AN: Thank you so much for your kind reviews and support. I'm trying to get back into writing more regularly, even if that just means once every few weeks.

I know some of you may be unhappy with this chapter, but I think it's important that I write the lives I think the characters would lead, rather than simply what I wish they would. I also know that some of you may be unhappy with the timeskip, but this was never a story that would take place wholly or even mostly with Harry as a child. So far, this has been a story about him and his friends growing up - and now it is a story about who they have become. I hope you still enjoy this!


Chapter 30

4 Years Later...

23rd August 2003

Daphne Greengrass stroked her daughters hair fondly as the child finally surrendered to sleep. The four year old seemed to have a positively endless supply of energy; forever asking questions, riding her toy broom into the furniture, and roping the house elves into impromptu dance performances. Getting her to rest at all always felt like an achievement; never mind that it was not in her own bed. No, the dark-haired tot had passed out between Daphne and Blaise, snuggled between them on the king-sized bed. Blaise was smiling fondly at his wife and child, quietly humming the tune to an old Italian lullaby. When Lenore was soundly asleep, the two of them tiptoed out of the room together, silencing their feet to avoid waking the girl up.

Once they were safely tucked away in the snug, Daphne embraced her husband and they spent quite some time just kissing and whispering sweet nothings to each other before they finally settled down to relax for the evening. Between Daphne's work, the care of Lenore and the many projects Blaise ran in the local wizarding population, they only had scant hours in the week to really talk. Blaise brought out some wine while Daphne flicked through a thick pile of parchment for what must be the dozenth time.

"The figures won't change if you glare at the page longer, tesora," Blaise chided fondly, setting the glass on the coffee table before his wife.

Daphne shot him a mockingly baleful smile, before setting the stack aside to take a sip of the wine.

"It's going to be a nightmare dealing with this," she said in irritation.

"How bad is it exactly?" Blaise asked. He was always so interested in her work, offering clever advice when she wanted it, and a sympathetic ear when she didn't. It was one of the many things she loved about her husband.

"Bad," she replied simply. After another deep drink, she continued. "Muggle-borns are performing just as well as Purebloods and Halfbloods at Hogwarts; better even, in some years."

Blaise quirked an eyebrow, gesturing for her to go on.

"Which would be fine if that meant anything. This report," she gestured to the pile. "shows the post-school career destinations of muggle-borns for the last 10 years, well past the institution of the orphanages and separation; well over a decade after the war ended. All of them born well after 1975 and thus officially equal citizens."

"And?" he pressed, genuine curiosity in his voice.

"Barmaids and low-level clerks; shop assistants and low-skilled tradesman. Across the board," she picked up the parchment again, grasping it with irritation. "There's a case study in here of a girl with over 70 in her MGS' and a 35 in her AMGS' who is currently working in a menagerie in Diagon Alley doing 'sanitation management'" Daphne bit out with disgust.

Blaise sat back and regarded his wife. "This seems to bother you a great deal." It wasn't a question.

"Well of course it does," Daphne said with a frown. "It's… It's diabolical, amore. I mean those are just examples of the exceptional ones, the average students..." she trailed off. "Well let's just say certain establishments in Nocturne and the like are over-represented in this study."

Blaise winced. "I see. And I suppose you have to cover it up?"

Daphne sighed. "It's difficult. I can hardly let this be front-page of the prophet; Lucius and the like would have my head. They say the rebels are recruiting more and more young muggleborns and half-bloods fresh out of Hogwarts and this kind of thing would only stir up unrest," she gestured. "You know what the worst thing is?"

"What?" Blaise asked, knowing full well she was going to tell him. She was speaking more to herself now and he was only too happy to be her silent audience.

"It won't even be hard, to bury it," she said with a shake of her head. "We'll leak some minor sex scandal, we'll arrest some no-name we've got in our back pocket who's been communicating with the resistance, someone who's already practically betrothed in our society circles will be pushed to tell the press a little sooner. Before you know it, it's a handful of sentences from one of the apprentice writers in the back of a Tuesday prophet."

