Disclaimer: Call me a joker, call me a fool… Right at this moment I'm totally cool.

A/N: Hey folks, little longer than usual between updates, but then I'm back at university now studying counter-terrorism after three long years away. Pretty badass degree, alright, so update schedule may be a little sporadic. This is a longish chappie, ten thousand words.

So, this chapter is still setting the scene - sixth chapter and we're still only a day into story time, but BIG PLANS are a'coming - indeed, they've already begun - and we're going to pick up the pace a bit over the next few chapters.

Cheers, please read and review, thanks to the eighty of you that have,

Cap'n Joe

*~*~*~*

Harry Potter and the Wastelands of Time

Chapter 6 - Yesterday Came Suddenly

God is cruel - sometimes he makes you live.

--King

There's one thing I could never get the hang of - besides putting a stop to Armageddon - and that was treating injuries. I don't know what it is but I can only ever manage a few small healing charms when it comes to patching myself up. Anything deeper or uglier than say a five-inch gash, a flesh wound, and I'm more likely to blast a hole through myself than heal it.

I think I'm more of an offensive, spell-slinging type of guy. You know… spears of chaotic energy, blasts of untameable fury, a fiery rain of death - cool, powerful magic like that.

Power I have, in spades. Or will have. Trust me, there's a good story behind that. And channelling that into destructive use, fighting and duelling, is the most natural thing in the world. Directing my magic to carefully knit together burnt and broken skin, mend bones or undo curse damage is not my forte. I guess it's just not cool enough for the powers that be.

And as for time-travel - well, you shove enough power into any circuit and it'll overload. My magic could be a little temperamental sometimes, especially after a jaunt back in time where the skills and power of my older self try to fit into the untrained and weaker body of my younger self. It was mostly memory that had trouble fitting into place, yet I had memory of using magic of such strength that I found it hard to accept its reality.

Was it real if I've never used it?

Time wasn't linear, yet for all that matters to most of us bumbling, stumbling humans it may as well be - we go with the flow, and that flow is forward, is ahead. That's an incorrect view but one most people have to live with. Time is more of a web, you see, with strands spiralling back and forth in forever increasing complexity.

So was the magic I knew in the distant future real? Some of it had been, like that slingshot-cushioning charm I'd used at the base of the twin waterfalls, yet could I really crack a mountain in half?

I had no urge to try - no urge to grasp at that much power. I was here to save the world, not tear it apart. Voldemort already had that well in hand, and the really funny part, and I mean side-splitting hilariously funny, was that the Dark Lord had no godforsaken idea.

Ah, fucking Voldemort.

And fucking future-memory.

Fucking future-power.

Fucking time-travel.

Fucking foreign television.

My burnt and blistered hand, burnt gripping a sword of some strange make and design, was slowly going numb in a silver bucket of ice. A bucket that held three bottles of Heineken. Three empties made a tiny pyramid on the bedside table next to me, and I puffed quite angrily on a fat cigar on my comfy double-bed, scowling at the television and trying to follow an incomprehensible Italian movie.

Now I can speak the language, albeit a tad formally, but trying to make sense of this casual slang-Italian, and at this speed, just added to the pounding headache that had settled right between my eyes earlier that day, pretty much as soon as I'd woken up at the Dursleys'.

And add that to the two bastards that had tried to kill me - Tweedledum and Tweedledee - and I was one grouchy, pissed-off saviour of the world. I was contemplating healing my hand, despite how spectacularly wrong it would probably go, but the ice was working wonders alongside the alcohol.

Also, fucking Heineken.

What kind of tourist hotel didn't stock good old British lager? I'd even settle for German beer. The tap-water the Italians called beer was an insult to my sensibilities, and that left the only thing approaching a good brew to be property of the Dutch.

I missed Fleur.

I missed my Order guardian…

Cigar was good though, even if I did feel a little nauseous.

Damn, I was always such a rookie back at the beginning.

*~*~*~*

My life is a monument to failure.

I personify the mother of all fuck-ups.

I've been told that you're supposed to learn from your past mistakes - well, I think my mistakes learn from me, because I go ahead and make the same old mistakes in brand new and exciting ways every damn time…

And there's nothing I can do about it.

Fucking causality of time.

Maybe there's a lesson in all of this? One I refuse to accept. Maybe I can't make a difference, maybe I can't change events enough to save billions of lives and all of civilisation…

Maybe humanity, in all its war-torn glory, is supposed to be wiped clean from the slate of existence…

*~*~*~*

I awoke the next morning to a steady throbbing between my eyes.

A throbbing that had nothing to do with the six beers I'd downed last night. Or the empty bottles of spirits from the mini-bar I'd raided sometime between ordering a club sandwich and falling asleep with a lit cigar dangling from my mouth. The bed sheets were scorched, I was lucky I hadn't burnt the hotel to the ground.

Maybe the headache had a little something to do with the heavy drinking. Gotta remember - I was only fifteen. And oh damn it, I'd have to take out a bank loan to pay for those tiny bottles of whiskey and vodka.

I felt like shit, and my mouth tasted like ash and shoe polish. I got up to put a stop to the room spinning around and around.

Yes! There was half a sandwich left from the night before. A little stale, the bacon was hard and cold, but it was like eating heaven anyway. I fell back onto the bed and before anything else - before anymore saving the world, fighting demons or seducing gorgeous women - I savoured the soggy lettuce and warm mayonnaise in the leftover sandwich.

I take life's pleasures in the moment, more often than not, because when you're me things are all too likely to go to shit sometime before lunch. Seriously, you can set your watch by it.

Well, no time to waste.

It was a little after dawn, the sun just cresting the western horizon visible through my window in the Italian Peninsula. There was a lot to do today - my first day back yesterday was always a bit of a holiday, I suppose, with Fleur. The goblins and demons had been an inconvenience, no doubt, but now I had to get on with things.

