Disclaimer: Looks to me like heaven sent this for your roughest night. Yeah, looks to me, looks to me, alright. Who wants to take you home and hold you when things aren't so bright?

A/N: Well, folks, what d'you know? Turns out I am still writing and updating this story. Please forgive the gap between updates - I've been at uni, got some full time work, and been hard at work on a few side projects! Exciting stuff. But not for you, so here's a new chapter - 12,000 words. Bit of story, bit of action, bit of cussing. You know, the standard stuff.

Please read and review,

Joe

*~*~*~*

Harry Potter and the Wastelands of Time

Chapter 14 – Pissing in the Wind

Part Five – The Wizard

Now every gambler knows, that the secret to survivin’
Is knowin’ what to throw away and knowin’ what to keep.

‘Cause every hands a winner, and every hands a loser,
And the best you can hope for is to die in your sleep.

~~Kenny Rogers

Dinner with Fleur had always and forever been a test of my willpower, especially when she wore those low-cut black dresses that gave just an inch too much of pale, creamy skin.

The air in the restaurant was cool and yet overlayed with the scent of oriental spices and the heavy aroma of cooking salts.

“To begin with, you have to understand that through my scar my mind is linked to Voldemort’s…”

And was that a fair beginning? Or a rather terrifying distraction from the disgusting truth? Either way, there was fear in Fleur’s perfect eyes. Good... good.

*~*~*~*

I was in the wrong place at the wrong time – naturally, I became a hero.

*~*~*~*

“We should order some food before I continue,” I said, tapping my fingers rapidly against the white linen tablecloth. “And some alcohol. At the very least, half this story demands whiskey and beer.”

“Very well,” Fleur replied, after a long moment in which she appraised me with those slightly fearful eyes. “But no delaying any longer beyond zat, ‘Arry.”

I summoned the waiter and Fleur and I placed our orders for dinner. My time zones were a little skewed and as such, this was the second dinner I’d had today. The first being the salmon Fleur and I prepared that afternoon, some eighteen hours ago for me. Goddamn time-travel.

As we waited for the drinks to arrive (I’d ordered a double-shot of bourbon, and thankfully didn’t have to flash any ID, fake or otherwise, as the waiter’s attention had been absorbed by Fleur’s beauty), I contemplated once more on just what I was going to say here. How much I could get away with not saying.

Keeping Fleur with me was of the upmost importance – simply because I knew I could rely on her in a tight situation. She was quick with a wand, and ruthless to her enemies. Both good qualities. Keeping her close also ensured her safety, for the most part, with my considerable talent to protect her.

Third good reason to keep her close was that, given time, I had more than once gotten her out of those revealing black dresses and stockings and into my bed. Life holds few perks for me – a lot of the time I feel like I’m pissing into the wind. Most of the time, in fact. Fleur has always remained one of those few, precious perks.

She was strawberries and rainfall, and burning memories of a forgotten future.

I shook my head, avoiding Fleur’s eyes as I waited for my drink. I definitely didn’t feel like the good guy at the moment. And I wasn’t, not by a long shot. Being the good guy left me with far too much accountability for my actions. I needed to be merciless, dangerous, with no sense of guilt.

Was any of this crap something I could tell Fleur, to keep her with me?

“You are always frowning, ‘Arry.”

I dragged myself out of my thoughts, glanced around for my drink, and shrugged. “What was it that made you trust me this far, Fleur?” I asked.

“It was not simply a matter of trust.”

“No? I suppose it wasn’t…” I found a smile. It was the Bone-Man all come to life, it was the madman who held a knife to your throat, and the madman who stopped him from slicing you open. “Far too many madmen…”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, just frowning out loud.”

Fleur tilted her head. Each individual strand of her platinum hair seemed to sparkle with promise. “Your scar… is a link to You Know Who?”

“Voldemort.” I said, emphasis on the –mort. “And yes, this damn curse – the dark magic running through it – lets me see into Voldemort’s head… and he into mine. We are, and always have been, two shredded souls sharing what amounts to the same mind.”

Fleur was painfully silent. In that silence my bourbon arrived and I tossed it back in one, ordering another before the waiter could get away. The liquid certainly didn’t have the kick of Firewhiskey, or Dragon’s Breath, but it felt oh-so-good regardless.

Taking a sip of red wine, Fleur found her voice… “If I did not know you as well as I ‘ave come to, ‘Arry, I would say that such a link between two minds is impossible.”

“So would most,” I agreed, testing the waters and deciding how much to say. Fuck it. “It’s not a good thing, not by far. Most of the time it’s just painful, other times it’s been used against me and good people have died.” Family, for the most part. “This scar, Fleur, is magic raped and abused, twisted into something dark and rotten.”

And what of your time-travel magic, Harry? A tiny voice tittered away in the back of my mind. What dark paths did you tread to tear your soul from your body and send it hurtling back eight full years? My hand was shaking on the table. I moved it down onto my lap. Thoughts best left for another time – another life, even. There had been plenty of those.

“I can keep going now, I think,” I said into Fleur’s familiar silence. I tapped my scar. “This is only the beginning though, it gets a lot darker.”

“Go on…” There was only a slight waver of hesitation in her voice.

I grinned, and went for the lie I’d been planning on. “Well, understanding this scar and my connection to Voldemort should help you understand why I know so much about the ‘mythical’ lost city of Atlantis.” I gave Fleur a moment to think on that. The gentle warmth of conversation from the other restaurant patrons around us seemed surreal, considering what it was we were discussing. Where did the real world go, I wondered.

“ You ‘ave seen Atlantis… because Voldemort ‘as seen Atlantis, oui?” Fleur nodded to herself – it was an honest conclusion to make from the little true information she had. “How terrifying.”

I’d seen Atlantis because I’d spent lifetimes crawling and dying through the arsehole of the world, seeking scraps of information, hidden clues and cryptic riddles. I’d done my homework, time and time again, for the ability to breach the defences around the Old World and challenge Voldemort for mastery of what remained of the greatest civilisation the planet has ever known.

In the beginning – the very beginning – my first life, there had been no challenge. Voldemort had taken and twisted Atlantis to his own ends and unleashed the power of the Old World upon our shiny new world. It was only a cruel twist of fate and my own not-so-small sacrifice that allowed me to come back to this point in time and piece the end of the world together.

To stop it – to change it. Someone has to stop the madness. Someone has to…

“You’re wondering how Voldemort found Atlantis to begin with, aren’t you?” My second double of whiskey was winding its way over from the bar. “To understand that, Fleur, you have to understand why he can’t be killed – in the general sense of the word.”

That fear had deepened in her brilliant eyes. She wouldn’t hold my gaze for more than a few seconds, unnerved by what I was saying. Who wouldn’t be? Well, I wouldn’t be, but then I’d had decades to get used to the whole godforsaken situation.

“Are you saying zat Voldemort iz immortal?” The words were a whisper, barely spoken and stolen on the air – already wanting to be forgotten.

I wanted to say no, but the best I could do was frown and shrug. You frown too much, ‘Arry. I know, sweetheart, I know. I also die too much, and lie too much, and kill too much. Drink too much… haven’t been smoking enough. Wizarding cigars were on the list.

