond the landing zone to Disapparate,” the polite attendant said, still holding the brass handle of the portkey. “Thank you for travelling with PORTUS, and welcome to the United States of America.”

I graciously wheeled Fleur’s small case across the mossy earth, holding my special briefcase close in my other hand. The gentle pressure of anti-Apparation wards within the portkey zone always felt a touch oppressive. I had the feeling I could break them, or even circumvent them, but the knowledge was fuzzy and soaked in lifetimes of blood. Easier just to walk.

“An interesting week for both of us, non?” Fleur asked, as she stepped lightly down a trail path made of broken pieces of stone. All around us wizards and witches were Disapparating away with loud pops and bangs. “I cannot deny I won’t remember my time with you, ‘Arry.”

I grinned, and with a bit of juggling with my briefcase, managed to slip the Ring of Concealment back onto my finger. I couldn’t be Harry Potter anymore. “Bet you wish you could forget that Bone-Man.”

Fleur’s creamy skin paled a shade. “Oui – yes! But I ‘ave forgiven you for bringing ze fairytales to life.”

“Oh, but I’m not done yet. We still have Atlantis to go – have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows? – and to round it all off the Fountain of Eternal Life, Avalon, and El Dorado await us.”

Fleur paused. “You jest.”

“For the most part,” I replied. “Here’s good for Apparating – now I know where I’m going, do you mind if I side-along you?”

“Non, I suppose not. New York City?”

Actually planning to touch Fleur sent a rush of blood pumping through my heart and into my head, making me feel almost light and dizzy. That might’ve been the concussion talking, though, from the however-many blows to the head I’d taken in the last day and a half (plus stab wound), yet I rather think it might’ve been Fleur, as well.

“New York City,” I confirmed with a nod. “For rest and relaxation – those Aurors kept me up past my bedtime.”

“Eet iz late, I suppose,” Fleur said, a soft grin warming her face. “You must be run down to nothing, ‘Arry. Does your side hurt?”

“Only when I breathe.” I chuckled, and gently took Fleur’s delicate hand in my own. “On three then – one, two, two and a half, POP!”

One thing I have to credit the Americans on is their integration of magic into the Muggle world. Take New York City, as the example, a city of some eight million people, ninety-nine percent of which have no clue of the wondrous world around them. Despite that, I could Apparate directly into the heart of Times Square and not a one of the Muggles would notice a damn thing.

I did just that.

This wasn’t due to any magical future-knowledge, or super-secret Harry power, but to the Apparation pad set just at the entrance to an alleyway alongside a fairly impressive hotel, of which I would soon be a guest. The Wizarding Congress of the United States had dozens of such Apparation hotspots in use throughout the city, indeed the entire country, and they were decked out with everything from Notice-Me-Not Charms to Silencing Nets.

Fleur and I had travelled through time, from the idyllic south of France, to the less idyllic but no less charming Dover, to the warm isolation of Springer Mountain, and now directly into the hustle and bustle, the hot stink and noise, of a city that would never sleep.

Fleur crinkled her nose, glancing around at the flashing neon lights, the signboards of Times Square advertising Coca-Cola and the latest Muggle films. Car horns blared, yellow taxis zoomed on by, and the sidewalk was packed with pedestrians who seemed all at once very busy and going nowhere, who paid Fleur and myself no mind at all. I breathed in the noise, the smell of the city – it was life, alive and real.

“Marvellous place,” I said, stepping clear of the wards surrounding the Apparation point. People began to step around me, grumbling at the inconvenience. I was quite clearly a tourist. Fleur followed, and the crowds forgot about me entirely, gobsmacked at her beauty.

“Quite generous,” Fleur said. “Remind me, why did I follow you, ‘Arry?”

“The promise of the tastiest hotdog in town.” I yawned. “Also my charm, good looks, and winning attitude.”

Fleur shook her gorgeous head. “Three days ago ze world made sense.”

“Tell me about it.” I held my eyes closed for a moment, numbing the memories. “Come on, this is where we’re staying. Very flashy hotel.”

It was a short walk from the Apparation pad. Side by side, Fleur and I entered a tall, very modern glass-fronted building that seemed to lean over us from above. The Marriott Marquis. It rose for about fifty floors, scraping the sky. I intended to rape the mini-bar as soon as possible, and not just in my room.

Five minutes later, and after reserving two adjoining rooms for the next four nights (just in case, America wouldn’t take that long), I’d checked-in under my false Muggle passport, travelling as Mr Ethan Rafe, Fleur and I ascended the hotel inside the elevator, heading for floor thirty-nine.

I’d been quite the gentleman in offering Fleur her own room, whilst inside my mind was racing and hoping that the old cliché would fall true and there would only be one available room in this hotel of some two thousand or so rooms. Curse the laws of probability, yet there was only a door separating us in the sleeping arrangements. Oh yeah, my mind was racing.

”Here you are, ‘Arry,” Fleur said, and handed me a bunch of galleons and sickles, as we rose up alone in the elevator.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“My room – I do not ‘ave any Muggle money, yet zat should cover eet.”

I offered it back to her. “You really don’t have to. It was next to nothing.” Honestly, I had about two hundred thousand American Dollars in my enchanted briefcase.

“I can pay my own way,” she replied, tilting her head to gaze at me. Her calm, cool stare was cruel, beautiful, and unnerving all at once. Damn it all, Fleur could disarm me faster than any dark wizard with a score to settle.