There was just over six weeks left until September 1st, and Hogwarts was in for a helluva surprise if I wasn't ready to make my stand in time.

Ha, stand in time. Get it? No? You will…

I grabbed my fancy suit and shiny new black shoes, and headed into the en-suite bathroom wishing I had another, fresh, sandwich. The Ring of Concealment, the dull gold band on my index finger, felt as cold as always - the ring never grew warm; it was always cool - as I slipped out of yesterday's clothes and into the shower.

Twenty minutes later and I admired myself in the mirror. I looked pretty damn good in the suit - approaching tall, dark and, shrugging on the overcoat, I was even moderately handsome. My hand still felt as if I'd dipped it in molten liquid steel, but it was bearable - bearable enough to be ignored even. The burns weren't overly severe, just painful, and given a few days that would dull down to nothing. There was a spare amount of stubble on my cheeks, not enough to shave. I brushed my teeth using the complimentary toiletries and then set off downstairs.

“Good morning, Mr Rafe,” the early morning desk clerk said in perfect English as I entered the hotel foyer. “Breakfast won't be served for half an hour, I'm afraid, sir.”

“No matter, my good fellow,” I replied, clutching my briefcase. I had transferred the few shirts and two pairs of jeans that had survived the attack yesterday, as well as the contents of my old school bag - the Invisibility Cloak, cigarettes and such - into the briefcase. It was bigger on the inside, charmed lighter, yet still crammed full at the moment. I needed to get myself a permanent address. “I shall be checking out immediately.”

“Ah, so soon? Was there a problem with the room? Or the service?”

“Nope, not at all, just have to make an early start today.”

“Of course.”

I surrendered my swipe card to the portly little man behind the desk and settled up the bill with crisp and fresh cash notes from my stash in the briefcase. Damn, that sandwich cost fifteen pounds! And had been worth every penny. I confessed to emptying the mini bar, and paid another fifty quid for that, too.

“It was a pleasure having you here at the Armi Latium, Mr Rafe. Is there anything else we can do for you before you leave? Call you a car, sir?”

I shook my head. “No, I-” I caught a flash of silver under the cuff of the clerk's grey uniform. A slow smile spread across my face. “Hey, that's a nice watch…”

It was 06:25 and fifty-three seconds, Italian time, according to my new stainless steel, waterproof watch (only five hundred American off the hotel clerk - a bargain) when I exited the hotel in Tivoli and took a long, deep breath of morning air. Ah, it was good, and did wonders for my minor hangover… The headache persisted, however, but that had nothing to do with the booze, did it?

No, that was a time-travelling hangover. How many people suffer from those I wonder?

Me and my good buddy Ethan Rafe.

Now I said before that Tivoli is a part of the Italian region of Lazio, which going back several thousand years was known as Latium. And it was in Latium that people first began to harness the use of magic, to manipulate the forces of space… and time… Latium was home to the original Latin-speaking people, hence the strong Latin use in spellwork today.

The reason I had come here, instead of heading straight to Rome some thirty kilometres away, was that Rome has a large and, below the surface at least, quite visible magical community. Nothing the Muggles can pick up on, really, but next to some of the larger communities in the modern United States, the magical scene in Rome was the biggest in the world.

And I was trying to keep a low profile for awhile. Apparating directly into the heart of Rome, from an international start-point and quite illegally, probably wouldn't have been the best way to keep my head down. Even if I could manage it undetected - and I couldn't, there was someone in Rome who would detect such a subtle working of magic, no matter how hard I tried to hide it. I could cheat wards, wards aren't human, but one wise, old wizard in particular… nope.

Yet Rome was my next destination - for today, at least.

“And first bloody stop will be an apothecary for a painkilling potion,” I mumbled, massaging my forehead. There had been no pain from my scar, and that was a good thing, yet my headache refused to die. Had I suffered so long the last time I travelled back?

“Maybe yes, maybe no, Harry,” Mr Ethan Rafe said to me.

“I'm not gonna stand here talking to myself, Ethan,” I replied, with all the sanity in the world.

“At least you look good doing it - you'll have to keep those shoes shiny.”

“Shut up.”

Heh, maybe I was losing my mind… Stranger things have happened. I Apparated all on my own for the second time ever, yet I'd had years of practice, and it was just a quick jaunt down the coast, and a little bit inland, to one of the oldest modern cities on the planet. Although there were older cities, far older, hiding just out of sight and around the corner.

Atlantis, for one, but that nightmare was to come…

*~*~*~*

And all nightmares are dreams, too. So be careful what you dream - I've said before that it is far too early for you to understand just what's at stake. That's still true, but you're beginning to see the first piece of the puzzle, by now, and no doubt you see the blood dripping from the serrated edges…? No?

You will - games like mine all too often have a beginning, middle, and end wrought in bloodshed. Nothing can ever be resolved without it. It is the way of the universe.

And Atlantis - fabled, lost Atlantis - you're in for a shock there, believe you me… for Atlantis is not a friendly place.

It's a secret place. And secrets are fragile.

Time is a secret, a cipher, even - a cryptic communication.

Yet secrets are fragile, and once they're done they can't be undone.

Time is just as fragile because of this, even more so because of this, and thus just as deadly.

I don't know where I'm going with these thoughts… or even how I'm thinking them, trapped as I am between one moment and the next - where the magic happens - and left with nothing but the never-ending pounding between my eyes.

Am I in too deep? Have I lost my mind?

I could ask Ethan, but that fucker's memory is just as messed up as mine.

*~*~*~*

Rome was home to a great library of magical knowledge, home to a vast repository of countless tomes and scrolls that had survived the ages intact, for the most part. For those in the know, this library is the fountain of history - the Magnus Fontis.  

