Like the Very First Time

  Something metallic buzzed past Harry's ear.

  Just one of his hummingbirds.

  The clockwork construct fluttered by on blurred wings, joining the flock overhead. Their collective whirr vibrated through the air, a low drone he could feel in his chest. A baker's dozen of the snitch-sized birds flitted about like leaves on the wind, brass-and-silver bodies catching the morning light before vanishing into the next arc.

  Wind rolled across the Gask Ridge, carrying peat and frost. It buffeted his hair, whipping his coat against his legs. Below, golden gorse covered the slopes in scrubby patches, battered flat by the constant assault. The heather rippled in waves, purple-grey stretching to the valley floor where the faint scar of a Roman road cut through, half-swallowed by two thousand years of growth.

  Just as he remembered it, back when he was a freshly certified Journeyman Arcanist, absolutely convinced he knew what he was doing.

  The birds moved as one, darting in different directions before freezing together mid-air, runes flickering across their casings. Then off again, all at once. He'd made a game of guessing the intervals, but he was still piss poor at it.

  Harry tracked one zipping along the dome's curve. The hyperactive little sods needed minding, else they'd wander off to investigate whatever caught their fancy. Usually something shiny.

  One had already peeled away from the work, hovering near Bogrod’s waistcoat. Apparently fascinated by the gleam of a pocket watch chain.

  Harry whistled sharp through his teeth.

  The bird darted back into formation. He followed it with his eyes to be sure it didn’t get lost on the way.

  Behind him, boots crunched against rocky soil. Two pairs. Gringotts' observers, keeping their distance but watching every move.

  Best not dawdle about, then.

  The ley-compass pulled at his hand, insistent.

  He adjusted his grip on the weathered electrum casing. The metal was warm, etched runes vibrating faintly against his palm. Inside, quicksilver pooled and shifted, gathering itself into a hand. Its index finger pointed west, just beyond the dome's boundary.

  There.

  A weathered stone pushed through the earth, edges worn smooth. Faded Latin traced across its face, still legible despite millennia of this bloody wind. Harry shivered. He twirled his finger slowly in a clockwise direction. A column of warmth began rising from beneath his feet, flowing up past his knees, his chest, his face. The tip of his nose tingled as feeling returned. His ears stopped aching.

  Ahh.

  The Warming Charm was only temporary relief. Luckily, he’d learned a neat trick. He pulled his still twirling finger towards himself, then patted his hand onto his jacket. The warm air sank into it, and steam began curling upward from the fabric. That’s the ticket.

  Back to it.

  He crouched and brushed the loam from the inscription. The letters had been etched exceptionally cleanly. Perfectly evenly spaced, too. Someone had really taken their time with this. Explained why the wards’d outlasted the Empire four times over.

  Just past it, a section of wall slumped into the dirt. The mortared stone was cracked but still standing.

  A border fort. One of Rome's northernmost outposts, perched on the edge of the Gask Ridge overwatching approach from the Caledonians. The empire's frontier, back when Rome was still expanding. The Scots were giving southerners the V, even then. Tough bastards, the highlanders. Must be the kilts.

  Now, this place was just scattered foundations and weathered stone, slowly being eroded by time. The highlands had swallowed most of it. Would swallow the rest eventually.

  Lot of bother for bugger-all, really.

  Harry slipped the compass into his coat and reached into his mokeskin pouch. His fingers found cold iron, solid and heavy. He withdrew the sapper, turning it once. It felt like ice in his hand. Deep-cut runes covered its surface, still sharp despite how many times he'd used it.

  Twelve others already ringed the site, hammered into the ground just outside the wardline.

  This was the last one.

  He braced the spike against packed earth and grabbed the hammer. The first strike sent a clear peal ringing across the ridge. The second a heavy knell, driving it deep. Runes flared gold in a circle around the buried sapper, then faded to a dull glow.

  Overhead, the birds' chirps shifted pitch. Higher, and tinkling. Like hyperactive wind chimes.