“’Arry?”

It would be far too easy to say no, and to say yes. Maybe yes and maybe no? This is why I fought my battles alone these days. Sure, I’d died and died because of that, but the cost, the sheer cost of the apocalypse, demanded nothing less. Yes, Fleur, Voldemort may as well be immortal.

“Do you know,” I began, sipping at my newly arrived second drink. “Do you know what a Horcrux is?”

The light in the room seemed to darken, at least to me and in my mind, at the mention of such dark magic.

Fleur tasted the word and found it unfamiliar. “Eet sounds… grotesque.”

“Oh yes.” Some words had such an affect. Fleur was part magical creature. She knew the force that drove us all more closely than most. “A horcrux is a way to cheat death by taking a life.” No sugar coating here. “An act of brutal, cold murder tears the soul asunder, Fleur.” I paused, swirling the tip of my finger in the amber whiskey. “Imagine that for a moment… just imagine.”

“’Arry…”

“Imagine what it takes to have so little humanity that you’d murder someone, without reservation, be it a father… a mother… or even an infant. And with that act you rip your own soul apart. Your soul, the life inside of you, is maimed.” I chuckled mirthlessly. “You do that, and you have yourself half a horcrux.”

“Voldemort has done this?”

“He sure has, but the bastard has taken the idea of a horcrux further than even the darkest wizards in history.” I thought about relenting, but Fleur needed to know what she was facing if she stood by me. The hell of it was, I already knew she would stand by me. “People like you, Fleur, you could study sadistic killers like Voldemort your entire life and never understand what makes him think he had the right to rape the soul of a child and leave the body broken and dead.”

“Merde, ‘Arry,” Fleur whispered. Darker, bloodier waters now… the sharks were circling, the sharks never stopped swimming.

“There’s some spellwork, some blood magic, and an object of power involved, but once he had ‘done the deed’, so to speak, and murdered another, Voldemort made himself as close to immortal as anyone’s ever been.” My appetite was dwindling. Still, onward I fared. “Here’s the plot twist though, Fleur. Voldemort did this not once, but seven times. If you know anything of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, then you know the significance of the number seven.”

Fleur was nodding, engrossed by the morbidity of the conversation. It was like a train wreck – brutal, bloody, but you could never look away. I’d just divulged a secret known only to three people in the entire world. A school boy, an old man, and the demon himself.

That reminded me – I wonder if Dumbledore had gotten my patronus message yet? The timing was right for everything to explode. No doubt the old man knew Fleur and I had departed legally through PORTUS. The little goblin bastards would know soon enough. All eyes would be on America before this day was out. This long, long day… The only uncertainty that remained was this assassination plot I was supposedly to blame for. No doubt it would be in the papers soon enough.

“I’m telling you this because you trusted me enough to put your life in my hands in this last day,” I said. “Now my life, my curse, is in your hands – do with me what you will, Fleur.”

I think it was a surprise to us both when Fleur chuckled. “So zis iz how I see eet, ‘Arry,” she said, her accent thick and strong. “You share your thoughts with an immortal, soulless dark wizard, who gains his power by murdering innocent people in cold blood, oui?”

I thought about it that way. “Yeah, that about sums up the last ten minutes pretty well, actually.”

Fleur’s laughter died away in a sour grimace that looked alien on such a beautiful face. “Shit,” she said. And then, for lack of anything else to say, she said it again, “Shit.”

I raised my glass. “Cheers to that,” and drained the remaining liquor in one bittersweet swallow. “Ah… Oh, barkeep!”

*~*~*~*

Here’s to the real world, caught somewhere between the Old and the New.

Are you ready for the maelstrom of fire?

No more lonely nights, Harry. No more souls torn to shreds. I still relive that day, the day I killed the real world. It haunts me. If such ghosts of the past aren’t real, then why can I see them?

It all goes back to that day – eight years from now and eight years ago.

The day you jumped – screaming wild-laughter into the abyss, and sacrificed your own precious soul to the madness.

Someone had to end it, right?

Right?

*~*~*~*

Dinner was a rather subdued affair after the opening topic of conversation. There was still a lot to say, yet by unspoken consent Fleur didn’t want to hear anymore just yet.

What had been said was terrible enough for now – and a helluva lot to take in.

Instead Fleur told me of her years at Beauxbatons Academy – the French Hogwarts equivalent (but, you know, without the castle and dark, dark history of magical chaos and war) – and her plans to continue her study in a few months at a sort of wizarding college in Paris. She wanted to learn the finer points of wizarding law because, as she said, “There iz a more than capable brain beneath my beauty”. It was an admirable career path.

Shame about the war that was coming – that was already here in so many ways. It would put a rather unmerciful bolt to the brain stem of that particular cow.

I had ordered some sort of marvellous crumbed beef with a spicy curry sauce. It came with a pot of watery seafood soup and cream liquor. All in all, not bad grub, considering I was six shots of straight whiskey to the wind. I had to admit, my head was spinning a little, and I was feeling more and more attractive as the night wore on.

Maybe no more whiskey. Well, maybe just one more. Not as if I had to drive or fly anywhere tonight.

Ah, but what if demons attack, Harry?  the voice of reason asked. Clearly, I hadn’t had enough to drink if this whole situation still allowed for objective reasoning. What of Saturnia, or this new bastard Chronos, who can appear from nowhere?

All good points, I suppose. But what of numbing my frickin’ headache? What of trying to forget, even for just a night, the nightmares burning through my mind? I hadn’t had a moment’s peace in four solid days, not really. There were no words, no way of making anyone understand the countless memories I had of Hell – of Hell unleashed upon the Earth time and time again. The vivid memories and faux sensations I had of dying, in so many wonderful ways, were the worst. It sucks to die young, of that I could be quite sure.

“You are mumbling, ‘Arry.”

I blinked and caught myself whispering my current internal monologue under my breath. Heh, so much for maintaining an air of sanity. I hadn’t been sane for years, long before I took up this time travelling lark. “I’m just thinking…” I said.

“Oui, obviously. About what?”

“You must still have a hundred and one questions.”

Fleur nodded. “I do, yet I am also beginning to understand why you are so hesitant to answer most of them. Why you so often put a false humour in your words. I may not be able to sleep easy for some time after learning ze truth of You Kn-of Voldemort.” The last was uttered as a defiant whisper, travelling through a tunnel of veiled fear.

“Are you second-guessing your choice to come with me?” Of course you are.

Fleur shrugged. “Oui, yes—I suppose.” In one smooth, elegant, graceful movement that had my eyes darting from her slender arms to her curvaceous neck and rose-red lips, Fleur drained her glass of red wine.

“I can get you a Portkey back to France whenever you want,” I said. Fleur wasn’t going anywhere – we both knew it. At the core of us both there was a thirst for the thrill and adventure of the life I had to live. This whole thing, however awful and terrible the war might be, was too damned exciting.

At least that’s how I saw things.

Fleur’s perspective may have been skewed by the unknown elements in the story this time around. Saturnia and Chronos, the Bone-Man and the threat on her life from what amounted to a demigod.