Blaise nodded. "I take it you're not worried about your ability to bury it then?"

Daphne shot him a wry smile. "It's been a long time since I've been worried about my ability to spin, my love. Nowadays I worry more about what it means."

He nodded sympathetically, moving to sit by her and putting his arms around her. She leaned into his shoulder and sighed, letting the tension leave her own shoulders.

"So what will you do?" he asked after a long moment.

"It's such a complex problem," she whispered against him. "We could incentivise purebloods to hire muggleborns in higher-paid jobs, but then they'll forever be accused of not earning their place or being hired for their blood alone. We could encourage hiring where the blood of the applicant is unknown, but that will only get them through the door; they'd know their blood soon after and find raises and promotions a pipe dream. Besides, a part of it is that these kids have no family to fall back on. They can't take an apprenticeship when they can't feed themselves on no pay, can't study further either. They can't afford to take their time looking for a job that fits them."

"You've been thinking about this… a lot, then. Muggleborn rights?" His voice wasn't precisely uncomfortable, but it was cautious. They were veering into dangerous territory. They'd had conversations like this before, but Daphne knew she was getting increasingly forthright in her views, her daily work of hiding the more sinister aspects of the empire was beginning to change her, perhaps for the better, she thought.

She smiled again, softly, into his chest. "I'm not going to get arrested, darling, but if I don't tell someone how I feel I'll explode. I never felt one way or the other about muggleborns a few years ago, but what if Hermione had been left to waste her talent selling cloaks on a high street? If we aren't inherently different, why do we lead such different lives?"

"So what are you going to do?" he asked, stroking her hair softly.

"I think the first thing, is to get rid of the cuff markings," she gestured to the gold lining of her cuff sleeve. "I think... I think we could get traction behind that, as a start."

"And then?" he asked. "Will that be enough?"

She snorted. "Not even close, but I don't know yet. Although I did get a new assistant today."

"Oh?" Blaise asked, though her knew in his chest what she was going to say before she did.

"Yes," she said brightly. "Excellent school results. Most of her experience is in shovelling shit. She'll fit in just fine."


"Just because you shut yourself in your study in no way means this conversation is over, Hermione!" a furious Draco Malfoy shouted through the thick oak door of one of Malfoy Manor's many offices.

It seemed his main communication with his wife was shouting through doors these days. On the rare occasions she was actually in their home, they spent most of the time fighting. The last year had been a travesty; their marriage was hanging by a thread and Draco couldn't even muster the energy to try to save it anymore. Hermione had only grown more beautiful while they were married; more accomplished, had risen through the ranks quickly and only partly because of her surname. She had also grown more distant, colder towards him than he could ever have imagined when they'd been sharing their first kisses, their first intimate embraces. It seemed to Draco that nowadays they agreed on nothing.

He paused, listening for a response only to realise the witch had silenced the room and therefore couldn't hear him. Furious, he didn't pause for a moment, pulling out his wand and blasting the ancient wood to pieces.

He strode inside, his now shoulder length blonde hair a wild tangle as he strode through the cracked wood. Hermione, who was already sat behind the imposing desk looked up at him in exasperation.

"Was that really necessary?" she bit out, her tone almost as cold as her regard. With an idle flick of her wand, the door repaired itself behind him.

"Yes, it is damn well necessary," he bit out between gritted teeth.

Hermione, clearly realising that short of apparrating away this conversation was happening, set down her quill with a frustrated clatter.

"This is why I don't discuss work with you," she said in a harsh voice, rolling her eyes. "You don't understand and you never will. I'll have Jetson's head for blabbing about it to you."

Draco laughed, high and bitter. "Out of interest, were you trying to keep it from me because you're ashamed, or have you lost even that faculty?"

Hermione's fist tightened on the side of the desk, and she seemed to be struggling not to curse her husband with something foul.