  The little imps absolutely loved this bit.

  Harry raised his wand. The sappers responded immediately, humming in perfect unison. He felt the vibrations buzz across his skin.

  Golden beams burst from each spike, shooting outward to connect with the others. The lines crossed and recrossed, weaving a lattice that encased the invisible dome. The web pulsed once. Twice. The sappers emitted a high ringing, like tinnitus. Their runes brightening as the dark iron reddened.

  OMMMMMMMMMMMM

  The warded dome resisted the resonance, but only for a moment.

  Then the golden lattice sank into the barrier, melding with the ancient magic. There was no dramatic fracturing. The wards simply receded like a tide pulling back, draining into the earth until nothing remained but empty air.

  Harry watched the last shimmer dissolve.

  Silence.

  Then the soft whirr of the birds moving forward, eager to explore.

  "Competent work, Mr. Halloway."

  Harry glanced back over his shoulder.

  Bogrod stood near the edge of the exposed ruins, notebook in one thick hand, quill poised above it. Looked like a pink fwooper’s feather today. His pinstripe waistcoat was still immaculate, not a thread out of place despite the wind tearing across the ridge. No warming charms for him. The cold didn't seem to register at all.

  The diamond geezer.

  Bogrod's quill scratched a note. He didn't look up.

  Beside him stood a tall, willowy man in expedition leathers, his arms crossed. Reg Killoway. Early fifties, grizzled, one of Gringotts' most experienced curse-breakers. Been delving into cursed tombs since before Harry’s parents were born.

  Reg let out a low whistle. "Never seen a technique like that before."

  Harry tucked his wand away. "Curse-breakers can afford to be heavy-handed with the wards. Can’t do that in my line of work, so had to find a subtler approach.”

  The older man huffed. "Aye, the old guard used to wreck the place just getting inside. Preservation wasn't exactly the priority." He scanned the exposed fort slowly, assessing. "You do tidy work, kid."

  Harry dusted off his hands. "Cautious and methodical type, me. Always have been."

  ?·

  The methodical scratching of quill on parchment always followed Harry on these jobs.

  He glanced back. The quill hovered at his shoulder, tilting in the air as if weighing its next stroke, then dove back into furious scrawling. It sketched as they moved through the fort, precise lines creating a map.

  The wind had died within the walls. Still present, but reduced to a low whistle that slipped through gaps in the stone.

  The ground was uneven. Exposed masonry jutted through wind-blown debris in a patchwork. Some slabs were clear, smoothed by centuries of weather. Others lay half-buried beneath sediment and wreckage.

  The remains lay open to the sky. Dry-stone walls still stood in places, but anything wooden had vanished; claimed by time, scavengers, or rot. Probably all three. Still, the preservation wards kept this place from being truly eroded or consumed like the roads outside. Not at all common. This place had gotten him his first publication last time around. It’d do the trick this time as well.

  A trilling chime cut through the quiet.

  He turned. One of the birds hovered in place, wings a blur. Above it, a spectral cyan flame flickered.

  Reg stepped up beside him. "Clever little bastard."

  Bogrod watched the bird through his small spectacles, eyes tracking its movements. "Goblin work?"

  Harry headed toward the long rows of raised stone slabs. "Dwarf, actually."

  "Dwarven?" Bogrod's quill paused for half a beat, then jotted down a note. "Explains the eccentricities."

  The autonomous quill rotated slowly in the air, nib jabbing irritably at Bogrod. Was it glaring? Hard to say with an enchanted quill. Oh, right. This guy was Dwarf made too, wasn’t he? Having apparently made its point, it darted back into motion, scratching twice as fast. Can’t fall behind on field notes. That quill was an absolute godsend. The tendonitis he used to get…

  Reg huffed. "Wouldn't mind having my own flock of those. Where can I get a set?"

  Harry adjusted his grip on the ley-compass. Another bird circled low over a smaller structure to the east, violet flame wavering above it. "Can't get them off the shelf, I’m afraid. They were a gift for achieving my Mastery."