“You expect to run into zat man in my garden again, don’t you, ‘Arry?” Fleur said, almost mirroring my thoughts. “The man who held me at knife point, who spoke of such strange things…”

I nodded. “I think he’s the bastard who framed me for this assassination thing we’ve heard so little about. Chronos – if you recall his name – has a counterpart in a woman that calls herself Saturnia. She was the one that stabbed me in Italy. I… I don’t know who they are or what they really want, but I think they’re trying to herd me toward Atlantis.” I paused. “For their own dark ends, no doubt.”

Fleur had more to think about, it seemed, so I set about ordering another drink. I decided to lay off the hard spirits and had the waiter bring me over an imported beer. Clutching the cool bottle reminded me that there was work to be done tonight, still, in the form of runes and captured starlight.

“And Atlantis itself, ‘Arry Potter,” Fleur said, drawing me back into conversation. “You ‘ave simply decided to go after eet yourself? At the very least, Albus Dumbledore could aid you—”

“Dumbledore would have me shielded from harm as he investigates the scant possibility that Voldemort could be doing something so outrageous as to seek the Lost City.” I chuckled. “There are fairytales mixed up in this mess, Fleur, and Albus Dumbledore has his mind set on more… hallowed tales.”

The French beauty shook her head. “There is more going on in Britain and the war than I know, isn’t there?”

“Only a lot.”

“What do you know?”

“Only a bit.”

“Ah, and yet here you are, scouring the globe for heaven knows what in order to find the way to ze Lost City of Atlantis. Unbelievable.”

To that I could only shrug. “I kind of know the way.” Little lie. “I don’t know how I know for sure, but so far all signs are pointing the way ahead.” Big lie.

“You ‘ave angered powerful people, especially ze goblins.”

I waved my newly arrived beer dramatically through the air, smirking with an air of supreme confidence. “Let them come. Let them all come.” My face fell a few notches. “They’ll have a fight on their hands.”

“I am still in awe over your battle with ze Bone-Man. I felt absolutely paralysed in front of zat thing.”

I wondered if any of the Muggles nearby could hear our conversation. If so, what were they making of it, I wonder. Probably understanding about one word in three. I wish I could have been that blissfully ignorant – and so hopelessly oblivious. When would it be someone else’s turn to save the world? I was no good at it… No, not at all. And last time counts for all.

“That’s part of its glamour,” I said, picturing the legions and hordes of the Old World unleashed upon our modern world. Fucking stupid Voldemort meddling with power best left dead. “Creatures like that… well, they aren’t creatures. They have intelligence – a vast, dark intelligence. Completely alien to our own, and yet they understand the world. They understand the power of human emotion and twist it toward fear. That’s what paralysed you.”

“And you, ‘Arry? Why not you?”

“I’m fearless,” I replied. There was a grain of truth to that – but just a grain. I feared myself. I feared the damage I could do (had done – will do). “And you can block out the mind-numbing influence by shutting down your emotion, separating yourself from… from feeling. It’s not an easy trick, but try it sometime. Become detached.”

Fleur laughed. “Iz zat why you acted so insane, laughing and dancing across my garden path and chopping down my trees?”

I blinked. Had I done that? Yes, yes I had. Fuck… “Heh. No, that was just me being me.”

Fleur finished her third drink and looked over at me from across the golden rim of the wine glass, her eyes almost suggestive and her demeanour so raw it was unintentionally sexual. “Just ‘Arry?” she said, a low husk to her whisper. “Just ze famous ‘Arry Potter.”

I shivered, unable to suppress the wave of ecstatic desire that rushed through me. A faint blush warmed my cheeks and that broke the spell, for Fleur at least, who smiled and looked away towards the bar, contemplating another drink.

I let a heavy second pass… and another.

Something had just passed between us – something… without time. Why did that sound right? What did I mean? No matter. It was nonsense. Nothing was without time. Nothing. That something, though, it was the start of something more, of that I was sure.

Love reign o’er me, I thought. And bring the rain.

Strange thoughts. But then my mind had become a very strange place a few days ago – burning with an eternity of broken memory. One thing was sure, with or without Fleur, the world would never be the same by the time I was through.

Fleur had decided to order that next drink. I think perhaps she had also sensed that something between us – that brief moment of murky clarity – as the rest of our conversation for the evening turned to lighter things, and stayed there. We talked of the magical world, of the muggle world, and steered clear of any topic that drifted too close to the Dark War.

I was glad the subject of Voldemort and Atlantis had been dropped. How could I explain that, by his very soulless nature, Voldemort was more alike to magic and the Old World than any wizard or witch who prided themselves on being good and decent, and steering clear of any magic dubbed a ‘Dark Art’? How could I explain that Atlantis, the wondrous lost city of the first race of magical folk, cried out to Voldemort because it was as torn and broken as he was?

How could I ask Fleur to walk into a world where it was a crime to have a soul?

*~*~*~*

We better stop, hey, what’s that sound? Everybody look what’s going down…

*~*~*~*

Fleur was a picture of elegance and grace and I had nearly stumbled into the vase in the corridor as she swiped her keycard and stepped into her room. I was over the limit and three shades of drunk, yet for the first time in days there was some minor abatement to my ferocious headache.

“Goodnight, ‘Arry,” Fleur said, standing in the doorway. “An… illuminating dinner, yet a pleasant evening despite ze talk of dark magic.”

I nodded happily, standing in my suit and feeling brave enough to try my luck, to invite myself in to Fleur’s room. But that would be foolish. I was many things – a time-traveller, a wizard, a killer, a heroic villain, a mess – but I wouldn’t be that guy. That guy that had leered at Fleur since she was old enough to turn heads, that saw nothing but curves and long legs, and wanted nothing more than to tear her clothes off in a fit of arrogant, selfish, misguided passion.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” I said softly, pushing my glasses up on the bridge of my nose and turning away. “Keep your wand close, and blast a hole through to my room if anything happens,” I called back over my shoulder.

“’Arry.”

One word spoken like a command and I stopped, turning on the spot. “Yes?”

Fleur met my eyes and smiled. It was very honest. She stepped back out into the corridor, close enough to embrace me… and she did. Her soft, cool lips met my cheek – which blazed with the fire of all my wasted lives.

Was it terrible to feel so wasted – so thin and stretched to impossible limits – and so miserable at a moment like this? More questions than answers… maybe yes, maybe no.

“Goodnight, ‘Arry,” Fleur said again, with subtle purpose.

And here is a moment without time, I thought. Her lips were close enough to catch with a proper kiss. I dared not…

“You do frown too much, ‘Arry—you’re frowning right now.” Fleur laughed, softly and a little sadly. “I’d tell you not to worry so much… but you, of all people, should be worrying. For all our sakes, I theenk.”

I could smell warm red wine on her breath. It was comforting, and made me think of a woman I had never honestly met – my mother. I don’t know why I had that thought… but it left me feeling afraid. I turned and fled with another quick, muttered “goodnight”, as fast as I could, feeling ashamed of my arousal.

Back in my room the night was young but the day had been long – too long. I was feeling warm from the alcohol buzz and more than a little confused about my feelings for Fleur.