She took a steadying breath, and then began to speak in a frank, patronising tone, as though explaining something to an infant. "Draco, the factory is producing the Rosetta potion en masse. My potion. I was put in charge of making sure - by any means necessary - that production is halted. That's exactly what I intend to do."

Draco shook his head, his face white with fury. "That would be well and good if you were just targeting our enemies Hermione, but you aren't, are you?"

Hermione closed her eyes, and the breath she drew next seemed a little shakier before she steeled herself against him. "Civilian casualties are expected in a war, Draco."

"Children, Hermione," he bit out. "Your explosion is going to take out a whole street, including an orphanage. A fucking orphanage." Draco slammed his fists down on the table in front of her. "Is that 'to be expected'?"

Hermione's gaze softened a little, but it only irritated Draco more.

"Darling, it's alright. They're not magical children, they're just muggles."

Draco paused in his ranting, stunned for a moment. Genuinely stunned by his wife's words. "Salazar, Hermione. What's wrong with you?"

"Wrong with me?" she demanded, finally rising out of her seat to shout at him. "Wrong with me?! You're the one who seems to spend half your time criticizing everything the Death Eaters do lately – now you're defending muggles? What's next, Draco?"

"I'm hardly advocating for muggles, but because I don't want to blow up a building full of children, I'm the mad one?" Draco demanded, and now he looked at her with something very close to disgust. "You'd think you'd have more sympathy for your own kind," he said in a low, mocking voice.

She stiffened, throwing him a poisonous look. "You know, that's exactly it, Draco. Someone with your impeccable breeding and, quite frankly, gender – might be able to get away with this new soft-hearted approach to muggles, but I can't!" Her voice had been rising in volume with each word of the final sentence. "If you do it, you're eccentric. Kind-hearted. If I do it? I'm a traitor. I can't be seen to be weak on this."

Draco shook his head, and took a moment to collect his thoughts, his breaths slowing. Finally, he said. "Quite frankly, Hermione, that's just not good enough to justify the blood that's about to be on your hands. You're not the woman I married," he hissed the final sentence, before turning to take his leave from the study.

Hermione waited until he was almost at the door before saying very quietly. "No, perhaps you were a little less jealous of the girl you married."

"Jealous?" he snorted. "I don't avoid killing children because it's beyond me, and if you can't see that then there is little left to say. I'm going to our villa in France for a while," he said, pausing at the door. "I need some space."

But Hermione was no longer listening, she was already back at her desk, signing papers.


In the army of the Dark Lord Voldemort, organisation was everything. Everyone knew their place in the hierarchy, and the expectations of them within it; every corporal answered to their commander, every commander to their major and every major to their general. Each division, regiment and battalion was named and numbered; their progress monitored and new death eaters assigned carefully to balance their forces across the map.

That said, the true name of Regiment 43 was all but forgotten. Somewhere back in England there was, no doubt, pages upon pages of parchment referencing the members and battles of Regiment 43. However, to all on the eastern front, and to every general that had ever seen a battlefield lit by ominous green light, Regiment 43 was known simply by it's alias 'the graveyard shift'. Thus named because they were often set flanking the larger concentration of rebel armies, or to attempt sieges of magically protected fortresses against impossible odds. In short, they had been named this because so very many of them died in it's ranks. The graveyard shift had been named this way many years before, and it's reputation had only grown. Soon, disgruntled corporals began to send their most recalcitrant recruits into it's ranks. Those who were undisciplined or wild, those who disobeyed orders or spent too much time in the local brothels to be alert on raids were soon dispatched to this ill-reputed regiment. The hope being that they would soon find their just desserts, or at the very least, be out of the way.

The last couple of years had seen a change to the gravers, as they were 'affectionately' dubbed. Lately, the mortality of the regiment had dropped rapidly; their successes doubling, and then doubling again. Although it maintained it's reputation as the home of renegades and subversives too useful to simply execute, it had now developed some prestige. These days it was less a dumping ground, and more a dangerous animal on a relatively long leash.

