Disclaimer: See Chapter I
Also, I'd like to thank those of you who have taken some time to read and review my work (you know who you are). Your kind words have been felt and hope the wait hasn't been too long for this next installment as I'm trying to update my work every three chapters or roughly once every ten days. One final bit of thanks to the Harry Potter Lexicon that is quite the resource for anything Harry Potter related.
Chapter VIII: Baptism of Fire
For the next three days, the boys rested and didn't move very much as the blisters and sores on their feet healed. During that time, they didn't wear socks, and while they still attended in-door classes, the marching and conditioning were kept to a minimum, consisting of the usual upper body and abdominal muscle building routines. Their meals were taken in the mess, with the men of second platoon having adopted them as unit mascots. At mealtime, the men of second platoon talked with them, joked with them, and generally treated them as one of their own.
These were hard men, crude men to whom trust and respect was something that had to be earned, but once it was earned, it was permanent. An incident that had taken place in the mess hall demonstrated that fact all too clearly. Neville had dropped a mug of tea on to a plate of chips that happened to belong a member of third platoon. The man took an instant objection to that fact and it appeared a brawl was about to break out as after Harry and Dudley got up and stood besides Neville, the man's friends had done likewise, and then all of both platoons had got up and was only cooled down after the company color sergeant got up and told them all to sit down or else they would be enjoying a pleasant visit to the Army detention barracks at Colchester.
One thing had been proven to Harry though. These men considered him one of their own, and heaven help anyone who dared to try anything towards him, for they certainly wouldn't.
* * *
Three days after Turner's Drag, Harry was woken up at their usual time by Tongue, who told them to pack their bergens again. Groaning, Harry hurriedly put on his uniform, washed his face and teeth, shaved (Alex and Ghost had shown the boys how to shave the day they had come back from the Drag, and gotten them each a metal safety razor, a pack of extra blades, and a bottle of shaving cream a piece) and re-packed his bergen. His belt kit was still packed the way it had been after the Drag.
Putting on his drill cap, he picked up his bergen and his belt kit and trotted outside. There, he joined Dudley, and Neville, who were in the midst of putting on their belt kits and getting ready to move out, as the rest of second platoon was getting ready on the parade ground for a road march. Tongue came by and issued them their weapons and seven magazines each, but informed them that beyond the magazines they wouldn't be issued any ammunition.
Dick Longbottom came up and spoke, "All right, lads, since you'll be leaving day after tomorrow, me and Alex decided to combine a tactical exercise I had planned with a farewell barbeque. So what'll happen is this: we march to this place I know of, camp out there for a day, then march back tomorrow morning. We'll be carrying some live ammunition with us, but that's only for hunting. No explosives, no grenades, as we have to go through a real pain in the ass of a process to sign for them, but we'll be taking with us our three GPMGs (General Purpose Machine Gun) so you lads will get the chance to try your hand at firing it. Any questions?"
Harry asked, "How far a march will it be, Sergeant?"
Uncle Alex, wearing belt kit with bergen on his back and L85 (SA-80) rifle on his shoulder, came up, "Not far, about eight klicks at three klicks an hour; just enough to be comfortably pleasant. You lads ready?" The pace, while faster then the one they had used before during orienteering, was over a shorter distance, and wouldn't be unduly wearing on them.
The boys nodded, as Alex had the platoon form up into two lines. Dudley, Harry, and Neville fell in side by side as Longbottom gave the command to turn, and they started marching, no cadence being called, out the gates and down the road. About a kilometer from the base, they turned into the hills and marched north. About two hours later, as the sun continued to rise, they stopped before a large pool of clear water on top of a granite ridge, with a waterfall going downstream of the pool.
Easing off their packs, the men of second platoon eased their packs down as Alex and Dick had them finding firewood and kindling. Every man also eased out three bottles of Guinness that they had carried (wrapped in socks to ensure they didn't break against anything else) and placed them in the pool, to ensure that they would be cool later on. Dudley, Harry, and Neville, after caching their bergens with the rest of the platoon's kit, went over to learn how use the L7A2 being taught by Ned Lleywyn, a genial Welshman from Cardiff. Using a clump of rocks down the ridge as a target, the trio each fired ten rounds (in two five round bursts) at the rocks. All of them thought it was great fun.
Yet their fun didn't last long as Dick started bellowing, "Right, gather round! Gather round!"