The Magnus Fontis has existed in some form for about three thousand years - through war, rebellion, and even simple accident the library has been destroyed and burnt to the ground on at least three separate occasions - what had survived wasn't as much as the ages of the world had promised, yet it was still mountains of knowledge. And it has existed for the last three thousand years underground.

Of course, not just anyone can waltz in off the street and hope to peruse the dusty old shelves and archives - in fact, only two select groups of people were granted access to the Magnus Fontis - and they were very select groups indeed. Needless to say, Albus Dumbledore was a member of both groups…

The International Confederation of Wizards and the International Federation of Warlocks.

Councils of wise old men and women, ancient and all-knowing - or arrogant enough to think so anyway - governing the magical world from seats of power and influence. Not a one of them would chance the path I've taken, or the path Voldemort has taken - yet Voldemort and I, however much I might detest it, are equal opposites… we stand alone in the world, and Time, as being both cunning and stupid enough to bend magic itself to our wills.

More stupid than cunning? Maybe yes, maybe no.

In the early years of the war - years to come, years long dead - Voldemort gains ancient power from what remains of Atlantis, from the epicentre of the last great age of magic, and the wise, old men and women of the Confederation and the Federation are the first to fall under the inhuman strength of his foreign armies.

After that, with most nations splintered against one another and law turned to chaos, it does not take long for humanity to destroy itself.

I've seen it happen time and time again… I couldn't beat Voldemort to Atlantis - for reasons that will become clear - as there were precepts and forgotten rights of passage that I had to obey if I was to have any hope of finding the Lost City again.

You see, it isn't always in the same place - even for a time-traveller.

And I can't really explain that, I barely understand it myself. It is something I'll have to discover along the way, I guess. That's the best I can do. Best is never enough, though, never enough…

Perhaps this time will be different. I think I've had that thought before. More than once. Damn it all.

Where was I?

Rome, yes.

I Apparated directly into the heart of the city, which rested on the Tiber River about twenty five clicks inland from the Tyrrhenian Sea. I appeared on the Via Vittoria Veneto, a street of grand hotels, business offices, and government buildings - as well as early morning breakfast cafés that catered to early morning businessmen and government officials.

The day was still young, only just gone 06:32 and forty-four seconds, local time, but I was starving for breakfast, and the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee, of baking bread and pastry, set my mouth watering under that azure, cloudless dawn sky in Italy.

I had appeared in one of the many winding side-alleys that criss-crossed the old city, and I have to say that I find the Via Veneto one of the most intriguing streets in the world. It's a twenty-four hour, seven day a week place, and I fit right in with the sparse crowd wearing my expensive Armani suit.

I headed on over to the nearest café, moving through that early-bird crowd, and an elderly woman looked me up and down with a warm smile.

“Che cosa gradite?” she asked. Roughly translated, what do you want?

“Pancetta affumicata ed uova, per favore, ma'am. E salsiccia con pane tostato.” Again, my Italian was a little formal and halted - but basically I'd asked for a good old English breakfast. Bacon, eggs, nice bit of sausage and toasted bread. There are few things more important than a good breakfast first thing in the morning. And I had an hour or two to kill before the main places I needed to visit would open - like the Apothecary.

I paid for my breakfast using the cash in my briefcase and took a seat out on the sidewalk whilst it was prepared. The Via Veneto runs downhill, and I sat nearer the top, looking down to where it curved out of sight in a rough dog's leg around the bend and into the heart of the city proper.

I miss Fleur, I thought quite simply, gazing down at the city and its countless historic buildings and fading monuments to a power gone by. I wonder if she'd like to come here with me… I thought about that. Probably not, no, a little too dirty and crowded for her. For me, too, really.

There was history here though - even the Muggles could feel that, hanging in the air all across this region of the country, an invisible tension, an itch that couldn't be scratched. For well over a thousand years Rome had controlled the destiny of all civilisation known to Europe - before it fell into disrepair and anarchy - and some of that power, that faith, still lingered.

Yet like all power it went mad - history's greatest lesson right there. The city, the Roman Empire, grew senile and impotent. It grew too old, too mutilated and proud, too paralysed to survive. A lot like Dumbledore, really, Merlin keep the old man safe…

Dumbledore was the reason I did not directly Apparate into the city last night.

He was here at the moment - just a mile or so away, actually, in the headquarters of the International Confederation of Wizards. And if anyone could catch the subtle fluctuations in magical energy that would ripple outwards from my arrival point when I broke through international wards, it would be him - or Voldemort. That's why I always came to Rome via Tivoli.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee had known that. I was keeping a sharp eye out for those two boys, or demons like them. It was frightening to think that they could abuse time much like I could. I absently scratched at the thin and pale-white scar over my heart, a gentle reminder, I suppose, that things aren't always what they seem.

Have I had that thought before?

My head was killing me.

Thankfully my breakfast arrived only a moment later - eggs fried and scrambled, bacon crisp and greasy - I dug in with relish, all but devouring the plate. It was closer to seven a.m. when I finished, and I let the food settle before making a move. Certain parts of the wizarding community would be opening up for the day soon, and were within walking distance of the Via Veneto.

I was in no rush, not for the next hour or two anyways… The International Confederation didn't open its doors until nine. Perhaps a bit more breakfast. I was unexpectedly ravenous this morning. I ordered pancakes, a huge fluffy stack, dripping in syrup with a generous dollop of whipped cream. There are few pleasures in life more satisfying than good food - I can think of at least one, but heh, I'm a red-blooded male - and after the crap I've been living on for the last few years, future-years, I had the right to indulge myself.

It's a cruel and random world, but the chaos is also beautiful… That thought seemed familiar, but for the life of me…

*~*~*~*

I can't remember why. Why I made this choice all those years ago?