Almost all of this change could be attributed to it's new commander. Again, the name of this commander was certainly written somewhere, someone transferred monthly galleons to the vault of a Death Eater with what was probably a perfectly ordinary name. On the eastern front, however, he was known only as 'The Serpent'.

Certainly, the name suited him. The Serpent was a tall, athletic man with wild black hair, green eyes bordered with limbal rings of red, and a face that – though hardly conventionally handsome – contained a fierce sort of beauty. Some said he kept a snake on him at times, often wrapping around his arms and slithering across his shoulders when he addressed his men. Most strikingly of all was, of course, the Dark Mark. Unlike anyone else in the Dark Lord's forces, The Serpent had been marked not on his forearm, but around his neck. Voldemort's insignia wrapped around the man's throat and the skull rested just above his prominent sternum. No one had ever quite been able to decide what this meant. Was it a symbol of the Dark Lord's ire or a mark of distinction? Did it mean he had been chosen for something special, or was it a more prominent reminder of the man's subjugation to his Lord? No one knew, and The Serpent himself was ever silent on the topic for those few who'd dared to ask him. Other marks filled the man's body too; runic tattoos running over his biceps; magical scars across his back. The symbol of his regiment had been willingly inked into his shoulder blade, even. None of this took away from this symbol, however.

From the outset, the mark had set him apart from his comrades. This was hardly all that had given the commander his infamy, however. He was a powerful wizard; having achieved feats of magic on the battlefield that the Death Eaters had only rarely seen the likes of. More than that, he was a clever and intuitive strategist, always thinking several moves ahead of the other side. Despite the many dangerous and difficult situations the gravers had been sent into, their commander had kept more of them alive than should be possible. He was rewarded with their utmost loyalty and respect; a kind of loyalty no other authority had ever earned.

No other authority.


Harry Potter stood behind the billowing canvas of one of the many surrounding military tents. Inside, the voices of his regiment formed a jovial cacophony as they gambled, bantered and drank the evening away. The sun had not long ago set, but the gravers were not ones to waste one of the few nights off they were awarded. Harry wore only loose dark trousers and a thin cotton shirt against the heat of the night; they were stationed in Thailand for now, just days away from a movement that would likely begin and end with a bloody battle. For now, they didn't think of it. Harry stood alone with his thoughts, inhaling the sweet smoke of a cigarette as he stared up at the night sky. His mind was full of plans, and back-up plans as he let his mind play with the puzzle of their next deployment.

He was interrupted moments later by another figure emerging from the tent. Relaxed, Harry glanced over at the dirty blonde head of Laurence and quirked his lips.

"Wondered how long it would take for you to follow me out here," he commented idly, before offering the open pack of cigarettes to the man.

"I came out here to see how you were doing," said the wizard with a grin, but he took the offered cigarette nonetheless. Ever since Harry had introduced Laurence to them after a particularly bloody battle, he'd been following Harry outside to partake in his secret habit. Not that it was particularly secret. Despite it's muggle nature, none of the gravers would betray one another. Even if they did, Harry wasn't sure it would matter much. Voldemort himself smoked, as he would point out should he ever be censured over the matter.

"I'm doing just fine. Has Don managed to take Rast's shirt yet?" Harry asked with a smirk. When he'd left the tent some time before, many of them had been engaged in a rather intense game of cards, and Rast had already bet his last sickle on a good pair of hands.

"Got a few good hands after that, actually. Good job too or he'd have been a nightmare in the morning," Laurence commented idly, coming to stand next to his commander.

Although there was a stark difference in rank between the pair, they were good friends. Harry counted many of his regiment as friends now, and those he didn't were still his brothers. He had fought and bled with these men and (admittedly few) women, and rank came into it little. Of course when it mattered they bowed to his authority; when it really called for it, Harry was willing to show exactly why he was in charge. Yet it rarely did call for it. He had their respect, and that went much further than fear. It was a different relationship to the ones he had with his friends back in England. The men here had only ever known him as the commander. It was no less significant however.