The platoon did so as Longbottom unfolded a map on a rock near the fire pit. Pointing to a road junction on the map, he spoke, "Right, I got word in from Battalion headquarters that we are to hike there, and set up a vehicular ambush in about," he glanced at his watch, "ninety minutes. It's about a good eight kilometers. The targets are two standard-issue Land Rovers and a Bedford four-ton truck, with sixteen hostiles dressed in standard kit on board. Since they have Stinger missiles and a portable radar system with them, the higher-ups don't want anything flying to come near them. Now, since there are at five other areas they could pass through, so we have been selected to set up ambush at that road junction while other elements get the other locations. Any questions yet?"
A section leader named Corporal Talbot raised his hand, "Since you said the targets were dressed in standard kit, with Army issue vehicles, how are we to ID them from the real deal? I mean, it would really hurt to ice down a bunch of our own now wouldn't it?"
Alex replied, "All of the targets are Provo bastards, and I have been given the ID numbers for the vehicles, so that shouldn't be any problem. Now, cache the bergens and the beer. Break out the live rounds, there should be enough in the ammo cans for four magazines each. Nick," he spoke to one of the GPMG gunners, "break up a couple of belts of 7.62 and so that those three have enough for four magazines for their SLRs. Now move, we don't have much time."
Everyone moved quickly as they all started loading magazines with live ammunition and ditched anything that could slow them down. Helmets, bergens, rations, everything but two field dressings, two canteens, their ammunition and their weapons were cached. Harry, Dudley and Neville gathered round as Talbot, Lleywyn, and Chris Begby broke up three one hundred round belts of ammunition and told them to load their magazines with them. Within a minute, Harry had completed his while Neville fumbled and seemed to have a hard time fitting them in. Noticing Neville's hands were shaking, Harry tossed over his four magazines and briskly told him to hand over his four. Neville gratefully did so as he loaded them just as quickly as he did with the other ones.
Within ten minutes, the platoon was moving a fast, half running, and half walking pace as they moved without talking time out for a single break. Even though they were carrying far less, the increased pace at almost ten kilometers per hour ensured that all were grateful when they finally reached the ambush position. Still, there was no relief as Longbottom and Alex conferred quickly and laid out the ambush.
The road was a two lane paved road heading east that was wide enough for two Land Rovers to pass through abreast that branched off to the west north and south in front of a hedge. On the map it looked like a T laying down on it's left side. Additionally, there was a forest to the North on one side of the road with tall hedgerows lining both sides of the road.
The ambush laid down called for one section (with one GPMG) to open fire from the west, using the hedge running N-S as concealment while the main force (the remaining two sections and GPMGs), using the hedge lining the south part of the road going W-E, would open up after the first one. All three would form an L-Shaped ambush, ensuring that the people in the kill zone (i.e. the road before the junction) would face a blithering barrage of 7.62mm and 5.56mm bullets.
The only problem was that the lack of explosives ensured that a normal vehicular ambush (disabling the first and last vehicles of a group of them and cutting everything else in the middle to pieces) wouldn't be possible. A decoy, a ruse of some sort was needed to ensure that the vehicles stopped long enough for the drivers to be killed, and some of the tires shot out or otherwise ensuring that the vehicles were disabled in some form or fashion.
Alex and Dick Longbottom were contemplating dragging loose branches and other assorted trash from the woods in what little time they had left to form a barricade, but were having doubts as to whether or not they had enough time to make an effective one. It was hearing their discussion that Harry had an idea, and brought it up to Dick and Alex. Taking only a minute, he quickly laid out his idea and waited for their response.
Dick looked as though he was about to shoot the idea down out of hand, but Alex appeared thoughtful. "You sure about this Harry? The risks…"
"Are acceptable, Uncle," Harry cut him off, "'Sides, I look the part enough already. And Sergeant Longbottom, this is the only option left considering how little time we have. The lads will need to time to get camouflaged up, and the kill zone prepared to what little degree it can be." The last several weeks had given a fair understanding of infantry combat.
I really have changed, Harry marveled. A month ago, Harry doubted if he could have kept himself from quivering in fear or shyness. Now, he was discussing the possibility of his death as though it were a common thing he had to face. The possibility of my sudden death may be the only constant in my life, Harry thought dryly.
Dick threw up his hands and replied, "All right, you seem to want to get yourself killed, fine by me so long as your uncle agrees to go along with the plan. Alex?"