I've come to believe that the universe has a way of course correcting.

That I could go back in time, sure, and try and make a difference, but whether the world ends one way or another, if the universe wants it to end, if its supposed to happen, then it will - no matter what I do.

I don't want to believe this.

Yet it could be the truth…

Fate works in mysterious ways, and I reckon only on a grand scale. I mean, I saved Fleur's life - she was meant to die - will the universe correct for that? Or does it take into account the changes I make travelling through time and adapt…?

Damn it all, is it still Fleur's fate to die an early death? That's not in my memories, but then, neither are the Time Demons.

Don't try and understand, or you'll end up with a headache to match mine. Time is time, and is Time, and time's nothing but everything and all that's in between. Trust me when I say that made sense.

Fate only takes us so far before blocking all the exits, and once we're there it's up to us to make the future happen. But I could be wrong - wouldn't be the first time.

*~*~*~*

Breakfast was a happy memory.

I'd need that in the weeks to come, especially if I didn't get a chance to see Fleur or Tonks again before Atlantis… or Ron and Hermione. That gave me pause for a moment - I'd barely given those two a second of thought since Waking Up from the Dream. There was no excuse, really, even though they'd been dead for years…

Ron and Hermione. Heh, I couldn't wait to see them - but it would be weeks before I returned to England. If I returned to England without getting killed in some new and exciting way.

Fucking demons.

The sun had risen enough through the pale light of dawn to cast a blanket of warm light over the city as I strolled away from the Via Veneto, full of good food and a desire to get on with the day. Life would be so much easier if there were a fast-forward button… but then I shouldn't wish away time. It's all we have, really, and never enough.

I took to the back alleys of Rome, walking swift and sure through the winding streets away from the business and government district and into the older, more traditional background of the city. I soon looked out of place in my fine suit, on the lower east bank amongst the fresh vegetable markets and fish stalls on the shore of the Tiber River.

The sights, sounds, and smells of the markets were wonderful. In this part of the city the streets had never really been repaved since antiquity, and my feet settled into the ruts left by ancient wagons of time long ago. Four-wheeled carrucas used to ferry merchandise and baggage across the city and off into the region of Latium.

Simpler times back then, more magical times.

Today the modern markets were stocked from the wholesaler and the crates on the massive refrigerated trucks, and the fish came fresh from the sea to the west fifteen miles away, iced and still twitching. Overhead a jumbo jet, a commercial passenger plane, tore the serenity of the opening markets for a moment, and I moved on toward the banks of the river, wondering when I'd had the time to gain all of these memories about the city.

I knew a lot, more than I'd known yesterday morning. But then I'd only been a fifteen year old kid yesterday, mourning the loss of the only real father figure I've ever had. Today I am something else… and that wasn't all to the good, really. Not even close.

I am Harry Potter, I thought, walking along the docks now, stepping over fishing nets and water-faded buoys. I'm fifteen-nearly-sixteen. I'm a wizard. I attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. My best friends are Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. My godfather recently died because I fucked up big time, and the darkest wizard to have ever lived (and died) wants to stick my head on a pike out the front of his evil lair…

It was 08:12 and seven seconds.

I could hear the waters of the River Tiber slopping up against the old stone pillars that held up the docks, and the wind caught my overcoat billowing out behind me as I reached the end of a small wooden pier jutting out just over the water, built for the smaller fishing boats.

I gazed out over the river at the city. I was near to Rome's equivalent of Diagon Alley. That wizarding community I said was hiding out of sight and around the corner - well, that corner was just ahead, if I followed the river about a quarter mile east deeper into the city.

“Do you have the time, young man?”

I fell out of my thoughts and gazed down along the wooden pier. There was an old woman resting in a simple rocking chair, rocking back and forth, and listening to the radio. Her chair looked out on the bustling river and the steady stream of fishing boats heading into port. I wondered how she came to be there.

She was gazing right at me but her eyes were white and the irises pale - almost inhuman, like a vampire - yet she was merely blind. Her gnarled old fingers clutched a walking stick of twisted old wood. The wood was flecked with dents and seemed more a part of the woman than her faded purple dress and blue-knit shawl.

“Twelve minutes past eight and forty-two seconds,” I said, not needing to glance at my wrist. I'd only checked the watch a moment ago, and as I've said before - you have to understand time, and Time, to be able to wade through the roaring currents of Then and Now. Almost subconsciously I keep a pretty good count in my head of the exact time.

As it was relative to me, that is.

“Ah, thank you, dear,” the old lady replied, in perfect English. She didn't even have an accent. “You're an English boy?”

“I am,” I said, taking a few steps closer to the woman and her radio. A familiar tune was warbling out through the static of the two cracked speakers.

'Hey Jude, don't be afraid…”

“The Beatles, nineteen-sixty-eight,” the old lady said. “Those four boys ruled the world at one point… Times change, though.”

'…you were made to go out and get her. The minute you let her under your skin, then you'll begin… to make it better.'

“Time does indeed change,” I said. This felt strange. I had no memory of the woman. “My name is Harry.”

“Nice to meet you, Harry. I am Saturnia.”

Saturnia? Why was that familiar? Yeah, I was definitely on my fucking guard. This was a whole load of suspicious. “That's a lovely name.”

'And any time you feel the pain,' the Beatles sang, 'hey Jude refrain, don't carry the world upon your shoulders…'

The old lady laughed, showing her yellow teeth and wrinkled tongue. Her unseeing eyes looked right at me, through me. It was unnerving.  “An English gentleman, no less,” she said, thumping her walking stick against the pier. “Lovely name, he says!”

I couldn't help but smile. She seemed so harmless, so old - blind and fragile. “How did you know I was a young man?” I asked.