Damn it all, I thought.

My younger self, the boy I had been just half a week ago, now lived and cared for two women with the stupid grace of an older man. A terrible older man that had come back from the future, with screaming memories of having been here more than once a long, long time ago. I’d been turned into a burning mess of confused truth and bitter certainty – certainty that nothing lasts, not ever.

I hadn’t bothered with the lights but there was a soft glow of fluorescent colour shining up from Times Square far below. A rectangle of pale light stretched across the carpet as I opened the mini-bar and removed two bottles of sweet, sweet Belgium beer. I twisted the caps off both, took a swig from one, and poured the rest down the sink in the bathroom.

Is Fleur thinking about me? I wondered. No doubt she was, but not for the reasons I was thinking about her.

I tore the sticky labels from the beer bottles and removed my wand from the inner pocket of my suit jacket. Now I needed to concentrate through the drunken haze, as I had a flickering memory of cutting my thumb off with this spell I was about to attempt.

Okay… “Sil-othrinum!” Old magic. As old as the earth.

The tip of my wand began to glow with a bead of fiery blue light that whitened almost to silver as a wave of heat washed over me and blistered the bathroom sink. The bead of light narrowed and lengthened into a thin needle – hot enough to scorch bone, or glass. I held the first beer bottle by its neck and began to etch and melt runes into the clear glass. Streaks of beer foam evaporated under the heat.

It was slow work and I regretted the bourbon now, as a mess of runes flooded through my aching mind. I picked the ones I needed – a slew of lesser runes for strengthening the fragile glass, clearing it of impurities, and a handful of higher runes that turned the bottle into something else entirely… a receiver.

A receiver for what, Harry?

Well, for starlight.

It took me ten minutes for each receiver and when I was done the bottles were still bottles – only they weren’t. They were vessels. The glass was unnaturally clear, and when the runes cooled it was as if they had been crystallised within the thickness of the glass. Magic was a wonderful, dangerous thing. It turned simple, sharp lines into runes of power, which moved and changed shape within their new clear prison.

“Done and done,” I muttered… bone and bone… wanting to go bed.

But no bed just yet. I filled each bottle a third of the way up with water fresh from the tap and left the bathroom.

The vessels I took over to the window, placing them on the sill a hand span apart, and let them get on about their work. Kicking off my shoes, I undressed down to my boxers and ever so carefully lowered myself down onto the bed. The stab wound in my side had bled through into the bandages again. My stitching wasn’t great – but it was dry, which made the blood a problem for the morning.

It was 21:42 and thirty-three seconds according to the clock in my head and the watch on my wrist. Bed time then. I’d need to be up about dawn, to get on with the next arduous day.

A somewhat long and aching sigh bled out of me as my head hit the pillow. I’d lost count of the hours of this day and all that happened… but it was all said and done now. Done but can’t be undone, as the saying goes.

Over on the windowsill, my bottles began to sing, like the chiming of a bell just below hearing. Through blurred eyes I saw a wisp of something that looked like white smoke, or mist, filtering in right through the window. It flowed into the mouth of each bottle. Within the mist were sparks of pure silver light. The sparks brightened and dimmed on the whims of passing time.

Starlight.

A magical ingredient not manufactured for the best part of 5,000 years. I suppose I should’ve been impressed with something so rare and amazing. But I was just tired. Starlight was incredible though – incredibly destructive. The water in the bottles was to keep the sparks of light fluid and cool, and it was already flowing with tiny silver dots of power. If one of those bottles shattered…

Heh. Well.

If one of those bottles shattered full of starlight, bursting to the brim, the wave of energy released would be mindless and merciless – a cascading hurricane of power that would level this hotel and turn Times Square into dust.

Yeah, I was making a bomb.

Why? For the same old why. For power and for fear and because someone has to stop the madness… to stop the madness… stop the—

Starlight has other uses, too, but none of them were nearly as fun.

The soft music spiralling down the necks of my bottle-bombs sent me drifting off into a muddled sleep only a few minutes after my head had hit the pillow. It was a dark sleep, restless and rotten, but sleep nonetheless…

*~*~*~*

What’s that sound?

It’s the sound of time ticking away, and my life ending one second at a time. That’s a beat we all hear…

I guess sometimes I’m the only one that can make a difference. A chaotic agent for change, using and abusing time.

God damn the heroes that don’t question their actions.

God pity those that do.

*~*~*~*

For a wonder, I actually felt better in the morning. Sure I was mildly hungover, my stitches itched so much they hurt, and my headache was beating hard and fast enough to march to war (oddly fitting), but still I felt as if sleep had actually done me some good.

It was 05:42 and twelve seconds – just before true dawn.

The sky was a tentative pale wash beyond my window, and my bottles of starlight twinkled very, very dimly. Just a wisp of a spark. Starlight was harmless during the day—well, no, no it wasn’t. That amount could still explode, just not as spectacularly as if it were night. It would only blow off, say, the top seven floors of the hotel. Sobering thought, somewhat. Starlight needed nightfall, needed darkness, to truly shine. I suppose there is some sort of poetic irony in that.

Okay, it was July 17th. A new day. A Wednesday.

I’d come far in the last few days, survived more than a few unexpected scrapes, made a few more enemies, yet there were still miles to go. Days to go. Months and worlds to go.

Best be getting on with it.

A shit, shower, and shave later found me sealing my starlight bottles up tight, as fresh as a daisy and dressed in one of my cutting suits. I needed to look the part today, to earn some trust. I fused the mouths of the bottles closed with heat from my wand, thinking about Fleur and breakfast and where best to obtain a wizarding newspaper. I needed to check and see if I was wanted for an international assassination.

I had a feeling I was.

But so what?

I stocked my briefcase with what would be needed for the day. First off, I took out some of the crap I’d gathered over the last few days – namely half a million dollars in various Muggle currencies – to free up a bit of space in the tarnished leather case. I kept the Invisibility Cloak in there, and added my two bottles of starlight, about two hundred galleons from the stash I’d cheated Miguel Blue out of, and his magical cube which would serve as one of the Keys to the Past.

After that, my case was full and heavy again, but the day would empty it of most of the remaining cash and possibly the manuscript I had gained from the cavern deep within the heart of Mt. Everest.

Special book that – one half of the most cryptic document ever conceived. And there was only one man alive with a mind sharp enough to read it. I’d be meeting that man for the first time today – in this life, at least. Jason Arnair.

And that was that – it was still early, too early to disturb Fleur – so I stood before the window and gazed down at the city beyond the glass, my hands clasped behind my back and my eyes slightly narrowed. Heh, I was frowning. I smoothed my brow and considered my options, all my options, looking for a way out.

What would happen if I threw myself out this window?

I’d wake up in the past four days ago to such pain that my eyes would burst in their sockets, to pain enough to kill me, and start the cycle over again. I could not die – I. Could. Not. Die. To do so would be a sentence straight into Hell. Gosh darn it, but death would not be the end of suffering, merely the beginning of futile indifference.

I had to win this time.