Alex nodded, "Same here, so let's get busy, we don't have enough time."
* * *
Ten minutes later, Harry sat next to a rock almost in the center of the road. He had a green tourniquet covering part of his head, and another binding his left arm with a pair of sticks. Doc Abberline, the platoon medic, had opened a bag of plasma (blood) from an insulated container he carried and dumped it about Harry's head, shoulders and arms. Harry's story was simple should he be asked: he was on an orienteering exercise when he had taken a nasty fall, broke an arm, and had a piece of rock jabbed into his body causing him to bleed. His uniform was suitably torn and dirtied looking as well (this having been done when his uncle had him roll around in the dirt for a few minutes) ensuring that people would believe him long enough to matter.
Still, Harry was starting to worry. Just fucking great, I just had to open my mouth, Harry thought to himself. He was unarmed, had one arm tied up, and it didn't look as though as he had got costumed up for nothing.
He was about to call out and ask if they had received any signals indicating if the mission they were doing was a go or no go when he spied movement down the road. Getting up, he started to stagger and stand ungainly in the middle of it. As he watched, he saw that it was an Army ¾ Ton Land Rover, followed by a Bedford 4x4, and ending with another Land Rover. The truck was covered with canvas, but the Land Rovers had their tops open to reveal four men in each one.
Staggering, Harry stood in the middle of the road and waved feebly with the un-bandaged arm. The convoy slowly stopped as the man in the shotgun seat of the lead Land Rover stepped and walked towards Harry. Harry saw that he had on the three pips of a Captain on his shoulder boards and made the effort to salute. The Captain, a tall, lanky fellow with curly brown hair, waved it off and asked in a broad Irish accent, "So what the hell happened to you, soldier?"
"I fell, sir, during a land navigation exercise. My mission was to hit twelve set locations, and were I to be injured, use this survival radio in my pack. Problem was, sir, my fall broke my arm, and it took the radio with it. I managed to hobble my way back here and you are the first people I've seen in a long time…"
"Really, lad? And what regiment would you be belonging to now?"
Harry had carefully watched as a group of grinning men had exited from the Land Rovers and Bedford. Watching, he knew that these weren't professional soldiers. For starters, none of them wore the same kind of cap, and even those that did there was too much difference between their cap badges to be of the same unit. The second reason was that all of the men carried folding stock FN FAL rifles, a weapon that looked like the SLRs Harry and his mates carried. The only problem with that was the fact the British had never used the folding stock variant, and the SLR period had been totally phased about five years earlier, which was probably why Harry, Dudley, and Neville had been issued them so that they wouldn't fuck up the newer equipment.
Harry spoke up, "2nd Paras, sir. My first assi…UMPH!"
This was spoken as the Captain punched him in the stomach, and then kicked his legs out from under him as he finished 2nd Paras. As he fell to the ground, the captain stomped in the solar plexar with his right boot, causing Harry to puke. The men who had been grinning started cheering on the Captain on with, "Beat the Para fucker, Tim!" "Rip his feckin' heart out!" and other niceties.
It was obvious to Harry that these were the men they had been waiting for. Harry hoped that the ambush would start soon for every second felt like an eternity.
As Harry moaned, the Captain pulled out a large serrated knife and kneeled down besides Harry, who looked at him with pure hatred. "I'm going to fix your arm by chopping it off, and then gut you like a fish, you paratrooper bastard," the man spoke to Harry as he ripped aside the splint on his arm. Harry, lips covered in vomit, snorted and asked, "Go ahead you Provo bastard, you son of a whore, I dare you to do it." The man grinned, and spoke conversationally, "I may be that, but I think I won't gut you yet, I think I'll cut your bollocks first and make you eat them, you swine." With that, Harry spat at him and lunged.
The sudden defiance had taken the Irish by surprise as Harry, using a pencil he had pulled out of his pocket when he rolled on the ground and hid in his right sleeve, shoved the pencil into the right eye of the Captain. Screaming in pain, he dropped his knife and tried to pull away from Harry but Harry pulled him down to the ground and held on for several of the Captain's men had been about to shoot. Still, holding on, Harry pulled the Browning the Captain had had in a pistol belt holster, flipped the safety down, and fired two rounds into the chest of the Captain.
One must have hit the heart for the man suddenly went limp, and Harry could smell the man's shit as his bowels loosened in death.