“Well this is way too much,” I protested, shaking my fist full of gold.

“You forget, up until very recently I was an employee of Gringotts. Ze exchange rate roughly means my share is three galleons and twenty sickles.”

Quite soon, I’d have access to more gold than in all the goblin vaults in all the whole wide world. Yet it didn’t feel right taking Fleur’s money. Call me old fashioned, call me insane, call me a chauvinistic pig. Fleur wouldn’t relent, however, and I just looked foolish resisting. I pocketed the galleons promising myself that I’d offload a Quidditch stadium full of coin on her in return. “Thanks.”

“Thank you – I expect ze next few days will prove interesting.”

“That they will.”

My room number was 886, and Fleur was 887. There were no keys in such a modern, Muggle building, and I had to show Fleur how to use her swipe card to open the room. I followed her in, wheeling her slight suitcase behind me, and whistled low at the impressive Executive Suite.

Fleur’s room – and I imagined mine would be much the same – was full of sparkling marble bench-tops, soft carpets and mahogany furniture. A desk, a sitting table and entertainment centre, along with kitchen facilities. There was en-suite bathroom of polished white porcelain jutting off from the room containing a large double-bed. New York City shone beyond the large windows, and as high up as we were there was a view for miles across the endless metropolis.

“I must send an owl home soon, ‘Arry,” Fleur said, her eyes on me and not on the room. “Yet I shall let you rest first, before we proceed, I theenk. Zere is still much to discuss between us, as well.”

I nodded slowly, stifling a yawn, and swayed on the spot a little. “You should get some sleep, too, we’ve a busy few days ahead. I promise we’ll go to the wizarding district tonight for an owl – perhaps dinner, too, if you want? Or would it be breakfast to us?”

Fleur shrugged, as if to say it did not matter. “You are dead on your feet, ‘Arry Potter. Go get some sleep before ze next monster attacks. I need you at your best for that.”

It was a joke – yet it wasn’t, and I think Fleur knew it. “Good morning then,” I said, for it still hadn’t hit midday yet. Time-travel… different time-zones… same headache.

“Rest well, ‘Arry.”

“And you, Fleur.”

My room was practically identical to Fleur’s. I tossed my briefcase onto my bed and kicked off my shoes, shrugging off my suit jacket and untucking the silk shirt. I needed some more clothes, and a place to keep everything that was to come. The shirt still felt a little stifling, so I unbuttoned it completely and took it off.

The bandages that criss-crossed my chest were stained through red with fresh blood, no doubt from a tear in the stitches across my side. “Damn it all,” I swore under my breath. Ah well, it could wait.

I took a moment to collect my thoughts and think about what had happened to me in the last few days, what was to come, and what I still needed to do. There was so much. It was overwhelming. I took a deep, shuddering breath, winced at the strain it caused on my magic-proof wound, and let it out slowly.

The latest problem – this assassination nonsense I still knew next to nothing about – needed a moment’s attention. Neville Longbottom should understand I didn’t do it, as he trusted me and I’d warned him I was about to make the papers again. Yet there was another that might have trouble trusting me, after my deceit and abuse of his trust in the Magnus Fontis, far beneath the streets of Rome.

The window opened enough to let in the city air, as I drew my wand and muttered a well-known charm. “Expecto Patronum.” The happy memory I used was seeing Fleur and Tonks again after watching them both die in flame.

My corporeal patronus erupted from my wand, magnificent and absorbed of silver light. It was Dumbledore himself that created this method of communication. “’lo, Prongs,” I said, tilting my head to the patronus. “Up for a trip? Tell him I’m sorry, would you, and tell him I’m innocent, that there is a lot to explain. Tell him… Harry sends his—” love? “—best.”

The message would be relayed exactly as that, in my voice. I wish I’d done a better job of it. No matter. Prongs had already leapt out the window, a streak of silver in the bright blue sky. Generally speaking, even Dumbledore would have trouble sending a patronus across the Atlantic and all the miles back to England. Yet I had my ways, and I’d given Prongs a little extra boost of magic. He should last long enough to relay the message to old Albus.

I turned away from the window and sat down at the fine desk, pulling a fancy piece of paper printed with the hotel’s letterhead towards me, and tapped a ballpoint pen thoughtfully against the leg of the chair. The bed looking inviting, and I could sense the mini-bar away to my left… yet there was work to do – always and forever work to do.

The first rune that came to me was the one I’d used to restrain the Bone-Man. I could almost feel my wand burning a hole in my pocket as I thought of the magic of the Old World, the protection of the Old World, and the destruction. I’d get some sleep in an hour or two, but for now there was work to be done – I do what I have to do, after all, and I have to walk it all alone.

I was beginning to think that may be a bad thing – not a wrong thing – but awfully right for very terrible reasons.

 

I think my greatest flaw might be that I fight alone – always have done. Other people die, other people get killed, and I can’t deal with it. I transcended time and space to undo the future, and yet I keep making the same mistake. And I know it, I do, time and time again, I keep fighting this war mostly on my own.

And look what happens. Yet what choice did I have? What hope? I try and I try and this time my best… well, it has to be good enough.

Because everything from the bleeding stab wound in my side, to the blazing headache consuming my will to live, told me that this time around all bets were off.

All bets were off. 

And the world belonged to the last man standing.

*~*~*~*

 

A/N: Next chapter will be here when it’s here. A new character or two will be introduced, a battle may be fought, supplies will be purchased. Atlantis is on the horizon.