“Eh?”

“Forgive me, ma'am, but you're blind, and when you asked me for the time you said 'do you have the time, young man?'”

“Ah.” Saturnia grinned. “To a lady my age, dear, you are all young men.” She tapped her ear. “And it's also in your step, Harry - far too hurried and eager. You have places to be, I'd say, and not five minutes of time to spare chatting to an old crone like me.”

I laughed. And yet we're in Italy but you asked in English first? Two plus two equals five, lady.

The radio resting on the empty fishing pods next to her crackled and whined. 'For well you know that it's a fool, who plays it cool, by making his world a little colder…'

Perhaps I was being a little paranoid. Heh, was it really being paranoid when you had as many enemies as I did? Hell, it was being smart.

“Are you here on holiday, Harry?”

“Business, actually.” A small fishing boat pulled into the pier nearby, and one of the men aboard placed a short gangway plank across the gap between the boat and the mooring anchor on the dock.

“Oh?”

'Hey Jude, don't let me down… you have found her, now go and get her. Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better…' The radio fizzled and died to static.

“Young man's business,” I said. The scent of fish wafted strongly on the breeze up the pier from the new boat. I crinkled my nose, yet the old woman Saturnia did not seem to mind it at all.

“Then you're either chasing a girl or a dream, Harry,” she said.

“Can't it be both? They're one and the same a lot of the time…”

Saturnia tilted her head to the side, as if seeing me in a whole new light… or however her mind pictured me, through those misty eyes. “That was wise beyond your years, boy. How… wonderful!”

“I should be going…” I said. I wanted to get a damned cure for my headache. It was a persistent bastard, I'd give it that.

“Of course,” Saturnia replied, straightening her shawl across her shoulders. Her sightless gaze held mine for a heavy, pregnant moment. “No time to waste…”

Did I imagine the emphasis placed on that four-letter curse word? No, I bloody didn't. “I've got time to kill, ma'am, but no time to waste.”

One of the grizzled fishermen from the nearby boat turned to look at me, a frown furrowing his brow. He glanced at the old woman and raised his eyebrows.

Saturnia snorted and stamped her cane against the pier again. “Men think they are killing time, Harry, whilst time quietly kills them.”

Oh, was that a threat? “What do you know of time, old-?” I began, a snarl marring my tone.

“State comunicando con me?” the grizzled fisherman said in harsh Italian, pulling a black beanie off his head and shrugging his shoulders. “Chi state comunicando con?” Are you talking to me? Who are you talking to?

I turned to look at him, taking my eyes off the old lady for just a heartbeat. When I looked back, she was gone. All that remained was a broken old rocking chair and the empty shell of a busted radio that looked like it hadn't sang a tune in decades.

Saturnia, the old lady - or whatever she had really been - had disappeared in that space between one moment and the next… where the magic happens.

Well, there you go…

“Nessuno,” I said to the fisherman, turning and hurrying away from the small pier. “No one at all…”

I stormed along the paved walkway alongside the river, heading quickly now to the Via Magicka - three guesses what kind of shops are on that street - and casting my thoughts through the fuzzy, jumbled memories in my head looking for any previous encounters with a woman, or a creature, named Saturnia.

I came up empty, and that was troubling. Had I imagined the whole conversation? Or was something else screwing with me? Something else that, perhaps, had a grip on Time… Most of her conversation had revolved around time in some way.

“Do you have the time, young man?” I growled under my breath, my knuckles turning white around the handle of my briefcase. I could only conclude, if I hadn't gone stark raving mad, that the old woman, Saturnia, had known who I was and what I could do.

Just like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Great. Fucking great.

I'd keep an eye out for her - that was all I could do. And something told me, call it the voice of long experience, that no matter how blind Saturnia was, she would be keeping an eye out for me, too.

I wasn't just simply angry - I was furious.

“Time belongs to me,” I growled. “TIME BELONGS TO ME!”

Several people, including a woman with a pram, took a wise step out of my path as I stomped on by, my face as dark as a thunderstorm after that irrational outburst.

I was acting crazy - was I crazy? Insane? Had a screw popped loose somewhere along the line? Even if I hadn't been to the end of the world and back once or twice, being Harry Potter was fucked up enough to make anyone unstable.

Do crazy people wonder if they're crazy?

Maybe yes, maybe no…

I took a deep breath and counted back from ten slowly, letting the anger go. I couldn't afford to be so distracted. Anyone could be out to get me - anyone at all. Or anything.

I could feel the magic in the air before I began to see signs of it. As I approached the Via Magicka from the river I caught sight of the odd person in robes, or wearing a pointed wizard's hat. There were Muggles around, sure, but they never really see anything, do they?

Especially with all the notice-me-not charms the Italian Ministry has in place around this part of the city in particular. There were literally thousands of magical folk in this city, living for the most part in plain sight, blending in with the non-magical population.

Rome was a centre for the magical world - not only are the highest governing bodies based here, the Confederation and Federation held representatives from all the magical nations on the planet - but no other city in the world boasts a magical population as big as the one all around me.

“Hey Jude… don't let me down…” I mumbled, and then scowled. There had been no radio - why had the haggard old woman had that song playing at all?

I left the river and crossed over a road with light traffic, heading over a grassy embankment dotted with archaic oak trees. Just ahead across the field of grass were a pair of large wooden doors supported under a keystone arch, nestled between two grey office buildings that had seen better days.

The large double doors were wide open and as I approached I could make out the engraving of the street name in a golden plaque secured against the smooth marble of the stone arch:

Via Magicka

The steady stream of people walking past the entrance to Rome's Diagon Alley didn't notice it at all, their eyes slid from the dreary office building on one side to the dreary office building on the other, much like the Leaky Cauldron back in London. A few people, magical people, walked through the doors and disappeared around a bend and out of sight - and in the case of the Muggles, out of mind.