  Reg clicked his tongue. “You swots and your toys. Never share with us shovelbums, do ya?”

  His only answer was a wink and a smile.

  He approached the building highlighted by the violet flame.

  The barracks. A by-the-book Roman border fort. Standard layout, standard construction. Nothing unusual about this site. The same can’t be said for what they’d left behind.

  The quill drifted closer to his shoulder, nib twitching impatiently.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Harry got the message.

  His boots scraped against uneven stone as he stepped through the threshold. The walls showed discoloration where some wooden supports had once stood, rotted away centuries ago. The walls still stood, a testament to Roman overengineering.

  The space inside was broad and orderly, lined with rows of small rooms where legionaries had slept. 9-by-10-foot. Not too roomy, but provided a bit of privacy. He’d seen far worse.

  This way, Harry.

  He entered the first room on the left. The remains of a bunk stood in one corner of the room. A small fire pit and space for a night stand across from it. Metal hooks hung from the wall beside the door. Even the Legions needed somewhere to hang their hats.

  Reg stepped in behind him. “Anything interesting?”

  Lookit this. Whit d’ye see?

  He crouched at the foot of the bed.

  “A trunk was here. You can see the hinges and latch.”

  He moved aside some of the debris, revealing a small leather pouch that had survived. Opening it, he emptied the contents into his palm. Several coins, dull with age. The emperor’s profile still stood clear as day in the silver. A hard-lined face with a laurel crown pressed into tight curls.

  “Oh, what do we have there?” Reg leaned over to look.

  Tell me about that coin, then, lad.

  “Domitian. Last of the Flavian dynasty. Not one of Rome’s finest sons.”

  Reg snorted.

  Aye, that’s right. And whit does it tell ye?

  “Silver denarii. This is a soldier’s wage. Not something he’d leave behind.”

  “That’s true. Wonder what had them running.” Reg scratched his stubbled chin.

  Harry ran his hand through more of the scattered debris. It was around here somewhere. Got it. He opened his fist, revealing a set of lopsided cubes.

  “What’ve you got there?”

  “A set of bone dice.”

  Well, now. Would’ye lookit that.

  “Give ‘em a toss.”

  Fancy a wee wager, lad?

  “A wager?”

  Reg laughed. “Sure, if you’d like. How about 5 galleons if you call it.”

  Pints’re on ye if’n I call it.

  “I’m not sure that’s fair for you.”

  I’m feelin’ lucky today, laddie.

  “Oh, feeling lucky, kid?”

  He shook the dice.

  “Call it.”

  Snake eyes.

  “Snake eyes.”

  Snake eyes.

  Reg whistled.

  “Wow, kid. How’d you know?”

  “The dice are loaded.”

  Aye, that they are. Y’are still wet behind the ears, son.

  Reg groaned. “I should’ve seen that coming.”

  “I think I’ll keep these.”

  Hah, fair enough, lad. Just dinnae be a welter.

  Reg chuckled. “Remind me not to play dice with you.”

  Not the first wager Harry’d won with these.

  "An enterprising legionnaire, you think?" Seemed Bogrod had joined them while he was distracted.

  "Standard issue, obviously." Harry opened his palm for one last look, then slipped them into his pocket. His hand lingered there a moment. Good to have them back.

  The quill executed a triumphant flourish, scratching down a final note before floating deeper into the barracks.

  There wasn’t much to interest Gringotts here. Just the remnants of daily life on Rome's farthest edge. The barracks had been functional, spartan. A place for sleep and food and what relaxation they could manage.

  Not exactly the romantic sword-and-sandal life the muggles staged in their theatres.

  The birds continued their sweep. He already knew what they'd find, but let them get on with it.

  He slid his hand through the soil. Nice to be playing in the dirt again.

  ·

  Harry slid open the wooden writing tablet. The casing was cracked but intact. Inside, wax bore Latin script. The words were pressed in uneven strokes.

