The Riddle War

Chapter 1:

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner

It was raining, which was an understatement. Pouring would have been a better world, perhaps. If you wanted to be self-evident, the phrase "downpouring" would also be apt, although rain can really only travel one direction, and that direction is down, making the phrase fairly redundant. Anyway, my point was that the clouds had become burdened with too much water vapor and were now dumping this excess of now-liquid water vapor all over a heavily forrested area of Northern England. Because of this huge amount of water careening from the sky accompanied with that hated sort of cold wind that chilled the very bones, everyone in the area of the storm had wisely decided to stay indoors. All, that is, except one dedicated young man who refused to allow the inclement weather to stop his early morning ten mile run.

The young man, as mentioned a minute ago, was very dedicated to his training. Every morning, no matter how late he had been up the night before, the young man woke at six am and was out the door by 6:15, running the same ten mile loop he had been running for six years. At first, he had barely been able to finish the loop at a pathetic jog. Now, six years after beginning this strict regime, (which was augmented by another ten miler or a speed session on a nearby track later in the day) the young man had become one of the greatest distance runners in all of Great Britain.

And so it was that on this morning in late fall through a deluge a young man who was known on the professional track circuit as James Black found himself cruising along smack dab in the middle of a ten mile run at a comfortable six-minute-per-mile pace, cursing his choice of a hobby. The only purpose running was supposed to have served in his life was to allow his mind to clear and his legs to stretch before and after a grueling work day. Before he was seventeen, James had never done much exercising, unless you counted the five years he spent playing for his school team. However, after his sixth year of school, he had inherited a little cottage and a lot of land in the area and had consequently dropped out of school to do. . . research. He had noticed upon his arrival at what was now his cottage the miles and miles of trails that ran through his fairly extensive property. James had first taken up jogging, then running, to keep fit and provide his mind with an escape for the rigors of the research he spent most of the day on.

His weekly mileage had started quite low and built steadily for a year until it approached one hundred and twenty miles a week, when James decided he was bored of running by himself and entered in a local three mile road race. To his great surprise, he won it in a spectacular time of thirteen minutes, forty-six seconds. James found himself suddenly catapulted to relative fame in the sports community at the tender age of eighteen. James was invited to track meets all over Britain and was highly sought by the largest shoe companies, who wanted to capitalize on this teenaged phenomenon who had appeared quite literally out of nowhere. James began to race fairly regularly, appearing with some of the best European runners and occasionally placing in the big meets. His specialization was 5000 meters, but his favorite races were the 3000 and two-mile, which were raced infrequently. James' success and youth attracted lots of attention- the press loved this mere boy who had come out of nowhere and refused all professional contracts- "the Last Amatuer," the media titled him. As his ability and fame grew, he began to be compared with former British greats such as Sebastian Coe and Steve Cram, who had also achieved incredible feats at tender ages. Publications of all kinds, from newspapers to sports periodicals, tried to get interviews with distance running's latest talent. The reclusive James Black refused all, which only added to his intrigue. He coached himself, he lived by himself, it was unknown how he made a living, he was unaffiliated with any sponsor. He ran nominally for the "Marauder Track Club," of which he was the sole member. He was poised in the summer of 2000 to be Britain's great hope in the Olympic 5000 Meter final against the East Africans, who had dominated the sport throughout the 90's.

Then, after winning the Olympic 5000 Trial in 12:54.62, smashing Dave Moorcraft's British record by over six seconds, James Black had announced he would not be running in the Olympics. After that, he had seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth. He had reappeared nine months later with no explanation or apology and shattered the world two-mile record before disappearing from the track circuit again.

Yes, James thought to himself as he passed the 8-mile marker, this certainly was a wretched hobby that he had taken up. He should have tried playing chess instead, and worried about staying in shape without tearing down his body day after day. On many levels, James hated running in a way only elite runners can. He hated waking up three hours before his body wanted to on cold winter days and snow-shoeing through ten miles of slush and wintery depression. The drudgery of constant training left him weary beyond comparison, grinded his spirits, made him ache deeply and incessantly. And yet when James found himself with two laps to go in a 5K race and had to reach deep within himself to summon a surge, he generally found something beyond a vague desire for fame or glory. James had best explained it to himself with a metaphor. John Lennon didn't write songs to make money any more than Dylan Thomas wrote poetry to impress women. They, like James, did what they did because they needed to. Their creativity- Lennon's music, Thomas' poetry, and Black's running- it was all an inextricable part of their character, and they had to do it because denying it would be to deny a huge part of what made them the men they were. James hated the toil of training, but running made him whole, free, and complete.