It was then Harry heard the most wonderful sound of the moment as the three GPMGs and L-85s of 2nd Platoon, B Company, 2nd Battalion, Parachute Regiment opened fire. Harry instinctively lay down beneath the body of the man he had killed for he knew that by standing up he merely presented a target. Earlier, it had been explained countless times that when the bullets flew everyone was equal. Glancing out from under the body he lay under, he saw several of the Provos run over the hedge and keep running. He heard the section leaders moving the sections forward. Cautiously rising, he saw Neville and Dudley come bounding up towards him as Harry crawled to the hedge. Neville yelled, "Harry!" and tossed over his SLR.
Dropping the Browning he had been using, Harry chambered a round, flipped the safety off, and looked for targets over the edge of the hedge he was behind. Seeing an Irishman, he fired a shot, knocking him off his feet. Still looking, he fired again and saw the head of one explode like a piece of fruit as he hit it, and watched as more blood came forth as Dudley, and Neville shot at it at the same moment. Within seconds, only two of the Irish made it into the tree line. The other sixteen lay dead in the roadway and the clearing to the woods.
"Right, number one and two sections go in skirmish line into the trees, number three and four sections provide over-watch."
That was Dick Longbottom speaking.
Harry, Dudley, and Neville, got up and spread out as their section (under the other South African, Lance Corporal Tom Courteney) moved forward in a rush to the trees. Spreading out, they advanced, combing the ground and hoping to find and kill the last two Provos. Harry was acutely aware of the fact that one of the bastards could literally rise out of the ground at many minute, which made him grip his rifle tighter, holding it against his shoulder and ready to fire at a moments notice.
Slowly, he advanced through the woods one pace at a time. As he entered, he became aware that the firing had stopped, that he was separated from Neville on his right, and Chris Collins (a baby-faced Irishman from Liverpool) on his left, and that the wood he had entered was becoming darker and gloomier by the second.
Don't think Harry, just act, he thought to himself.
He heard a snap to his right, and turned, ready to fire as his rifle was tucked into his shoulder. Harry didn't fire as he saw that it was only Dudley and Neville, who looked like they were ready to shoot Harry, as Harry had been willing to shoot him.
Sighing, Harry flipped the safety of his rifle on and was about to open his mouth when something in him told him he should duck. Throwing himself to the ground, he heard the sounds of Neville and Dudley firing their weapons into a target behind. Huddling down, he waited until the firing stopped, and slowly looked behind him. Sure enough, it was the two Provos, and one of them still looked as though he were breathing.
This bastard might be worth something, Harry thought as he got up and went over to the wounded Irishman, who had been shot thrice in the chest and was still alive, albeit barely. Quickly checking him for weapons, Harry found none as he took one of the field dressings on the Irishman's web kit and opened it. "Neville, Duds, go find Tom and tell him we have a live one here."
No sooner had Harry said it then Tom Courteney and the other section arrived. Turning back, Harry opened the dressing and placed the plastic cover over the chest wound. Since the gunshot wounds were so close together, he needed only the one dressing cover to form an airtight seal over the wound. Placing the field dressing on tope of the cover, he started to wrap the ends of the dressing around the casualty's wound. Turning him over on to a side, Harry was heartened to see that there wasn't an exit wound, meaning one less area he would have to patch up. Picking him up by the armpit, he slung him on a shoulder and together they staggered out of the forest as Courteney and the rest of the section policed up the empty shells and the other dead Provo.
As they came out of the tree line, Harry could see the other members of the platoon dragging the other dead bodies into a line and covering them with the canvas taken off the Bedford. Dick and Alex came running up as they saw Harry with his prisoner followed closely by Dudley and Neville. Dick spoke first, "Right, turn that prick over to Ghost and his section, all right? We got a team of SIS and Army intelligence personnel coming in to sterilize the area, so sit tight."
Harry handed his prisoner over to Ghost, who took what looked like a piece of looped plastic wire and bound his hands with it. Disregarding the man's wounds, Ghost pushed him to the ground and blindfolded him with a tourniquet and an empty sandbag. Only then did he pick the prisoner up and take him away.
After the beating Harry had taken, he wouldn't have given a damn if Ghost had decided to use the man as a testing body for the knife he kept sharpening. The only thing that worried him was that he was shaking, and he didn't know why.