  What d’ye reckon?

  “They were in a hurry.”

  “Oh? Wonder why. What’s it say, kid?”

  “On the 3rd day before the Ides of September:

  No response from Londinium.

  Runner sent south.

  No word from the outposts.”

  “On the 18th day before the Kalends of October:

  Still no word.

  The commander is assumed dead.

  No reinforcement or supplies have arrived.

  No word has arrived.

  Breaking camp today.”

  An’ so the tides of Roman expansion ebb.

  “That’s the last entry.”

  “Suppose they did a runner.”

  Harry nodded.

  Why d’ye reckon they chose now?

  “I’m sure they preferred not to starve while wintering here.”

  He set the tablet aside. The quill swooped in, scribbling down its contents. He looked around the office, now fully cleared.

  Only one building remained.

  He stretched, loosening his lower back.

  “Alright, just the armoury left.”

  “Lead on.”

  After you, lad.

  Bogrod adjusted his spectacles. “I do hope the promised silver is there.” There was a loud unspoken ‘for your sake’ tacked on to the end of that. The goblin moved ahead, his pace quickening. Reg followed a step behind, and Harry trailed after at his own pace.

  The birds had already found the armoury. Two perched on the doorframe, preening their burnished feathers. Another three darted through the opening in tight loops. One landed on a fallen shield, tilting its head as if examining the rotted leather strapping. Its head rotated 360 degrees, then a rosy flame burst into existence above it, and it began to croon.

  Harry's boots scraped against the threshold. Racks lined the walls, most empty now, weapons scattered where they'd been dropped in haste. The preservation charms had held. There was no rust on any of the equipment.

  Whit’s the layout tell ye?

  “Standard organization. Supply racks along the perimeter, officers’ equipment stored separate from the enlisted gear.”

  Aye, but whit of this shambles?

  Reg nodded, moving toward a stack of shields. “They left the place in a right state, though. Didn’t they?”

  He crouched by an overturned rack. Pila lay scattered across the floor like a spilled box of spaghetti.

  “More proof that they left in a hurry. Just grabbed what they could and bunkered off.”

  “Wonder what it was that spooked them.” Reg hefted a pilum, testing its weight. “These are in fine shape. You don’t generally abandon gear like this unless things have really gone pear-shaped.”

  Just so. Seems more was at play than just a lack of supplies, eh?

  Metal rang against stone as he picked up a gladius. Standard issue. It was functional, made to do a single job. Setting it with the others, the three of them sorted the equipment into piles. Shields against the wall, pila in their racks, swords lined up along another wall. A nice, mindless bit of assessing and sorting. Exactly the sort of work that relaxed him.

  “So you’re a hummer, eh kid?”

  Cannae carry a tune in a bucket, eh laddie?

  He stopped humming. Hadn’t realized he had been, truthfully.

  “Ah. Sorry about that. Dunno when it became a habit.”

  Bogrod ran a claw along a scutum where the leather facing was missing from the wood. His pink quill now floated beside him. Taking notes on its own. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

  Take a wee gander at that officer’s blade.

  He rolled his eyes. The old man always thought he was three steps ahead. Never mind that it was usually true. He bent down, plucking the spotless sword from a corner of the officer’s section.

  Reg looked up from across the room as Harry stopped. “Got something interesting there?”

  “Looks like an officer’s vanity piece. Really nice work.”

  D’ye see it?

  He did see it. It wasn’t the first goblin-wrought blade he’d held, after all. A level, questioning voice like that made you better. Made sure you checked your assumptions. Applied a gentle pressure to ensure you were confident in your analysis. Valuable, that.

  “Hmm. Goblin runework. Really ornate, too.”

  Aye. Queer, is it no?

  It was. Even if he’d been told ahead of time that there’d be goblin loaned weapons here, he’d not have expected some centurion’s prized sword to be left behind. They must have really be scrambling. Wonder what he’s already puzzled out from this?