I stepped across the threshold and onto the bumpy cobblestones of the Via Magicka and felt the gentle pressure of the wards and Muggle-repelling charms around the street recognise a magical signature and let me pass unhindered.

I followed the start of the street down and around. It curved out of sight of the main Muggle streets and the last sparkling view of the Tiber River, and all at once I was hit in the face with the wizarding world.

Diagon Alley was tiny compared to this place, no doubt about that. The Via Magicka is a wide open street, caught between one district and the next. It was an alley, I suppose, but three times the width of the one back home, and packed with more magical shops and pubs, more wizards and witches, than Diagon Alley on its busiest day of the year.

And there were no wanted posters for Azkaban escapees. There were shady dealers manning dark looking stalls selling all manner of crap, yet that was just the culture in this part of the Magicka. Further down the street were the more pricy shops, and even a branch of Gringotts.

I definitely did not want to be recognised by the goblins, so I'd steer clear of that. I liked my head firmly attached to my shoulders, and those cheeky little buggers had magic they hid all too well from wizard-kind. Strong magic, magic I could overcome, had overcome more than once, but I didn't have the time or the patience to test it again.

They'd given me the Ring of Concealment, which was all I really needed of them… They'd given me one of the keys to the ancient world, after all.

“And any time you feel the pain… Hey Jude… refrain…” I paused and then cursed mildly at the song caught in my head. All time classic, my ass…

I had memories, blurry as they were, of being here before, and as I jostled my way through the crowds, keeping a firm grip on my briefcase, I headed straight for where I remembered one of the better apothecaries to be. I also had memories of this street in flames, of Dementors roaming amongst the ruins under the cool dead of night, and of ash swirling on the air as thick as a snowstorm. I shivered and pushed those memories away - they belonged to a dark future.

 

I stepped into the foul-smelling and dimly-lit Moretti & Costa's Apothecary, drawing from my briefcase the sack of galleons I'd taken from Gringotts in London. I emerged a few minutes later with a small brown paper bag of pre-brewed potions designed to get straight to the source of pain, and relieve the hell out of it.

I uncorked the first bottle and downed the potion in one quick swallow. Damn it all! They always tasted like crap, no matter how much I tried not to taste it on the way down. I felt my large breakfast rebelling for a moment before my stomach settled and the potion got to work…

Was I really surprised when the strongest pain-relieving potion on the market didn't make a damn bit of difference to my headache?

I swallowed the second, and then the third and fourth bottle I'd bought like they were the contents of last night's mini-bar - three times the recommended dosage and… nothing. The best I got was a tingly feeling in my left hand as the potion took care of the pain from the burns.

And in a strange, pathetic way the pain in my hand had helped to distract me from the pain in my head. Now that it was gone, my head seemed to pound all the more. Still, I'd also bought a salve for the burns and rubbed it in gently, soothing the dry, sore skin. It should heal up fine - no scar or nothing.

 

I discarded the empty potion bottles and paper bag in a nearby rubbish bin and rubbed at my forehead absently, thinking only bad things about a headache that wouldn't die. Nothing for it but to get on with the day though, was there?

I spent the next half an hour or so browsing through a few certain shops in the Via Magicka and keeping my head down. Harry Potter was a famous wizard, after all, and recognisable all over the world. Not so much out of England, but it was still a distinct possibility. Especially in Rome - the proverbial heart of the magical world.

I kept my wand at the ready in the inner pocket over the left side of my chest, ready to draw in a heartbeat should evil attack, yet I moved unnoticed for the most part. A few street vendors tried to peddle me their wares. I gave them a look more often that not reserved for facing down Dark Lords and Death Eaters and they backed off.

In a shop not that dissimilar form Borgin and Burke's in Knockturn Alley I bought a curious little object.

There wasn't room in my briefcase for a lot of purchases. In fact it was ready to burst - yet I still managed to spend all but twenty-five of the galleons I'd withdrawn in London. Five galleons went on the potions from the apothecary. The rest of the gold - about two hundred and seventy pieces - went on a useful item that would come in handy later that day, if events played out as they were supposed to play out.

I wrapped a heavy yet fragile glass sphere within the folds of the Invisibility Cloak, making sure it was cushioned well. The glass was warm to the touch - hot, even - and a live flame shone pale blue and golden-red within the heart of the sphere. I tucked it carefully down into the briefcase and did the clasp up tight.

09:02 and fifteen seconds.

It was shaping up to be a busy morning. Time to go.

*~*~*~*

There is no reason why things end.

It is simply Purpose, and Meaning.

Sometimes I think the dark is drawn to the light as a moth to the flame. Maybe it is the nature of all things to be pulled towards their opposite.

I mean, look at Voldemort and myself - Fate arranges it quite often for our paths to cross. Usually, at least one person has to die to meet that end. The past is cruel, no doubt about that…

Ah well, here's to days to come…

*~*~*~*

It was 09:23 and fifty-eight seconds. I had nearly come full circle back to the Via Veneto and that wonderful little café and its orgasmic pancakes.

I was heading up a hill now, away from that part of town, and towards one of the oldest standing structures in all of Rome - all of the world, even - the Pantheon.

The Pantheon is a great stone circular building, adorned with a portico comprising of three ranks of solid Corinthian columns. It has existed across the centuries since about 125AD, and was originally built as a temple to all the gods of Ancient Rome. Perhaps the best preserved building of its age in the world, the Pantheon has been in constant use throughout its history.

It became a Christian church in the seventh century, but long before that, the Magnus Fontis was built down - deep down - beneath its massive circular dome. Oh yes, this was the Great Library - the Fountain of History. And this, the Pantheon, was also the meeting place for all the nations belonging to the International Confederation of Wizards and the International Federation of Warlocks.