Alex did, and came up to the boys with an open pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. "Right, Harry, Neville, Duds, take one and light up. You boys need it." Harry proceeded to take one, and put it in his mouth as Alex flicked open a black painted Zippo lighter and lit his cigarette. Taking a deep drag, Harry sucked it down into his lungs and coughed it back up at the rancid taste of it. "Christ, were you trying to kill me?" Harry asked his uncle angrily.
Alex laughed, and pointed to Harry's hands, "No, and if you notice it carefully, you'll see that your shakes have slowed."
Looking down, Harry was surprised to see that his hands had slowed down their shaking. He was about to ask Alex when Alex explained, "The nicotine has a calming effect on a person's nerves. Here," he tossed over his silver flask to Neville, who had smoked half of his cigarette by then, "one small sip only and you'll feel much better." Neville took one, then Dudley, and finally Harry, who discovered it was sweeter liquor then the last one he had had. He was tempted to take some more before handing it over, but he did so without taking any more. Harry asked, "What was that?"
Alex looked at him, "Bavarian Schnapps, you like it? I learned to like it during a tour in the British Army on the Rhine. You piss or shit yourself?"
Neville and Dudley admitted they had pissed themselves when the Irish had returned fire, and Harry spoke back, "I'm covered in enough blood from that one bastard who died on top of me it's hard to tell."
Alex laughed, "That's the spirit lad." He looked as though he would say more but was interrupted at the sound of helicopters flying in. Sure enough, a Wessex helicopter landed, disgorged a bunch of people in British camouflage, and took off. Within minutes, another Wessex and two Pumas did likewise, though the last one only dropped off two passengers. One was a tall, lean middle-aged man with sandy colored hair while the other was a shorter, dark-haired man who looked much older then the other man. Judging by the salutes being rendered, the shorter one was an officer of some sort.
Dick ran up, saluted, and seemed to be conferring with the shorter man. After a minute, the three of them walked up to Alex, and the lads. All four of them saluted as they saw that the shorter man had the crown over triangle of pips, indicating he was a Brigadier in the British Army; the other man wore an Army uniform with no insignia whatsoever on it.
The younger man spoke first in an accent that was pure Belfast, almost like that of the Provo Harry had killed. "Which one of you was the ballsy little bastard that was the decoy and put two rounds in Black Mike O'Malley's heart?"
Harry stepped forward, the front of his uniform still covered with the Provo's blood. The Prove whose name he just found out.
"I did, Sir."
"How old are you, lad?"
This was the older man.
"Fifteen, sir"
The younger of the two men grinned and whistled, "You'd make a stone cold killer, lad. It takes a bit of guts to place you in that kind of position, and to kill a man with a pencil. Your name, son?"
Harry looked at him straight in the eye, "Harry Potter, sir. And yours?"
The taller man grinned, "Sean Dillon at your service."
Alex spoke up, "Dillon of Belfast? The Dillon who gunned down eight lads of 3rd Para during the winter of '84?"
Dillon spoke, "In the past, but yes, that was me. I got out after that, and worked for the Brigadier last year."
Alex looked at him and grinned, "What the fuck, we were all doing our jobs back then.
Captain Alex Evans of the Royal Green Jackets. Retired of course."
Whilst Dillon and Alex spoke, the Brigadier came around and spoke to Harry, Neville and Dudley.
He held out his hand to Harry first, "Brigadier Charles Ferguson. Were it not for the fact that this incident never took place, you three would be publicly thanked for the government. The only thing I can guarantee out of this is if any of you later decide to join the military, I will do everything in my power to ensure you get an appointment in either Dartmouth or Sandhurst."
He paused and looked at them, "Until a later date, I'm afraid I'm going to have ask all of you to keep the events that happened here to yourselves. Can you do that? I would like your solemn word, gentleman of that?"
All three of the boys nodded, and gave their word.
Ferguson nodded and continued, "Now that has been taken care of, we'll take control of cleanup and the prisoners. I believe you were engaged on a military exercise?" He was speaking to Dick Longbottom that time.
Dick Longbottom replied, "Yes sir, we cached our bergens about eight kilometers from here. We were going to have a bonfire and toast these lads here with Guinness," he gestured to Harry, Neville, and Dudley, "and we plan on having it when after we secure the site over to you."
Ferguson nodded, "Good, we'll handle everything from here on out. In case anyone asks over the discrepancies in regards to your ammunition…" he gave Dick a slip of paper and contact procedures in case anyone was interested in what they were doing today. Dillon, together with Alex, took the boys aside for a few minutes.