"Good. What about Jo, is she back from central yet?" One of his officers had been called to visit central to discuss a possible transfer. She had distinguished herself on the field, and may soon be becoming a commander herself. She had considered turning it down for a time, unwilling to leave her brothers, but Harry had encouraged her to go. She would be a great leader, and to be quite frank, too many cooks spoil the potion. She was almost as bad at taking orders as Harry had been in her position.

"She is," Laurence grimaced. "Apparently we're to expect another visit from compliance in the next couple of weeks."

Harry set his jaw, but said nothing. Compliance were a wing of the Death Eaters who's role was to ensure that each of the regiments remained loyal to the Dark Lord; that there was no dissension growing within the ranks. They came now and then, interviewed the senior officers and a few randomly selected lower ranking Death Eaters, and occasionally used some heavy handed tactics where they suspected traitors. The gravers had survived all the inspections they'd had under Harry's command, but lately they had been more and more frequent. He'd been relieved to hear recently that he was hardly the only regiment suffering this. Apparently they were searching far and wide for leaks; suspecting spies somewhere in the higher ranks.

"Did they say why this time?" Harry finally asked, not bothering to mask his irritation. It was an unnecessary distraction when he had better things to be planning.

Laurence shrugged. "Apparently a whole street of muggles were magically relocated minutes before a target in the area was bombed. They suspect someone leaked plans to the Asian Wizarding Confederation."

Harry frowned, considering. "What was the target?"

"Some factory, I think. I'm not sure on details."

Harry shrugged. "Sounds more like the resistance than the AWC; they care little more for muggles than the Death Eaters do." He let the subject drop, not knowing enough of the details to make a guess. "Well, they'll come, cause some trouble and leave with nothing like they always do."

Laurence shifted, the strong man looking almost fragile. "Well, if we get through the next few days any way."

Harry threw him a sharp look. "What do you mean by that?"

"There's talk among the lads," he said, finally. "We know this next movement is a big one. Some say it's going to be ten to one against us; others say we're being sent against dragon-riders. Either way, there's a lot of talk that this ones going to be rough."

Harry sighed, putting a hand on his friends shoulder. "I won't promise you it's going to be pretty, but I've got a few aces up my sleeve."

Laurence smiled, before playfully shoving him. "More like you're going to pull something out of your arse and bet on your luck, as usual."

Harry grinned back. "Has my luck ever let you down before, you little fuck? Come on, let's go get shit-faced and see if we can wipe that smile off Rast."


"Thank you, Molly," said the tired figure of one Sirius Black. He was slumped over the years-battered table of The Burrow's kitchen with a grimly determined expression, mechanically spooning the thick stew into his mouth. He was sure it was delicious, Molly had always been an amazing cook, but these days all food tasted like ash in his mouth. It had been like this for months now, and if his plummeting weight was anything to go by then this situation couldn't carry on indefinitely.

Across from him, his face full of open concern, was his friend; Fabian Prewett. He'd called Sirius to his sister's house in England for a talk, away from the ears of other resistance members. In the crowded safe-houses and camps, privacy was a hard thing to come by. Sirius had a feeling he knew what this conversation was going to be about, and that only made eating the offered food more difficult.

"You're looking frail, my friend," said Fabian after Sirius had resorted to merely pushing his food around the bowl, only occasionally taking a bite. "You're going to make yourself sick, and it's not as though we've an abundance of healers."

Fabian was a deeply serious man, and rarely openly emotional. Ever since the death of his brother Gideon many years before, he had become both cold and ruthlessly determined to wipe every Death Eater from the face of the earth. Even this small show of worry was a testament to their friendship.