  Bogrod was at his side, leaning over, peering down closely. “Clearly commissioned. I suspect this is a named blade. We’ll have to check the ledgers. Could be Emberforge work. They were quite renowned across the empire at the time.”

  Harry startled, unaware of the goblin’s presence. That’s twice now. This thick boy sure is light on his feet.

  “Always natterin’ away, ain’tcha, Grobbo?” Reg looked quite pleased with himself.

  Bogrod sniffed and huffed out, “How droll.”

  If'n ye'd leave a thing like that behind…

  Right. If this was just sitting out, and the commander was presumed dead, then it’s doubtful anyone was able to access the vault. Which means—

  “The vault’ll be loaded.”

  Reg snorted. “‘Course it would be. Assuming they’ve got one.”

  Go on. Find it. Ye ken how it’s done, son.

  He smiled. Stood up, feeling a bit taller. That’s right. He can do it. This wouldn’t be the hardest thing he’d done by far. Just had to keep his focus, then interpret the feedback.

  He pulled out his wand, lifting it to point straight up. The hair on his arms stood. Then his neck. Then his scalp. Finally, the building static released. Ripples spread outward from the tip of his wand, pings sounding as they rebounded off surfaces, returning to him.

  “What the bloody hell was that?”

  Vertigo threatened to make him sway. Can't have that, it'd be bloody embarrassing. He rooted his feet, careful not to lock his knees. Didn't want to topple over like a damn fool again.

  That’s the way, lad. Just like that.

  The pings slammed back into him. Distance, direction, density; all at once, layered over each other. He sorted through the cascade feverishly: resonant frequency of stone versus iron, acoustic impedance that meant hollow spaces, the specific ring of steel that marked a lock mechanism. Every surface in the room screaming its properties at him simultaneously.

  Aye lad. Yer doing it. Keep at it.

  There. The back wall. The acoustics were wrong. Too hollow. The stone section looked real, but the data doesn’t lie.

  Bloody well done, son.

  Brilliant spell, but an absolute bastard to cast right. Lose focus, and you'd be flat on your arse with a splitting headache and a nosebleed. Assuming you didn’t pass out.

  “And bob’s your uncle.”

  “Merlin—”

  Now fer the lock. Y'alrigh'? I can handle it if y'are still a wee bit woozy.

  He was woozy. But he could do it. And more importantly, the old man had taken him on. It’d be shameful to stumble at the finish line.

  “I’ve got this.”

  Alrigh’. So, whit’s yer tack, then?

  He examined the disguised door carefully. Looked like a wall. That was the goal, so, well done. He rapped on various stones with his knuckles. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thunk.

  Bingo.

  A quick swish and flick levitated the stone away, revealing what was hidden beneath. Now, then.

  “Seems to be a classic three-pin tumbler. Real beast of a thing, though.”

  Aye, so it is.

  He examined it closely, then tapped it with his want. No curses. No runes on it, either. Unless they were hidden somehow. Oh, wait. He smirked.

  “Heh.”

  I knew ye’d see it.

  Paranoia was a hazard of the profession. Not a bad one either, if you cared to keep breathing. But sometimes it could make you quite dim.

  “Alohomora.”

  The tumblers shifted, and the mechanism unlatched with a click.

  “No bloody wa—”

  Never underestimate the basics, lad. Nor the foolishness of wizards. Half the locks I’ve seen aren’t warded against the simple Unlocking Charm.

  “This isn’t even a wizarding outpost. Just muggle military.”

  Job well done, son. Now, let’s get this done and dusted, pints’re on ye if’n I call it.

  He smiled. He felt the unfamiliar tensing of his cheeks and crinkling around his eyes. That sounded nice. There were a pub in Muggle Glasgow that would be perfect. Be nice to have a bit of a do nothing.

  “Sure thing, Duncan.”

  Then maybe head back in time to see Teddy before bed. Catch up with the girls. Erm. Ladies. Didn’t want to make that mistake aga—

  “Who’s Duncan?”