"You lads have killed for the first time. I don't have enough time but as a man who has had to kill more then his fair share of others, I have to say this for it was once said to me by a man who taught me much…Guilt is natural, but you must temper it with the knowledge that if you hadn't killed your opponent, then it would be your opponent who would be feeling guilty, whilst you were dead. Simply, it was either he or you at the time. Do you understand?"
The boys nodded and watched as Dillon turned, and walked to one of the Pumas. Ferguson came by, thanked them for their services, collected their full names, and boarded the same helicopter as Dillon.
Alex pulled another cigarette out of the pack and crushed it as he saw that it was empty. "There lads," he spoke, "goes one of Britain's hardest killers, and his keeper." He turned to Harry, "Pray you never meet the like amongst You-Know-Who's people, who for the most part are largely a bunch of morons."
Pausing, he seemed to drift far away. "Though they do succeed. Indeed they do…"
Harry didn't know what to say as he watched the Puma rise and fly away.
* * *
An hour and a half later, the men marched back to the campsite on the ridge with the pool of water and the waterfall beneath it. Harry, with his outer jacket, shirt, and trousers coated with blood and vomit, went over to his bergen and pulled out his toiletries and a clean set of clothes he carried. Going down to the waterfall, he stripped naked and scrubbed himself of the blood that coated him. After about thirty minutes he felt clean enough that he put on a pair of trousers and walked bare-chested up to the ridge, where Neville and Dudley were sitting around as men gathered around a telling stories that hard men tell. Harry field stripped his SLR and cleaned it using cleaning patches and some bore solvent (to get rid of the gunpowder build-up in the barrel), and after lightly oiling it, sprayed some WD-40 in the action and barrel to ensure the lubrication was in order.
Neville and Dudley had already done that and were listening wide-eyed to Courteney and Rooney were telling stories of Hong Kong, a place that the two of them had been sent to right after the Persian Gulf War.
These were simple tales, of fighting, drinking, whoring, and humor. Of how Rooney and Courteney had had to hijack a rickshaw and race it through downtown Hong Kong in order to make a get away from a cathouse brawl. Another story was of how one woman Tim Newgate was fucking turned out to be the wife of a general, and how he only found out after the general almost caught them. Harry, and everyone laughed as he told of having to run bare-ass through the British base in Berlin at three in the morning in order to escape without being caught.
Soon, bottles of Guinness lager were passed around as a couple of coolers filled with ice and imported Brazilian beef (ribs and steaks) were roasted on rocks near the bonfire as the sun set. Harry was especially enjoying himself. These men around him had slowly developed into a family of sorts for him over the past month. Harry wondered briefly what would his life have turned into had he not received the letter from Hogwarts. What would he have done had he spent the last four years staying with his aunt and her husband, with Dudley still an asshole? Would he have eventually signed away his life on the dotted line for Queen and Country?
His thoughts were interrupted as Nick Harris finished up his story of going to a dance when he was in school when he turned to Harry and spoke, "So tell us, Harry, of one your adventures. A lad your age must have made an attempt or a hundred at lifting a skirt." Harry, sipping his Guinness, got up and looked around the fire. "Well," Harry began, "I'll first admit that I'm still an un-blooded virgin when it comes to the women." This brought up jeers and laughter, not harsh though, from the crowd. Courteney quipped up, "The older ladies will love you lad, as they like nothing better then to break a young man in." Harry laughed and spouted back, "Like your woman, Tom?" Tom laughed just as hard as everyone else as the platoon broke out laughing. Harry waited a moment and then told the story of the Yule Ball during the last year, and how his date wound up going with a French exchange student in the middle of the dance while he mooned after Cho Chang.
All laughed at the story, more so when Neville chimed in how he felt quite the fool as it appeared to him that he had ground Ginny Weasley's feet into the floor. Tom asked a question, "So let's get this straight: Harry went with this one tart named Parvati while a rival of his went with this Cho character because Harry asked Cho too damn late. At the same time, Ginny, who liked Harry or had a crush on him or some such shit, and went with Neville over there because she felt sorry for him 'cause he got burned while Harry spent the whole night mooning over not asking the Cho girl out first. My right so far, Harry?"
Harry drained his Guinness and tossed it next to a pile of emptied bottles. He grimaced and replied sheepishly, "Yeah, that's what happened Tom. Any advice?"