I walked briskly across the street and up the timeworn marble steps under the portico of the Pantheon, and through the pediment opening thrown open against a pair of old bronze doors, once plated with gold. Even this early, the crowds of tourists and sightseers were thick and heavy in the main rotunda of the circular building.

I stood for a moment gazing around in appreciation at the wealth of history around me, of the art and mosaic tiles that adorned the coffered, domed ceiling. A beam of strong sunlight poured in through the central opening, the occulus - the Great Eye, an open hole at the apex of the dome.

History - that vast ocean of recorded time - swirled around me, swept me away, and even eased my headache for the briefest of moments. I took a deep breath, savouring the peace.

It was likely to be the last moment I'd get today.

The large rotunda of the Pantheon was too packed, two hundred footsteps and hushed, excited voices echoed across the moulded coffers overhead as I strolled past the niches and chapels that held the remains of some of history's greatest players.

There was Raphael, the painter, several long dead Italian kings, religious figures - and I had even been led to believe that at one point the remains of Merlin himself had been entombed here… but if so they were long gone. Statues and busts of these people, paintings from famous and unknown artists, rested in the chapels behind bars of velvet rope.

I walked over to the high altar, complete with an apse holding an enshrined icon of the Madonna, and stepped behind it and into one of the marble niches that seemed a little bare compared to the bursting artwork in the other chapels.

There were a few people in here, gazing at the old tomb of King Victor Emmanuel II, and if any of them noticed me they forgot it almost immediately as I walked straight into the faded marble wall on the far side of the chapel and disappeared.

Much like the concealed entrance to Platform Nine and Three Quarters back home at Kings Cross station, the wizarding world had hidden the entrance to its greatest governing bodies and massive secret library in plain view of the world.

Here we go, I thought, as I emerged through the wall at the top of a wide set of curving stairs that led down and around out of sight. I stepped down them briskly, my shoes soundless on the cool red velvet that carpeted the old stone.

Magical light, strong and yellow, burned from torches held in brackets either side. I past a few wizards and witches on the way down, and they eyed me askance in my fine Muggle suit.

The International Confederation and Federation were technically open to the public, most of the time, for viewing, yet not many who weren't members bothered with that. Like most politics, it was there for the whole world to see but few cared in today's modern age.

I followed the wide staircase down and around a final time, deeper underground, and came to a large chamber beneath the Pantheon that was just as packed, if not more so, than the tourist attraction overhead.

Chandeliers of crystal light dangled down from the roof, sparkling softly above the sea of magical folk moving about the chamber, heading off into the many doors, too many to count, leading away from the main hall. There were heavy curtains of old fabric dangling down from the roof and anchored against the walls. Curtains of all different colours displaying the flags of the world, and the seals of individual international Ministries.

The Grand Entrance Chamber of the Confederation and Federation was not unlike the Atrium at the Ministry of Magic back home, but this was on a much larger scale.

My eyes scanned the crowd before I stepped down off the staircase and I counted at least three dozen Aurors and security people dotted about the place, guarding the doors - and about two dozen more that were mingling with the crowds, trying to avoid attention. It didn't seem likely that a sword-wielding demon would be here, of all places, but then those bastards hadn't hesitated to gut me in the broad sunlight on a busy morning at Diagon Alley.

I decided to proceed as planned. I couldn't do much else, really. I was already behind schedule after the attack last night.

I moved through the crowds and over to one of the larger doors before a flag-curtain of cool blue and white, with two wands crossed over a single staff of knotted wood. The emblem of the Federation of Warlocks. The door was barred closed with Aurors standing guard - clearly a closed session.

I took a seat against the wall nearby, next to the reporters and various supporters and aides of the wizards deciding the future policies of the Federation, and discussing the threat of all-out war back home, just beyond the heavy oak door.

It was 09:38 exactly. I didn't have long to wait, if memory served.

I sat twiddling my thumbs on the cushioned stone bench against the wall for twenty three minutes and twelve seconds - I checked my watch, spot on - when the large oak door was thrown open and wizened old men in robes of resplendent blue with silver-white trim emerged, all of them toting a staff with a small crystal embedded in the top, shining softly in an array of different colours. Each of the Warlocks sported an impressive beard that I had no hope of matching until the late twenty first century.

Albus Dumbledore appeared at the tail end of the group of old men, deep in discussion with two wizards who were gesturing widely with their staffs, speaking a foreign language I didn't understand. I think it was Turkish, but for all I knew it could have been Swahili.

His sparkling blue eyes, eyes that had seen the world change again and again across the long decades, swept across the chamber much like mine had, taking everything in behind those half-moon spectacles.

I wasn't that far away from him, only about fifteen feet, and his gaze fell on me, sitting against the wall, before moving on. I waited for it… and his head snapped back to me, his mouth opening in a small 'O'.

For a moment I thought I caught that flicker of surprise crossing Dumbledore's face, yet it came and went so fast that I may have imagined it. The old man's poker face was far too clever well-worn to give much away. Heh, if anything he looked as if he had expected me.

“Harry,” the old Headmaster said, ignoring his fellow Warlocks entirely.

I gave him a wave with my good right hand, and a small shrug.

Dumbledore took a moment to bid his companions farewell, and then turned to me with that kind old grandfatherly look on his face, his staff thumping on the cool marble tiles as he approached. I shoved up, making some room on the stone bench, and he took a seat next to me.

“Hello, Professor Dumbledore,” I said. “Of all the cities in all the world…”

“Harry, my dear boy. May I ask what brings you to Rome?”

I smiled, showing my teeth. “Why, adventure, of course, sir.”