"I know," said Sirus, closing his eyes with a wince. "It's just hard to do anything but fight and search, knowing where he is now, the sort of thing he must be enduring."

Fabian nodded sympathetically, gesturing towards Sirius' meal with a firm expression. Reluctantly, Sirius resumed eating.

"I know. If Remus is still alive, it's likely he's suffering under the hands of those bastards," he said the last word with such venom that Molly paused in her tidying as though to chide him, before clearly thinking better of it. "But you're no use to us like this, you've got to push through."

"Push through?" Sirius demanded, finally setting his spoon aside in defeat. He couldn't even muster the energy to argue more strongly than with a hoarse whisper. "How can I push through?" He paused, staring into the middle distance as he fought the sudden wave of nausea. They were only too frequent these days. "It would have been better if he'd just been killed."

Sirius never thought he'd think - let alone say - such a thing of his only remaining friend from the old days. The last of the marauders left. He meant it though, with every fibre of his being. There were worse things than death; at least James was at peace.

Fabian stilled at the statement, before letting out a deep, frustrated sigh. "I know what you mean, Sirius, but where there is life – there's hope. We're still following leads on possible locations; we know roughly where their compliance camp is based, and that seems to be the most likely location for them to take prisoners given they take so few."

Sirius sat back in his chair miserably. "Even if we find him, who's to say they won't have broken his mind irreparably? It's happened before."

Molly placed a cup of tea in front of him, gently touching his shoulder in that comforting, maternal fashion she was known for. She had only grown more motherly towards him since her children had flown the nest. Her youngest children had avoided the recruitment that her middle children – the twins – had been subject to. She'd spoken little on the subject of Fred and George. They were well, as he understood it, but he knew it wounded her to see that mark on their arms. Thankfully they had not been taken for the front lines, and were safely based in labs somewhere in Ireland.

"I'm not saying it's impossible," Fabian responded quietly. "But I think you underestimate your friend's resilience. If we can break through the regiment based closest to the compliance base, I believe we have a chance."

Sirius nodded, already familiar with the plan. "We don't know much about them though, only that they've been deployed to deal with the AWC encampment that's been giving their lot a hard time since they took back Pattaya City."

Fabian nodded distractedly. "We think the best move is probably to attack the Death Eaters from behind shortly after they begin the fight, take them by surprise. Hopefully we'll be able to send them into disarray. We're unsure of what kind of numbers we're dealing with after all."

They descended into 'shop talk' quickly, Fabian's mission to force Sirius to eat long forgotten and the bowl pushed to the side. They discussed tactics; how they would arrange the forces they had. Years ago, they'd never have been able to muster such a force, and take this kind of direct action against Voldemort's army, but things had changed in recent years. Their recruitment strategy was working, and more young muggleborns and half-bloods from around the world arrived every day to add to their own forces.

"Sirius," Fabian began tentatively. "I've been talking with the others. We're not sure you should be… physically present during this raid."

Sirius was on his feet before he even fully registered the words. "Fuck you, Fabian. I will be there, and at every other battle that takes us closer to getting Remus back."

Fabian sighed, dejected. "You look ill, friend. No one will think less of you if you sit this one out."

Sirius shook his head in disgust. "I'll be there, Fabian. There's nothing on earth that would stop me."

Fabian levelled a calm, considering look at his friend. A silent argument seemed to ensue before finally Sirius called to Molly.

"Molly," he said, his voice strong with determination. "Do you have any more of that delicious stew? I'm suddenly starving."

Maintaining eye contact for a long moment, Fabian finally nodded. "So be it."


The Graveyard Shift struck in the night. Best to catch their enemy unawares. Both sides knew this conflict had been coming, both had been on their guard. However, the Thai regiments of the AWC were known to possess magicks that allowed them to see in the dark, and thus did not expect to be attacked at midnight on a moonless night. This was exactly why Harry had chosen now to make his move, when they were least aware. Especially given he had long known that the night-vision of the Thai was a myth, cleverly created and spread through their spy networks to discourage just such an invasion.