Tom looked at him and told him, "You should have asked out Ginny and said to hell with that other bird. You see—"
Neville was laughing, and asked in a mock angry voice, "But what about me? I was pretty desperate after being shot down by this one bird I asked."
Tom waved him off. "Oh, I'm sure there would have been someone else willing, but for Harry over there, listen close. Them crushes, especially if it's the girl who has the crush, are one of the most powerful things in a relationship. A catalyst if you will."
He paused and sipped his beer. "There are several reasons why you should have asked her before all others, even if you didn't have any feeling for her. One, if you had gone out with her even once, it would have given both of you the chance to see if the crush was a silly one, or a genuinely worthwhile one. Two, one date would have ensured that were you two to discover that if you aren't meant for each other, a civil breaking up could be arranged, whilst a later one could very well be less then civil. And finally," Tom stared at Harry straight in the eye, " odds are, that girl would probably trust you and never do anything to hurt you. Trust, Harry, is something that can never be underestimated in woman."
Without missing a beat, Tom asked Dudley of his experiences. Harry wasn't listening as he digested what Tom had told him. I suppose I have treated Ron's sister like shit, he thought. That was the problem, Harry concluded, he thought of her as Ron's sister first and not a woman second. Even the picture Harry had of her was when she was eleven, and Harry knew that wasn't what he found attractive in a woman.
Yet, Harry lost his train of thought as his uncle Alex came up and tapped him on the shoulder, motioning for him to follow him. Harry did so and followed him down the ridge where Alex handed him a cigar as he took one for himself. Striking a match, Alex lit his and Harry's and asked, "Harry, Dumbledore told me one of your special…talents is to make your hair grow back. Can you decide to keep it short if you want to?"
Harry took a long drag, savoring the fine Latin American tobacco. Uncle Alex had taught him the value of a good drink, and a good smoke. He shrugged, "I can try I suppose. I've never had to do it before. Why do you ask?"
Alex gave his trademark grin, "You'll see. Come on, let's get it started."
With Harry following behind him, Alex went up the hill and motioned to Neville and Dudley to join him. Once they did, he spoke to out the campfire. "Lads, today, we saw these three boys make the leap to manhood when each of them killed their first man." There was no humorous laughter as all seemed to be staring at the trio. Harry could feel the heat of the campfire through his khaki flannel shirt, and could feel numbness run through his veins and testicles. Alex continued, "A tradition the Indians of Belize have when one of their boys become men, by killing a man, they say the boy has died, and the man is born. To symbolize this, the hair of the boy is cut, and as the boy speaks of something he wishes to leave behind him, he burns the cut hair. What he wishes to leave behind can be anything, but usually it is something childish, such as a grudge or something similar." Alex looked at the three of them, and spoke once more.
"Today, the boy within you has died, and a man has born. Think of what you wish to leave behind in boyhood in the time ahead and sit." As the boys did so, Ghost Fletcher, Dick Longbottom, and Alex stepped forward with battered powered electric razors. Ghost took Harry's head, while Alex handled Dudley's and Dick sheared Neville's. The hair was cut into canteen cups as waterproof ponchos were placed around their necks to ensure that hair didn't trickle into their uniforms. Harry thought deeply about what he wanted to say, and realized the whole purpose of the exercise. Deciding finally, he waited patiently for Ghost to finish cutting his hair.
Within minutes, all three were sporting close-cropped crew cuts. Motioning for them to stand, Neville went first. "Before I came, I was a clumsy, shy, forgetful bastard who was afraid of his own shadow. I had very few friends, people who were able to see past the bumbling. People like my mate Harry over there." He pointed to Harry and continued, "My problem was I feared what would happen were to mess up, and so I feared doing anything, which ensure that when I did something, it got cocked up. Today, one of my mates depended on my not fucking up, and the more I thought of it, I became angry that one of my friends' life depended on me, the fuck up. Anger, caused me to focus, and not cock up." His jaw set like a dagger, Neville stepped forward until he was touching the edge of the fire. "I swear that from this day forth, I will never fear messing up. For I may fuck things up, but the more I fear it, the more likely it is I'll fail. After facing the fear of killing a friend, nothing else can come close." With that, he threw his canteen cup of hair into the fire. The men of second platoon clapped and raised their beer in a salute to him as Neville's uncle came up and embraced him.