One mile to go, James thought to himself as he ducked a low branch. A mere 1,760 yards separated him from a hot shower, a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar, a mug of hot chocolate, and. . .

James sighed. And his research. That little project that was five-sevenths completed and six years in the making. His life's work, you might say, because his life (and the lives of the ones he loved) depended on it. The reason he had had to drop out of school, and leave his life, friends, and girlfriend behind. The project that had taken the life of the same mentor who had left him the cottage, a huge tract of land, and books and books filled with notes. James knew exactly what his mentor had bought the land for- cushioning. Not one soul lived within twenty miles of James' cottage and no one could reach him, even if they knew he was there. James received no post, no phone calls (because he didn't have one), and no e-mail (actually, James didn't even know what "e-mail" was). It got lonely, sometimes, but James knew his research was far too sensitive and dangerous to be carried out around other people. Not to mention his rival in this particular field would make every effort to derail his project if he knew James was attempting it.

Ah, there it was, James noted with relief. Home. Or, at least, the closest thing he had ever had to a home. A quaint, comfortably appointed cottage in the middle of nowhere. A decent sized garden was situated behind the cottage, the rare herbs and common vegatables resolutely trying to stand up against the deluge pouring down on them. James smiled at them as he slowed first to a jog, then to a walk, and opened the front door, silently wishing them luck. Somehow he doubted he'd be enjoying his homegrown vegetables this year; it had already rained too much.

James entered his cottage and stripped, leaving his sodden running clothes in a pile in the entranceway and made his way to a well-deserved hot shower. He spent nearly an hour under the relaxing stream of hot water and sighed in contentment. Slowly, he began to shed the fabricated identity that was James Black. James Black was a falsehood, a lie, that allowed him to compete in the world of track and field without alerting his enemies (or his allies, for that matter, who were still searching earnestly for him) to his identity. James Black was a silent, determined man completely dedicated to his sport. After races, he grabbed his sweats and left the stadium without a word to anyone. He was a little scruffy, wearing his hair fairly long and sporting untrimmed sideburns. His name was an amagram of two father-figures in the young man's life who had been murdered. The young man wore this identity like a cloak, taking solace in the aura of invincibility Black had about him. However, the young man kept a rigid set of rules of when it was appropriate to be James Black. During runs was one, as was when on tour in Europe. The time the young man spent researching and experimenting his arcane theories were not. Thus, James Potter was allowed to be washed away in the shower along with the mud that had splattered the young man's body.

James Black had entered the shower tired, but satisfied with the way his run had gone. Harry Potter exited the shower sore and focused on first his breakfast and then the day's work.

* * *

Hours later, Harry Potter stood bent over a cauldron in his basement lab. Any observer who saw him running free and unhindered earlier would be shocked to see him concentrating so deeply on the potion simmering before it. Noxious fumes filled the room, but Harry paid them no notice- they weren't toxic. While his time as James Black was the best part of his day, his time spent steeped in the most obscure branches of Alchemy, Arithmancy, Charms, and Ancient Runes was the most productive. It was here, in the large laboratory located in the basement of the cottage that Albus Dumbledore had inhabited from his mid-twenties until his death, that Harry had tracked down three of Voldemort's four remaining Horcruxes and invented the means to destroy each. He had delved into magicks so ancient and deep that much of the knowledge in them had been lost, and Harry had been forced to rediscover many things. By first reading and learning to comprehend all of Dumbledore's notes (no small task) and then hesitantly expanding on his mentor's theories, Harry had learned more about magic in the last six years than many wizards learned in decades.