I had to play the game smart, I had to play the game to win, and I had to stop thinking of it as a game. Because it wasn’t, not anymore. It had become a game, because I got a new life every time I died, but that was off the cards now. Someone had changed things – forever – and there was no going back. If I had to point the finger at anyone for that…

Saturnia and Chronos.

Two people who had assumed the names of myth and legend, of timekeepers from millennia ago. Who knows? Maybe they were gods of old. But I did not believe in gods, or even a God. There was just chaos, and darkness, and the most terrible of things bred in the deep places of the universe. Things that must be fought.

Nightmares (laughing, shambling bone-men) that must be fought.

So, if this was the last throw of the dice, what could I afford to lose? How much could I sacrifice before victory would not even matter? One city? Two? A country? A continent? Or a more personal cost – Fleur, Tonks? Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix? Ron and Hermione – Neville – the most loyal of friends? What price ended the game forever?

There was a soft knock on my room door, drawing me out of my thoughts and back into the world of the living – which was surprisingly brighter than I expected. The sun had risen, and risen high. What time was it? The clock in my head told me just before seven, but my wrist watch…

It was 08:59 and fifty-eight seconds.

I’d been standing, as still as a statue, and staring out at New York City for best part of two hours. It had felt like thirty seconds, if that. My legs felt heavy and cramped as I turned from the window to answer the door, furious thoughts of lost time and inconsistent passage making me scowl.

It was Fleur at the door, of course, dressed in tight jeans and a blouse of sheer white silk. Around her neck, hiding amongst golden-platinum sunbursts of perfect hair, was a silver pendant, two sharp fangs crossed over one another. She looked great, she looked fresh, and ready for the day ahead.

I looked as if I hadn’t slept.

“Good morning, ‘Arry.”

I wanted to wake up next to her and hear that. More than winning the war, even, such was the drive of desire. Foolish. “Morning, Fleur. Breakfast time?”

“Oui. You will be taking me for fresh fruit and light pancake.”

“I will be? Yes, I will be. Just let me get my briefcase.”

Breakfast was served at a small café-restaurant at the hotel, and I had what Fleur ordered, with glasses of cool juice and a lot of healthy nonsense that served to brighten me up a little.

As we ate, I outlined the plans for the day. We would be Apparating to Connecticut – to New Haven – and onto Yale University where the second half of my cryptic novel had been housed in the rare book section of the library for decades. To the Muggles, it was known as the Voynich Manuscript, and utterly indecipherable without the corresponding half in my briefcase. I thought of it as the Devil’s Diary, because it contained all manner of hell.

“You scared me last night, ‘Arry.”

“Dark magic’s supposed to be scary.”

“I spent most of the night trying to fall asleep, thinking about whether or not to continue on with you today.”

I sipped my juice, already wishing again that it was bourbon. “And…?”

Fleur met my eyes, her expression unreadable, and then her lips formed a terrible, beautiful smile. “I want to see Atlantis, I want to help you win zis war, and I want to look my attackers in ze eye with ‘Arry Potter at my side.”

“Heh, you don’t need me for that last bit.”

“Non? How better to find a Death Eater, like ze one who attacked me in London, than to follow ze Chosen One around? Ze Death Eaters will come to him.”

I sighed at that title, smiling a little. “You’re most welcome company, Fleur.” There was a moment of silence, the severity of our conversation offset a little by the television above the buffet playing an advertisement for Coca-Cola. “And I’m sorry I scared you.”

The French beauty laughed, as clear as crystal – or starlight. “You seem to make an ‘abit of eet. Ah, which reminds me, no more Muggle stitching, you must promise me zis!”

I chuckled. “But what if I’m really bleeding?”

Fleur’s eyes flashed. “Then I will tend to you, somehow, even if magic seems not to work. You should not ‘ave to stitch yourself back together.”

That was oddly touching. It made me feel happy, if nothing else. I guess I was too tired or too thoughtless to show it on my face though, because Fleur looked away, perhaps a little embarrassed about being so open with me.

“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. “Thank you, Fleur Delacour.” And I was more than thankful, I was in fucking love. “Shall we get on with the day?”

Outside the hotel, back in Times Square, I led Fleur over to the Apparation pad. I was mindful that it had almost been a full day since anything had attacked me, including my new friends Saturnia, Chronos, and those freakin’ Bone-Men and Orc-Mare, yet under the warm morning sun, the prospect of being set upon by anything felt so remote as to be idiotic.

So I was on my guard.

“I’ll side-along us,” I said to Fleur, as we reached the pad. It was deserted, in the alleyway alongside the hotel, no other magical travellers. “We should pop out just outside of Yale University in Connecticut.”

Fleur offered me her hand, and I took it. “Why are we headed there?”

I grinned. “Need to check a book out of the library, and meet a man who’s going to help me read a map…”

“A map? To where?” Fleur answered her own question. “To Atlantis.”

“Got it in one. Ready?”

Fleur nodded. “Oui.”

With only the slightest of pops, Fleur and I disappeared into the tiny space between spaces, and crossed about a hundred miles north in the blink of an eye.

In a swirl of green and grey the world spun into place around us both, still hand in hand, and firm ground returned underfoot. The sun still shone overhead in a cloudless sky, only now we weren’t surrounded on all sides by massive skyscrapers. We were standing on grass, soft and spongy, and dotted with grey mossy headstones.

“Here we are,” I said. I wondered if Fleur would let go of my hand first. I wasn’t about to give up the contact.

Fleur looked around at the new surroundings and blinked. “A cemetery?” she said, with a hint of a question.

I nodded. “Yep, a cemetery – Yale University is just across the street over there.” I pointed beyond the field of old tombstones and cast iron fencing, between copses of ancient trees, at more modern buildings and a steady flow of traffic on the road. “If memory serves, this is Grove Street Cemetery.”

“You ‘ave been here before?”

I shook my head. “Read about it,” I lied. “So I knew where to Apparate.”

The rows of mismatched tombstones looked like lines of jagged teeth, spaced unevenly between large evergreen trees. Fleur and I followed the main road through the cemetery out into the parking lot and street, heading towards the large campus buildings of Yale University.

There were dozens of people, all of them probably Muggles, moving to and fro along the street, diving in and out of shops and heading into the university. New Haven had been home to Yale for the best part of three hundred years – it was barely out of infancy on my scale of the Old World, yet there was an air of knowledge here, as subtle as rustling leaves…

Fleur and I did not fit in – not at all. Mostly because of her beauty, but primarily because this was part of a world we could never truly belong to. We stood out in an incomprehensible way that made people give us a second glance.

The architecture of the open buildings around us was fancifully gothic, interspersed with iconic modern buildings that seemed to match the towering spires of the old campus. Home to more than a dozen libraries, with over twelve million volumes, I was here today for just one book, and out of all the books here, it was the only one that didn’t belong.

We were heading towards one of the larger modern buildings, one of the libraries that was reserved exclusively for the preservation of rare books and manuscripts. I could almost hear the Voynich Manuscript calling to me from here. Come get me, Harry, loose me on the world. It was in the Beinecke building, a six storey complex with towers of above-ground book stacks. Due to its fascination, the Voynich was kept in a display case of its own on the ground floor.