It gave the gravers an advantage, but not for very long. The element of surprise gave them minutes to assemble, to begin burning tents and casting the first curses, but they were still outnumbered. It was not as bad as Laurence had predicted, but three to one was still bad odds. Especially given the Thai corps was a particularly formidable group of witches and wizards. It was therefore that much more important that they remained in formation. They had ensnared the enemy from all sides, each of them duelling their own opponents savagely whilst keeping an eye out for open backs for easy takedowns. So far, it was business as usual. They'd yet to lose anyone as the other side struggled to form up in the confusion.

When the enemy got organised and the tide began to shift against them despite the enemies they'd already felled, Harry was prepared. One of his many secrets to forming such an elite unit had been the use of a finite number of commands that his regiment were trained to respond to instinctively, trained into them again and again – codewords being used to illicit specific manoeuvres.

When Harry shouted, his voice magically enhanced to rise far above the noise of the battle, "Air" - every single one of his regiment jumped, using their wand to hold themselves hovering a foot above the ground with levitation charms. Harry himself did the same, and in the less than five seconds that passed from shouting the command, he had pulled a small black box from his inner pocket and muttered the words to activate it. He let it drop to the ground as a small number of the enemy, anticipating his next move, also pulled themselves free of the earth. Not many did though, and as the box hit the grounds bolts of electricity filled the area, running along the earth. Countless people fell to the ground, twitching. They were mostly still alive, but they were out for the count, electrocuted into a deep and painful sleep. It hadn't taken out all of the enemy, some had jumped clear, others had been out of range, some had merely managed to block most of the effects with clever spell-work, but it had cut their numbers down by about half. Harry grinned viciously, for they were now on an even playing field.

The talent of the Thai brigade could not be underestimated, and they were putting up a fine fight. Harry's shirt had been ripped open and a thin line of blood marked the side of his cheek. He danced between curses, non-verbally casting several of his own in turn. At one point he physically pushed an enemy wizard to the ground – he had been aiming at one of his brothers who's back was turned - Harry had pressed his wand into the man's throat and ended his fight without hesitation.

The moonlit valley was awash with colour as spells ricocheted from shields. Apparently there had been truth to the rumours that the other side had gotten their hands on Hermione's potion in recent months because it didn't seem to matter what language either side cast in. It was a blow, but Harry had long prepared for this. They were just beginning to gain momentum – pushing the Thai back - when a wizard, a battalion leader of the enemy if his insignia was anything to go by, organised five of his own squad into formation and simultaneously cast a powerful aqua eructo. Harry's heart jumped in his chest as he watched the wave begin to make it's unstoppable journey towards his men; evidently the leader was willing to take several of his own squadron down if it meant defeating the gravers.

As he quickly ran through his options, the time between seconds slowing as the wave moved inexorably towards him and his men, a sound at his back sent a cold spike of ice up his spine. Another group of enemies were coming from behind, enclosing them. This was beyond bad. Around him he saw his regiment begin to panic, few of them having the ability to shield from a spell like aqua eructo, and certainly not whilst protecting their back from whatever this new threat was.

A guttural roar left Harry's mouth, his wand moving in wild slashes as he barked the word "faint" in his magically resonant tone. Instantly, the panic left the faces of his men as they instinctively obeyed the command. With a bright flash of purple light, the majority of his regiment – those not already caught and killed by the wave- cast motus, a spell Harry himself had invented and shared with his men alone. It allowed for a kind of short-burst apparition over a distance of around 100 feet. The cleverness of the spell lay in that it completely avoided anti-apparrition wards, like those that had doubtlessly been protecting the valley.