At the moment, Harry was trying to stabilize an original concoction of his. If he could get it to stop causing grostesque swelling, the potion would prove an effective defense against the depression dementors caused in their victims. He had based the formula on the active ingredients in Muggle antidepressants. If he could figure out how to stabilize it, the formula for the potion and a large sample would somehow find its way to Fred and George Weasley's shop in Diagon Alley, like many other of his useful inventions. Over the six years he had been living in self-imposed exile, Harry had invented dozens of protections against Voldemort's allies, all of which had ended up on a WWW shelf.

Harry frowned, adding a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda. Maybe that would help. Whether it would or not, it would take at least an hour to take effect. That would give him enough time to check up on the Big One.

Turning from the cauldron, Harry went to a gigantic map that took up an entire wall. Over it glowed a ghostly green series of lines that formed a large grid. The lines were mostly straight, but in places where Dark Magic flowed in abundance, the lines curved and bulged. It was Harry's greatest invention, made by mixing the magic found in the Marauders' Map and Dumbledore's Dark Detectors. With this map, Harry could keep watch on the most Dark objects in the world.

Casting his gaze upon the map, Harry scanned each bulge of line, looking at the labels attached to each Dark Object. The Dark Witch in Peru had made no progress in her quest to raise the old Mayan gods. . . the Soviet Werewolves' Socialist Party were still trying to make Dark wands with bowtruckle skeletons. . . Borgin and Burkes' had acquired a new shipment of cursed items. . . but there was no sign of the last Horcrux. Once Harry had detected and destroyed another of Voldemort's Horcruxes using the map, the Dark Lord had immediately developed brand-new Concealing Charms to keep his remaining ones hidden.

Sighing, Harry turned to another poster tacked to the wall and looked at it. On it was written each of the items Harry had worked out to be likely candidates for Horcruxes.

Voldemort's Horcruxes, the poster read.

1.) Riddle's Diary (destroyed)

2.) Marvolo's Ring (destroyed)

3.) Slytherin's Locket (destroyed)

When Harry's eyes took in this last Horcrux, he smiled. The fake it had been replaced with had led to the death of Albus Dumbledore, his mentor, but was later found at Grimmauld Place. As it turned out, Regulus Black, the younger brother of Harry's deceased godfather, Sirius, hitherto thought to be evil and cowardly, had stolen one of Voldemort's Horcruxes and hid it at Grimmauld Place before being killed by Death Eaters. Once Harry had wrung this information from Kreacher, the house-elf that Harry had inherited after Sirius died, Harry had been able to slip into Grimmauld Place and take the locket before Voldemort's forces retook the ancient House of Black. Destroying it had proved difficult (Harry had it for more than a year before he finally managed it). He continued reading.

4.) Nagini the Snake (still functioning)

5.) Helga's Goblet (destroyed)

6.) Rowena's Lantern (in possesion, but not destroyed yet)

Harry grimaced. He had to find Nagini. Once Voldemort caught on to the fact he was three Horcruxes short (he hadn't found out about numbers five and six yet, to Harry's knowledge) he had kept Nagini by his side at all times, occasionally casting the Cruciatus Curse on anyone who dared touch her. Harry had come within days of poisoning her, but the attempt had been foiled by none other than Severus Snape, the premier Potions Master in Britain, and most loyal of Voldemort's Death Eaters.

Snape. Even saying the name in his head couldn't stop Harry from snarling. The greasy bastard who had taught Harry Potions for five years and Defense Against the Dark Arts for one. The man who had fooled Dumbledore so completely that the look of shock on the old man's face when Snape had launched Avada Kedavra at him still haunted Harry's nightmares. Harry recalled with hatred Snape's face, smirking and self-satisfied as he read Harry's thoughts, blocking his curses before Harry could finish casting them. He wouldn't have such an easy time doing that again, Harry knew. Occlumency had been one of the many magics he had mastered in the six years since his self-imposed exile had begun. It had taken years of practice and the expertise of a hermit living out his life in a Buddhist monastary in Tibet to get Harry to the level where he'd feel comfortable going up against a master Legilimens like Snape or Voldemort.