The security was minimal, there were people coming and going all day and night. Students, for the most part, thousands of them, as well as lecturers, professors, university faculty. As if we were any other pair of students, Fleur and I walked into the cool still air of the Beinecke library building, through automated doors and into the heavy, dry conditioned space.

Bright circular lights hung from the roof, and although it was a fresh day outside, with bright broad sunlight, in here the light was dim and there was a tentative peace embracing the six storeys of preserved books.

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

“Oui,” Fleur said. “Eet reminds me of Finolae Hall at Beauxbatons – only there are less books. I loved all the books in zat hall.”

I laughed. “Remind me to take you to the Magnus Fontis one day.”

“Where?”

“Ah, never mind. Follow me this way…”

I set off across the polished hardwood floors, under the soft glow of halogen lights and past shelves of old books, some encased behind glass, most loose yet carrying an air of superiority that warned visitors not to touch.

It didn’t take long to find what I’d come looking for.

The Voynich Manuscript. Sealed within a singular glass case next to an original Gutenberg Bible.

The Muggles didn’t know much about the manuscript, and what they did know was heavily inaccurate. It was discovered in the ruins of Avalon by a Muggle archaeologist named Wilfrid Voynich in 1912. This half had been kept in a similar fashion to the half I’d found in Nepal, yet Avalon was lost to the wizarding world – annihilated to less than ruins by Merlin Ambrosius six hundred years ago, when the legendary wizard had attempted to retrieve the manuscript. He had failed, but he had destroyed the Bone-Man guardian – at the cost of his own life and that of the ancient outpost of Atlantis.

This manuscript before me remained buried, preserved by Old World sorcery, until uncovered near Glastonbury, in the few sparse remnants of the once-proud Avalon.

It was about two hundred and fifty vellum pages thick, resting open on a page of illegible scribbles and a faded purple sketch of some monstrous plant, with thorny green foliage and a blossom the size of a small car.

For the best part of the century it had eluded translation, and for good reason. It was missing the key, the key in my briefcase. Together, and with the right mind working on it, a path to Atlantis through the muck and mire of history could be forged.

“Zis is what we came for, oui?” Fleur asked. “Are you going to steal it?”

Her voice was a whisper yet there was no one around. I knew there were security cameras but they wouldn’t see a thing. A simple switching spell would net me the Voynich, and we’d be on our way.

“This is a magical text, Fleur, made by the last man to see Atlantis before it was lost.” I shook my head. “He should have left it buried, and let the city die, but such is life… we can follow his riddles, his map.”

I removed one of the books from the free shelves around me and held it flat on my palm. Making sure the coast was clear, I tapped my wand on the text and muttered the spellwork.

Both the volume in my hand and the ancient volume behind the case shimmered and faded away to nothing for just a second, and then I was holding the Voynich Manuscript. In its place behind the glass was a poor imitation that would not fool anyone but the electronic cameras. It would have to do.

“Let’s go,” I said, shoving the stolen manuscript into my briefcase. It was millennia old, but imbued with the strength of ancient magic. “There’s a man we have to see.”

No one accosted us leaving the library and soon we were back out in the sunshine on this normal, normal day. Fleur seemed to shine in the light, she always did, as we headed deeper into the campus under the canopy of trees and along the breaks of stone architecture.

“This man, ‘Arry, he is a Muggle?”

“Yeah,” I said. “And as fate would have it, he’s the only one who can read that book we—heh, sorry—I just stole.”

“Why is zat?”

I shrugged. “It’s a magical text, but it wasn’t made for just any mind.” I thought about how best to answer. “How good is your memory?”

“Fairly good, I’d say… why?”

“Do you remember what you had for breakfast?”

Fleur smiled. “Oui, fluffy pancakes.”

I nodded. “Okay, good, now do you remember what you had for breakfast on this date ten years ago?”

Fleur blinked. “Non, of course not.”

“Of course not,” I agreed. “Well, the man we’re going to see, Jason Arnair, his memory is good enough to recall what he had for breakfast on this day ten years ago.”

Fleur processed that. “Merde, impossible!”

I laughed, wanting to hold her hand again and spend the day sitting in the sun somewhere. “I shit you not. His mind is unique, possibly in the whole world. It’s called an eidetic memory, only this fella’s brain is a lot cleverer than that.” I shook my head. “It’s hard to explain – you’ll see it when you meet him. He’s the only one who can read the manuscript because of how it’s designed. It’s constantly changing, when both halves become one, and it flickers through runes and symbols so quickly that any normal brain couldn’t keep up.”

“Oh…” Fleur was deep in thought.

“That’s why we need this Muggle.”

“Well, if you say so…”

I could recall the way to Arnair’s office, but I made a point of looking at the map board and following the little signs on the building doors to find the right faculty building. I had to be mindful not to make it look too obvious that I’d done this all before, many times, otherwise Fleur would have some awkward questions.

An archaic stone structure with vaulted windows and a spiral tower marked the entrance to the faculty building, yet inside was a lot more modern and cool. There were banks of computers, a reception area, and an elevator next to a staff office board. According to the board, Professor Jason Arnair could be found on third floor, room 32.

Fleur and I took the lift up in silence. I hummed along quietly to some nonsense tune, thinking the day through and where I had to be by tomorrow in the grand scheme of things…

Soon enough we arrived at the right office, the golden plaque confirming the owner’s name. The wooden door was open, and the space within was a mess of filing cabinets and stacks of books, papers, and all manner of academic material piled high over two desks on either side of the room.

There was a woman seated at one of the desks, tapping away at a computer and nearly buried underneath stacks of books and manila folders. The nameplate hanging precariously on the edge of the desk identified her as Grace Connor.

“Knock, knock,” I said, drumming lightly on the open door.

The young woman – probably early twenties – looked up sharply, although her face was soft and gentle, welcoming. Calm. Even confident. She was plainly beautiful, brunette curls and blue eyes. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“We’re looking for Jason Arnair.” Now I had a vague memory of meeting this woman once Before, ever so briefly and in the same circumstance.

Grace’s eyes jumped from me to Fleur, where they widened at her undeniable beauty, at her lithe yet domineering presence, and settled there. “Professor Arnair is away for the day. Can I take a message?”

“You work with him?” I asked, pulling her eyes away from Fleur.

“I’m one of his post-grads, yes. He’ll be back tomorrow morning, if it’s urgent. You can make an appointment?”

Well, shit. This is why I needed to stay on schedule. If all had gone to plan, if I hadn’t been stabbed or thrown off a waterfall, if Bone-Men hadn’t attacked, then I would’ve reached this office yesterday – and all would be well. Damn. It wasn’t a devastating setback, but when it came down to five minutes between victory and defeat, between the future and the end of the world, then setbacks could kill.

I looked at Fleur, she shrugged her elegant shoulders, and I found a smile. “Best make that appointment then.”

“Okay.” Grace pulled a pad of post-it notes towards her, a pen from behind her ear, and raised an eyebrow. “Name?”

“Harry… Smith.”

“Harry Smith. Your student number?”

I clicked my fingers. “Ah, sorry, I’m not a student. I’ve a need for Jason Arnair’s expertise in archaeology.”