Dumbledore blinked, and then a slow grin made his eyes twinkle. “Ah, a flighty temptress - and a harsh mistress, Harry. You left the protection of Privet Drive… there are more than quite a few people turning England inside out looking for you.”

“Tonks told you I'd absconded, bless her heart.”

“Nymphadora was quite put out that you decided to disappear on her watch.”

“I'll make it up to her. I had places to be, people to see…”

“Indeed, I believe you not only thwarted a Death Eater attack in Diagon Alley, but saved the life of Miss Delacour. After that, you were far too clever for me to find, and I regret that I had business to attend to here, although it has proved more fortuitous than I first hoped. You are found!”

I nodded slowly, resting my burnt hand on my lap. Dumbledore glanced at the burns, slowly healing under the salve I'd bought at the Via Magicka, with a frown. He then rested his own hand across his lap - it was blackened and shrivelled, looking as though the flesh had been burnt away.

I sighed deeply at the sight of it. What I wouldn't give to be able to go back in time further than yesterday. It was never enough. Fucking gods. Fucking fine print.

“I'd heard you'd be here, sir,” I said. “I came to see you, in fact.”

“Hmm… I had reasoned as much, Harry. Although I had hoped that perhaps you had come here to view the Confederation in session - too few people take an interest these days.”

“Ah, some other time, perhaps. I'm not brave enough to stomach politics, Professor.”

Dumbledore folded his blackened and scorched hand into the folds of his robes. If he was put out that I hadn't commented on it he didn't let it show. And he was still smiling, eyes still twinkling. “It is good to see you, though I must know, why are you here?”

“Well, just between you and me…” I glanced about, making sure no one could overhear our conversation. “I was hoping to get into the Magnum Fontis.” No beating around the bush.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow - he was definitely surprised now. “You have caught me off guard there, Harry.” His features resumed their grandfatherly mask. “Is Miss Granger with you? I would imagine she would give all the gold in Gringotts for a single hour in the Library.”

“It's just me,” I said.

“If you know of the Library then you must be aware of the entry requirements, dear boy. At the very least, you need a beard you can tuck into your belt.”

“Or an Invisibility Cloak…” I whispered. “And the Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock, the Grand Sorcerer, of both the International Confederation of Wizards and the Federation of Warlocks to open the door, Professor.” I paused, meeting the old Headmaster's eyes. “I have both with me here.”

Dumbledore held my gaze for a long moment, giving nothing away. “Lemon drop, Harry?” He produced a paper bag of sweets from his robes.

“Thank you,” I said, popping one of the sour sweets into my mouth.

“I must admit that you have my curiosity buzzing - what is in the Magnus Fontis that is worth ten years of prison time, should you be caught in its dim and dusty corridors?”

I wouldn't be getting caught. 

“Knowledge, of course, something I don't want Voldemort to have, Professor.” I tapped my infamous lightning bolt scar. “I left Privet Drive because I saw what he was planning to do. He's coming here - to get something, something to do with a… Horcrux? I don't know the word, but I can see you do.”

I could lie with the best of them - but I couldn't justify it. It was good to see Albus Dumbledore again after so long. He was always one of the first to die once Voldemort gains his power. And it's not fair, not fair at all, but I've shed enough tears - too many - against the unfairness of the world. I hated having to abuse the trust the old man had in me, though, and it left me feeling wretched and guilty. Nothing for it though but to lie through my teeth… At the end of the day, it was necessary.

The twinkle left Dumbledore's eyes and he glanced around, making sure that no one had heard me use that dark, dark word - Horcrux. “Be careful, Harry, be very careful. You've stumbled upon magic of the darkest nature.”

There's darker, I thought, so much darker. If you knew what I'd done you'd be so ashamed, Dumbledore, and rightly so… Merlin damn it all…

“Do you know what Tom is after?”

I shook my head, looking uncertain. “I only had glimpses of his thoughts, through the pain in the scar - I think I heard something about the Valde Claustrum, whatever that is. I get the feeling I'll know it when I see it… kinda like the prophecy.”

Dumbledore sighed, resting his staff in the crook of his shoulder. “The Great Cloister - the deepest and oldest part of the Magnus Fontis.” He paused. “I think it best we return you to Surrey, Harry, and get you back behind the wards at Privet Drive. There are old magics and enchantments in the Library. It is not safe even for a wizard of my modest skill.”

“The adventure is that way,” I said, pointing across the chamber to a set of plain wooden doors that didn't look in anyway particularly important. It was the corridor that led to the Magnus Fontis, however. I saw Dumbledore trying to puzzle out how I'd known the way. “Shall we pursue it or not, Professor?”

The twinkle flared briefly in the old man's eyes again, and I knew I had him, as I always did. I still felt like shit though for abusing Dumbledore's trust - and he'd know it all too soon once we got down into the Library.

I reminded myself that it had to be done, that this was the only way. Atlantis, awaits, for those stupid enough to dare the path of the ancient world… and that path, for me, began here. Voldemort had dared a different road, one I couldn't follow without tearing my soul asunder and scattering it to the four winds…

This has to be done!

Time would tell if I was doing the right thing - Time always does.

*~*~*~*

A/N: Ah, there we go. This feels like a good place to end the chappie. What do you think, dear reader? Love it? Hate it? Like where it's heading?

I think Dumbledore being manipulative to the point of absurdity to protect Harry has been done to death, so I thought it'd be cool to write a story where Dumbledore actually helps our hero - that makes more sense, really, than forcing him home.

Things are about to heat up now - the last few chapters have been setting the scene, giving a lot of background information. Whilst there are still a lot of unanswered questions, I want to write Harry answering them on the fly, acting and reacting, over the next few chapters. We'll see Fleur again soon, maybe Tonks a little later, and perhaps a few new characters.

There'll definitely be monsters.

Please review, let me know how I'm doing,

Joe