Enough. Harry shook his head, as if to dislodge the distracting thoughts from his brain. He needed to focus on the tasks at hand. First, he needed to stabilize his antidepressant potion. Second, he needed to locate Nagini, the last functioning Horcrux Voldemort controlled. Third, he needed to check his mapping charms' progress on the Horcrux Harry had captured after winning the Olympic Trials.

Although Harry had had every intent of running and perhaps even winning the Olympic 5000 Meter Run in in the Summer Olympiad of 2000, he had been sidetracked with the discovery of one of Voldemort's Horcruxes. Wasting no time, Harry had left the country and traveled to the French Alps, where he managed to locate a crumbling mountain estate that had once belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw. Although the estate was mostly ruins, Voldemort had apparently found her vast library virtually untouched in the dungeons of the estate and it was there that he had undergone many of his transformations in the 50's and 60's. He had also found in the mausoleum there an ornate lantern that bore the Latin inscription "Rowenae cum amatae e Salazarem et Godricem," or, in English, "To Rowena, with love, from Salazar and Godric." Voldemort had taken the lantern and made it into a Horcrux, later hiding the lantern once more in the crypts of the estate. Harry had extracted the lantern with great difficulty and much harm to himself, but had yet to figure out how to break the Horcrux and destroy the soul fragment within.

Harry swept across the room to where the lantern was held, suspended in the air by a Weightlessness Charm. It gave off a sickly yellowish green glow that made Harry think of poison. As far as he could determine, this glow was Voldemort's soul, and the sickly cast showed just how decayed and inhuman the Dark Wizard had become. Every few minutes, a soft blue light illuminated the whole thing and a quill whizzed back in forth on a peice of nearby parchment, recording the results. Harry looked at the parchment, one eyebrow quirked as he read the rows upon rows of runes, symbols, and numbers that represented the mathematical construct of the spell. If he could find a weak link in the construct, he could destroy the lantern.

Now turning his gaze to the lantern itself, Harry couldn't help but sneer. The original inscription had been changed with the completion of the Horcrux spell, Harry discovered. It now read, "Filio Salazaris, e ipse, itaque licet mihi vivare aeternus," or, "To the son of Salazar, from himself, so that he may live eternal." Once it returned to the original inscription, Harry would know the Horcrux was broken.

Harry stared at the Horcrux for several minutes longer, lost in his thoughts. He was so close. . . when he managed to destroy this one, there would be only Nagini left. . . and then Harry could kill Voldemort. He could rejoin Wizarding society. . . see his friends. . .

. . . maybe even make up with Ginny.

Harry stewed in his thoughts, going round and round, thinking the same things over and over again. The only sounds in his lab were the soft bubbling of the antidepressant potion and the scribbling of the quill on parchment. Harry blinked and turned his gaze once more to the parchment. He read row after row of perfect runes, cursing Voldemort's thoroughness. There had to be a flaw somewhere. . . there was no such thing as an unbreakable spell. Even the Killing Curse had exceptions, as Harry had proved. Unbreakable Vows could be broken, Veritaserum could be resisted, the Cruciatus overcome. . . this lantern had to have a flaw.

Harry sighed. Maybe it was hopeless. Maybe there was no flaw in the wards around the lantern. Maybe he was just wasting his time.

Suddenly, Harry's practiced eye caught something. That couldn't be right. It was the Arabic rune for "invincible," and was being used as yet another reinforcement to the shields around the lantern. It was such an out-of-place symbol that Harry dug up Dumbledore's rune dictionary to double-check he was reading it correctly. After consulting Dumbledore's rune dictionary, Harry discovered that the Arabian wizards who had developed the rune were religious fanatics, and the actual translation of the rune was coser to "invincibility through piety." Harry's eyes skipped to the next rune. It was a linking rune, tying the Arabic one together with. . . the Mongol rune for "unbreakable shield." Voldemort had obviously meant that section of the spell to form another layer of "invincible, unbreakable shield" around the lantern. However, while the Arabian rune was very powerful, it was vastly weakened by the failure of a caster to include the Arabic rune for "piety" with a linking rune first. The Arabians who had designed the rune had made sure that any wizard who believed himself to be invincible without piety (the rune for humility also helped considerably) would not be able to use the rune to its fullest.

In other words, Harry had found his weakness.