Grace nodded. “You didn’t seem old enough to be a student. Professor Arnair’s time is very limited and very valuable, you know.”

Not as valuable as mine, sweetheart. “Fifteen minutes at ten o’clock tomorrow morning would be great. He’ll want to see me.”

“May I enquire as to why?”

“Atlantis,” I said, and the word fell dead on the floor, as swift and as blunt as a hammer’s fall.

Grace’s somewhat standoffish demeanour changed. “Wow, really? Did you see his guest lecture last week on Old World Mythology?”

“I missed it – but there’s an artefact I’d like him to see.”

“Hmm…” She bit down on the end of her pen. “He will definitely be intrigued.”

“Well, alright then,” I said, a little put-off by the woman’s interest. “Bye.”

*~*~*~*

I will show you fear in a handful of dust, the poet cried.

We need help, the poet reckoned.

*~*~*~*

The sun was a little higher, the wind a little warmer, and the campus at Yale University a little more busy as Fleur and I exited Jason Arnair’s faculty building and began a slow amble along a path beside a trimmed hedgerow, heading back toward Grove Street Cemetery.

“Well, ‘as zat thrown a spanner in your works, ‘Arry?” Fleur brushed my shoulder and smiled.

“Somewhat.” I nodded. “Back to New York, I guess – I sense you’ve thought of a few more questions since last night.”

“Oui, but only a few.”

“Heh. Liar.”

Fleur giggled and blew me a kiss. We could be normal for a few seconds, it seemed, while the world tumbled into blind chaos around us.

Attracting all manner of attention, Fleur fell silent and her face assumed that cruel, icy expression – warning fools to stay away, to look and stare if you dare. We headed out across a carpark, metal paintwork sparkling in the sun, and the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery, under an arch of old stone, soon came back into sight. Our apparation point was near.

Leaving most of the crowds behind, we crossed over the road in front of some fancy juice bar, weaving through the slow traffic. We passed under the arch back into the cemetery, and the inscription in the dusty stone overhead read:

‘The Dead Shall Be Raised.’

“What does that mean?” Fleur asked.

I shook my head. “Religion – from the Bible. Corinthians, if memory serves.” I paused and searched my memories, wading through images of Muggles huddled around dark campfires at the end of the world, muttering small prayers and clinging to dog-eared copies of the Bible. Very sad. “’In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we will be changed.’ I think that’s how it goes…”

Fleur looked at me sideways. “Oh… Thank you, ‘Arry.”

I said nothing and on we went. It was turning out to be a warm day. I suppose the next stop would have to be the magical community in New York. A few supplies were needed, basic stuff for now, but most of all I wanted a look at a wizarding newspaper. With the Ring of Concealment, the goblin-relic from Atlantis, on my finger no one would be able to track me in the traditional ways (Saturnia and Chronos proving the exception to the rule), but I still needed to know who was after my head.

“Shorter list of who isn’t…” I whispered, shoving a hand into my pocket and thumping my briefcase against my leg.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, nothing. Just frowning.”

The rows of uneven tombstones were casting long shadows under the warm summer sun. There were few people about, some laying fresh flowers above long dead memories, some standing quiet aside aching stone. There was a lone man in blue overalls and a large straw hat, digging a grave with a heavy shovel, just ahead. No one to really see us leave.

“We should head behind those tress.” I wondered if Hedwig was still in France. “Apparate… straight back to Times Square…”

“You are out of breath, ‘Arry. Is eet your side?”

I was panting a little. And sweat had broken out along my brow. My stitches felt fine though… Something was wrong. My instincts were twitching. I stopped walking and ever so carefully removed my wand from my pocket.

Fleur saw the look on my face. “Oh… merde.”

“Shit, indeed.”

What was different?

What had changed?

My breathing had shallowed, lengthened, as if I’d been holding it underwater. Yet not quite – this feeling was different. All day every day I was running, I was moving, but now I felt stationary, immobile… caught in some invisible net. Even the chaotic sheets of fire and ice pouring through my mind, my burning memories of death upon death, had ceased to fall.

I sucked in a harsh breath – that was what had changed. My memories were silent, dead. Which meant that—

There was someone – something – in my head.

Fuck.

I threw up a pitiful mental wall, a barrier constructed of what little I knew of Occlumency, a split-second before the full wave of the attack hit me.

And it hit me blind with the force of a sledgehammer. I swayed, my jaw hung open loose, and my wand fell from my hand, clattering uselessly on the gravel road amongst the headstones.

Outwardly it appeared as if I’d been struck dizzy. Inwardly, my mind roared against the invasion, screamed vicious defiance, locked now in a fierce battle with some unknown entity.

Where was the attacker?

A bloody spike, barbed and blunt, was being driven into my skull, and I stood there for all the world like a statue.

“’Arry, your wand.” Fleur met my eyes – she knew something was wrong,

I couldn’t speak – I couldn’t move. My eyes darted back and forth across the landscape. I managed to grit my teeth and ball my hands into fists. That burn from the demon sword had healed raw and tender. Squeezing my hand hurt, but the pain was merely the shadow of an afterthought.

Fleur ducked down and retrieved my wand. She knew I was in trouble, but all she had to go on was the fierce look on my face.

Whoever was doing this had to be close by… only this didn’t feel like normal mind-rape. There was no probing finger, no sifting presence, just a brute force attempt to crush my defences and unhinge an already loose mind. This was not Legilimency. No…

This was – this felt – older.

Old school.

Old world.

Which meant it should not be happening.

Atlantis and this world were still separated by 10,000 years of blood and war, still the best part of eternity away from each other, still lost in a maelstrom of rotting time—

It was the gravedigger. The man in the blue overalls and straw sombrero. Son of a bitch.

He was standing forty feet away, no longer digging in the dirt but leaning against his shovel, smiling from ear to ear and staring at me with that damned hat pushed back on his brow.

‘Harry James Potter…’

He was in my head. His sombrero tilted to the left, and my head mirrored the action. Neither of us broke eye contact, neither of us blinked.

‘Get out of my head…’ I snarled, my upper lip drawing back over my teeth.

Fleur had followed my gaze, her wand in hand. I saw her hesitate, wondering whether or not to hex the ‘Muggle’.

‘You always fail to see that which is right before your eyes, Harry James Potter. Yes, yes, you do.’ The gravedigger began to walk towards me, showing no sign of the strain that crippled me.

I knew who he was. Who it was. Yes, yes… ‘Chronos, you arsehole.’

‘At your service, Time Warrior. How many hours has it been since we last saw each other? It was the first time for you, was it not? Yes, yes, it was…’

The sight in my right eye was dimming under the strain. The light of the day seemed to bulge a sickly purple colour. My left eye remained unaffected, but the purple mess was spreading across my vision.

“’Arry, who is zat man?”

‘Tell me, Harry James Potter… how long? It was at the beautiful girl’s house, yes, yes, only—’

‘Twenty-two hours and thirty-seven minutes,’ I shouted with my mind. Our thoughts were bouncing back and forth along some invisible bonds of dark force. Yet I knew the time – I always knew the time. ‘What is it you want now?’