In moments they were behind him and Harry was at the head of his army, staring down the incoming wave with an expression of determined fury. He moved his arms in three rapid slashing motions and in the tongue of his ancient ancestors cast fiendfyre. A wave of fire twice the size of the incoming water erupted from his wand, as Harry rapidly pulled magic from the deepest wells of his core. A tension began, a deep strain as his magic struggled to replenish what it needed to keep him alive as he poured it into the massive flames. The fire had already taken on the guise of a wolf baring down on it's prey. The tension did not last for long however, as new power flowed into him – his connection with his horcrux replacing his magic as quickly as he used it.

The wolf met the wave like a beast in shallow water; the wave was consumed and reduced to an explosion of steam, and the wolf carried on it's charge – albeit somewhat diminished by the contact. In mere seconds, it swept through what remained of the Thai regiment, reducing the encampment to ash. It was only then that Harry released the spell, drawing deep gulping breaths, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding the malevolent curse at bay. He allowed himself only moments to recover before turning on his heel and plunging back into the fray, a feral energy giving him a speed and ferocity that was familiar to him.

Apparently, the resistance had decided to make an appearance this night. If he were not running on instinct alone, he might have given them credit for this half-clever ambush. It was taking little time to beat them back however, now that their true enemy was defeated – dead or fled. By the time the resistance began to flee themselves, Harry had regained enough control to begin pulling his punches. Half of these people looked fresh out of school, their spells fumbled and their eyes wide with terror. Some of them had probably never even seen a battlefield before. He reverted to non-lethal casting, hearing an order had just been called; they were retreating. His men only needed to finish off those they were personally duelling and the battle would be over. Harry could count his dead. Not many by his reckoning, but any was too many as far as he was concerned, and he was sure he'd seen one of their youngest recruits taken down by the wave.

He scanned the battlefield before him, letting his men finish the job as he searched the ground for fallen comrades. It was then, after mere minutes of searching, that his eyes caught that of another; a resistance member sprawled on the ground, contorted in pain as black tendrils of a dark curse leeched up his arms. He recognised the man immediately. Even if not for their unfortunate meeting in Italy a couple of years back, he would have seen the similarity to Blaise in a heartbeat. Sirius Black was on his battlefield, and he was very clearly dying.

Anger leeched through his skin like a toxin. Those years ago, Black had looked at him with a kind of pity that turned his stomach, and brought up his parents relentlessly despite Harry's insistence that he didn't want to hear it. Now the man was here, had come here with the intent of killing his men. His Father's best friend, come to kill him and his brothers. A distant part of Harry, a sympathetic part that did not exist in the midst of battle reminded him that this was war, and that he would likely do the same in Sirius' position. He couldn't listen to that part of him now through, not when he could see fallen friends scattered across his peripheral vision, and the air stank of spent magic and smoke and blood.

Still, an urgency pushed him. In that moment, he hated Sirius Black. He enjoyed watching the man writhe with pain, allowing the blame of all his brothers' deaths fall onto his shoulders. Stronger than any of this however, was his love for Blaise. For all his faults, Blaise loved his Father. He had never said it in so many words, but nonetheless Harry knew. Harry knew he'd introduced Lenore to her Grandfather; that they visited one another at Christmas whenever they could find a safe place to gather. He knew Blaise would hurt terribly if his Father died alone like this, bleeding out into the grass of an unfamiliar land.

Another growl escaped Harry's mouth, contemptuous, and yet he found himself moving. No one was watching him, they were too busy finishing off the fight or beginning to search for survivors. Before he could change his mind, he strode over to the fallen man, grasping him firmly by his shirt, dragging him up and carrying him roughly out of the bounds of the anti-apparition wards. Adrenaline coursed through him still, and he didn't even bother casting a feather-light charm on the dead weight of the man. Sirius stared at him with fear and confusion, attempting to speak and simply choking on his words as the curse began to rob him of his mental faculties. Soon he would be unconscious. Without medical attention, death would quickly follow.

When they reached the boundary, Harry snapped, "Just you remember, this isn't for you, Black."

And then, without hesitation, he apparrated.

Across the world.


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