Dudley was next. Stepping forth, he spoke almost fearfully, "I've been a spoiled bastard, a coward, a bully to those weaker then me, and worst of all," he stared directly at Harry, "I treated my cousin Harry as though he were an animal. I was like this, and enjoyed being like it until last year, when someone tougher, more cruel and ruthless then I was came and beat the shit out of me. My so-called friends abandoned me and joined in the beating and humiliation that followed." He looked at all of them, "I was surprised then, when I came here and found out that here, a man has a clean slate. I managed to find something I could do without mummy and daddy holding my hand. I found that friendship and respect are earned, not taken." He paused and turned towards Harry, "I learned that when my cousin forgave me and save my ass when it was hanging. He could have let me out there, as payback for a decade and a half worth of being a shit. But he didn't and for that I'm grateful." He, too, got up and walked close to the flames. Speaking with an edge of steel in his voice, Dudley stared into the flames, "I swear from this day forth I shall never tolerate a bully, be it man or woman, young or old," his voice became even harder, "stranger, or even my mother and father and aunt. This I swear as repayment for the second chance I've been given." With that, he tossed his cut hair into the flames, as the men of second platoon again raised their beer in salute. Alex came up and shook his hand, and then embraced him.
Harry finally came. Stepping up near the fire, he took a long minute looking at all the men of second platoon. He began slowly, " Ever since the end of June, I've feared and worried. Worried that I would get my friends hurt or killed. For you see, the first time I saw a dead man was last June, and I watched as he was killed in front of my eyes." Harry stared into the flames. In the flames, he could still hear Pettigrew shouting the Killing Curse, the green flash, the sight of Cedric Diggory falling to the ground, dead before he hit it. "I felt guilt over it for he was the rival that beat me in a school game, that beat me to the woman I wanted, that it seemed he was going to best me in everything, and I hated him for it. I felt ashamed for I felt that by hating him, I caused his death." Still staring, he saw clips of his nightmares go into the flames. Of the last desperate moments when Harry felt sure he was going to die in some rotten graveyard in the middle of who knew where, of Cho cursing and hating him, of Malfoy raping Hermione and Ginny and sometimes Cho, and him not being able to do a damn thing and watch. Harry forced himself to continue speaking, "I've learned here that no matter how I hated him, or despised him, that I had little to do with his death. That when he competed in the competition that he and I were in, he signed his name on the dotted line that said death was may be part of the package. I learned that while I may have this guilt with me until I die, but that it can be controlled, and in time turned to regret. My worries that I enjoyed him dieing were unfounded, and as for my fear of hurting those around me…" He paused and spoke again, "Let what comes, come. My headmaster said something similar, but here is where I learned the truth of it." Harry walked up to the edge of fire, feeling the heat of it throughout his body. Holding the canteen cup, he spoke, "Let what will come arrive, I may worry of it, but I shall not fear it for without time and chance, I'd never have gone here, or done any of what I've done in my life. That I swear today." With that, Harry hurled his black hair into the fire and watched it disintegrate in the heat and flames.
One final time the men of second platoon arose and saluted him with their Guinness. Alex came by once more and hugged him. Alex spoke to the three of them, "You are all men now, and we here shall treat you as such. For most of us around here," he waved to the men around him, "We have been fighting for the Queen since the age of sixteen. In holes like the Falklands, Kuwait, Iraq, and the finishing school for us all in Northern Ireland. You are now in a brotherhood of arms, of hard men and hard lives, for together with us, you have sweated together, drank together, and fought together. One day, you will die, but so long as there are men such as us out there, you will live forever." With that, Alex gave a final toast before roaring, "NOW SOMEONE TOLD ME THERE WOULD BE DRINKING! WELL, SOMEBODY PASS THE FUCKING BREW FOR I'M BLOODY THIRSTY!" Second platoon broke out into cheers as more Guinness was passed around, and somebody dug out a couple bottles of Imperial Gin and proceeded to mix it with army fruit juice powder to make a strange concoction that tasted better the more one drank of it.
With that, the night became as it was before with men gorging themselves on beef and beer, and Tim Gattacker, a scrawny para from Liverpool, almost lighting himself on fire when he farted near the campfire, much to the amusement of the platoon. To Harry, this was one of the finest evenings he had had in his life, and when time came for him to crash, Harry fell soundly asleep.
As he had in the past four weeks, Harry wasn't disturbed in his sleep by dreams, for hard work, hard drink, hard tobacco, and hard fun was proving to be the true cure for his problems.