Chronos – for it was the mad bastard, the supposed demigod of Time, the supposed collector of ancient debt – laughed, but only in my head. ‘Give me the Atlantean cube. I’ve searched an age for that particular Key.’

‘No.’

The pressure on my mind seemed to double, to triple. My legs buckled but I didn’t fall, couldn’t fall, because the weight of my mind wouldn’t let me. I was too pissed off to fall, too. No one fucked with my head like this. Not even Voldemort anymore. I was too strong, too clever—

 

The purple blur across the right side of my vision was taking on a whole new level of crazy, throwing me even further off balance. Through my left eye the world was normal, bright and sunny, through the effected right I saw a tarnished sky, decaying and struck with crimson lightning, the tombstones were charred black and the grassy acreage of the cemetery strewn with ash.

Two glimpses of the world, one in each eye, and the nightmare was spreading. I could feel the purple malice itching in the corner of my left eye. I didn’t know what I was seeing… but it looked familiar.

“Stupefy!”  Fleur cried, slashing her wand forward. The stunning spell burst from the shaft of wood and slammed into Chronos, as strong and as bright as any I’d ever seen.

Of course it didn’t work – that would be too fucking simple. The spell dissipated against Chronos’ chest, fading to nothing. The demon or whatever he was frowned in annoyance, however, and flicked his hand contemptuously at Fleur.

I heard her gasp before a wave of something invisible knocked her back off the path and onto the grass, tumbling like a rag doll into a tombstone.

‘BASTARD!’ I still couldn’t move, and the real world continued to slip away from my sight. It was half and half, and through the infected sight I saw the world behind the world, and the true monster that wore the sombrero and brandished a shovel before me. ‘Jesus Christ…’

‘New gods can’t help you now, Harry James Potter. Do you want to know why, yes, yes?’

He was hideous – a creature beyond comprehension. A monster of a nightmare caught somewhere between those Tweedledee bastards and a pile of vaguely human-shaped shit. I would’ve given all the gold in my vault to have my safe sight back, the bright world in the left. I wrenched my right eye closed, it took a supreme effort, and didn’t make one bit of difference. The terror shone right through my eyelid.

‘Why then?’

‘Because you forsake the new ways, yes you do. Lives and lifetimes ago you chose the Old World to bring you back to this time and avert a world-wide extinction. You turned your back on the faith of the New World, yes, yes.’ Chronos laughed aloud. ‘You are alone against the remnants of Long Ago.’

‘The cube belongs to me – it’s my Key.’

Chronos’ face, the human face, turned ugly. He swept his shovel across the ground, drawing a line in the gravel. ‘I want to kill you today, Harry James Potter. The coin has flipped against you. You should have taken up the clockwork sword!’

‘I don’t need a novelty sword to kick your arse.’

‘You are dead already – you were dead lifetimes ago, yes, yes.’ A deafening silence echoed across the expanse between us, between the real world and the nightmare claiming my sight. ‘Now give me… WHAT IS MINE!’

My briefcase had fallen to the ground at my feet during the initial onslaught, and at Chronos’ words the clasp sprang open and several thousand dollars of American currency burst out of the open mouth, followed by my Invisibility Cloak and Miguel Blue’s cube, caught amongst the silvery folds of the fabric.

‘I WARNED YOU! THEY CANNOT SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU!’ The madman continued to scream without moving, to roar with just a smile on his face. We were two minds battling on a level of some higher, hyper-reality. ‘TIME, STUPID, STUPID TIME.’ He raised his hand and the cube leapt into the air, flying towards him through the two conflicting views I had of he world.

‘Not a chance!’ I raised my own hand – without even doubting that I would not be able to – and felt for some unseen bond of power I knew was there. The cube came to an abrupt halt halfway between myself and Chronos, hanging in the air and spinning on its axis.

Chronos’ eyes widened in disbelief, and I felt the pressure of his mind on mine slacken in sheer shock.

It was like holding a rope with my mind, similar to the thought needed to maintain a levitation spell – only without the wand. I didn’t understand how I was doing it, but I hadn’t doubted for a second that I could.

‘No… NOO!’

He – It – was truly insane. And not the fun kind of insane.

Fleur was back on her feet, holding one hand to a nasty looking cut on her forehead that was sending blood streaming down her face. Head wounds always bled long and always bled hard.

The sight of Fleur’s blood, seen through my good eye under the bright sun, and through my bad eye cast against a sky of roiling storm clouds, awoke in me that same raw desire to maim and kill that I’d been gripped by yesterday, when Chronos had held a blade to her throat.

‘Very well,’ the monster said. He was a monster, human or otherwise. His smiles and his dancing eyes were as fake as the shape he wore in the sunlight. ‘Very well, since you must insist on resistance, Harry James Potter, she will die. AS PROMISED!’

I braced myself against the cold as Chronos slammed his shovel into the ground, driving it in as deep as the hilt, and a wash of freezing-cold air exploded outwards from the impact. Frost formed on the metal cube floating between us, amongst the curvy runes and the lesser marks of Atlantis.

Fleur cried out, and I snapped my head to the left, taking my eyes off of Chronos. She was standing just before one of the old tombstones, alive but injured, yet it was not the cold or the sight of her blood which forced a scream from her lungs.

It was the skeletal arm that gripped her ankle.

The arm that had erupted out of the ground at her feet – an arm belonging to someone long dead.

Holy shit.

Chronos was laughing, or screaming, and I couldn’t tell if it was in my head or in my ears that I heard him. Fighting the strain, I forced my neck back around to look him in the eye.

‘You’re fucked, Harry James Potter,’ he said, as petulant as a child. ‘OH WE ARE ALL FUCKING FUCKED!’ The demon found that amusing, throwing his head back and laughing so hard that he lost the sombrero.

I had to break free of his mind – there was no time for anything less now. But I couldn’t let the cube go, not to the madman. For Voldemort to gain Atlantis was one thing, for this creature to do the same was the end of the road…

But Fleur was in trouble—No, if I didn’t do something, Fleur was fucked.

I saw the cemetery through two conflicting views, yet in both I saw the dead clawing their way out of their eternal prisons… The Dead Shall Be Raised. Fleur was screaming, trying to pull her leg free from the inhuman grasp of a corpse.

There were hundreds of them, the grass was bulging under the strain of the desecration, and I was caught without my wand, facing a creature I didn’t understand. Slabs of stone – tombstones – were toppling, or were thrown into the air by the blind rage of the once-human creatures rising from the cold and the dark beneath the earth.

What was my next move? My right arm felt as if it would break at any moment, pop clean out of my shoulder, as Chronos pulled at the cube, still laughing and screaming:

‘FUCKED, FUCKED, FUCKED, FUCKED, FUCKED…’

He was having a really good time as the legions of the dead surrounded us.

Damn. Two minutes ago Fleur and I had been laughing in the sun.

Now I wished I’d had that bourbon for breakfast.

*~*~*~*

A/N: There we go, folks. One healthy update. There were a few stops and astarts in this chapter, which is why in part it took a bit longer to update. No matter though! You have just read it. Please review and tell me what you think! Tear it apart, folks. Next update soon,

Joe