Despite the misgivings I once had about warfare, over my many lives, I had become an expert in it.

Having been conqueror, defender, and general many times, I was a natural.

I honestly think I impressed Sergeant Burke, as when he looked at me, a fresh faced man of thirty-three, who managed to outsmart Privates that had trained for decades, I think he saw something more than who I was.

Suffice to say, I didn't have many friends during basic training, along with the fact that said training was horribly rushed.

They taught me to shoot, how to run, what color our uniforms were, and what color our enemies were.

Wonderful training and slurs aside, I was as prepared as I possibly could have been, considering I've fought World War II ten times, all from different sides, I believed myself ready.

Next thing I know, I'm heading to England.

I wasn't ready.


London, England

(October 12th, 1942)


Once upon a life, I had looked upon London in wonder and awe.

In that lifetime, I hadn't ever gotten the chance before adolescence to explore the city.

As Harry Potter, I would have wanted nothing more than to run along it's streets, meeting it's people, seeing all that the city had to offer.

Of course, over my many lives I've seen more of London than I'd like, but this time… I didn't want to be anywhere near the city.

But I had to.

Despite the fact that I was sure my troop had never existed in my world,

The Titan Battalion wasn't a thing, I had been a part of World War II before, but had never come across such a group.

Perhaps this world was different.

A different world.

Neat.


London was on fire.

German planes rained hellfire upon the city that once held so much for me, bringing death down on the heads of innocents more than any Death Eater could have ever dreamed, staining the streets with napalm and ash.

Sirens burned themselves into my eardrums, as my fellows and I ran along the city, looking for any stragglers that hadn't found their way into a shelter.

We had to do this nightly, in between firing aimlessly into the sky in the vain hope of shooting down a German fighter, never coming close.

The planes would return, they'd punish the city with even more bombs, and the people would pay for the iron will of their leaders.

I once had the ability to blast things apart with the flick of a wand and a shout of Latin.

I had no wand in these dark times, and only a rifle and insomnia to guide me through these times.

Of course, my soldiers were there, but they were no better than the civilians in helping me against the Nazi beasts.

I would stand on the rooftops, my nerves on edge, looking through a grimy scope and attempting to shoot down one of those damn planes.

I used to dream of ending the war, of being the gun to fire the last shot.

It was a good dream, but it was not to be.

I was a man, albeit an immortal (sort of) man, but a man nonetheless.

I could do no more.


While working in England, I held my tongue and worked to contain the feelings of who I had once been, but I had one moment where I couldn't.

We were patrolling the lower end of London, where the tramps and ingrates had once peddled, until the bombs and illness took them of course, when I saw it…

A tall, stricken building, near crumbling, it's windows grimy and cracked.

A sign at the front, read in faded text so fair that you could barely make out the lettering, "Wool's Orphanage."

I near froze, with the bomb sirens blaring in my ears, and my mates trying to get my attention, I came to a realization that I never considered.

Tom Riddle exists.

I... exist.

That… that was something.

I… couldn't stay here.

Averting my eyes, I muttered my apologies, and continued on with the others.

I would return for him, one day, but not today.

Gods above, I was older than Voldemort…

Somewhere out there, the lad is learning to shave and just graduating…

I swear that I'm cursed.


Normandy

(June, 1944)


Eisenhower had said we were to embark on a great crusade. His words were ironic, because the battle was less grand crusade, and more bamboozled invasion.

The allies had done well and good confusing the dogs, so my troop had come roaring to the rescue of France.

That reminded me then, as I sat in the freighter carrying us all to the battlefield, that some stupid bastard has decided to make me a Major, and give me control of my old Battalion.

Major Ryan.

I don't know if they were trying to encourage me, or spite me.

General Montgomery did always have something against me. My accent never did go away fully, and that likely didn't sit well with him.

Regardless, they stuck a metal star to my uniform, and told me to act like I earned it.

Rotten bastards, the lot of them.


Flashbacks to previous lives appeared before my eyes, as the troops began to ran from our ships, leading the charge down the beaches.

For a second, I could have sworn I was in Rome again, fighting along my ranks, Caesar guiding my hand, before I was dragged back to my new reality.

Different war, different General, but same result.

We lost men, we took souls, and we won.

The costs weigned nothing to us, as we captured the land that once was stolen, and restored it to those that had earned it.

However, we had no time to rest.

This wasn't our home, and the war had yet to end.

The German War Machine was still churning it's way across Europe, and the Japs were still striking.

We had to keep going, so said Eisenhower.

For once, I agreed with the man.

For my brother to sleep easy, I had to keep going.

For the Greater Good.


(1945)


A part of me thought the war would never end, despite my prior knowledge, I honestly thought that it would never be over.

The bloodshed, the violence, the death… It staggered me more than in any other life.

Perhaps because in this life, I cared… but this was almost too much.

I was almost forty, and I'd been shot in the shoulder.

The Army says I will never be able to properly hold a rifle again.

I call them a bunch of stupid bastards.

They don't appreciate that, but they respect me, so they let it past.

They decide that they're going to send me home, but they say to wait a week.

A week later, an Atomic Bomb has been dropped on Hiroshima.

They said to wait a week, that becomes a month.


The war is over, there were celebrations and answered prayers, but the entire time, I worried about my brother.

He had believed that Science existed only to better Humanity, and to help the innocent and those in need.

Science destroyed, and Science killed.

The U.S had betrayed us both.

They had used me as a weapon, and they had weaponized my brother's passion.

They used me up, and when I was broken, they threw me away.

They sent me home, gave me the choice of a desk job if I wanted it.

I said no.

I retired at just age thirty-seven.

They threw me a ceremony, to award me some pointless medal, and to look over my accomplishments.

I didn't attend.

I told them I was going back to New York.

They wished me luck.

I got a letter.

My little brother needed me.

I had let him down once, and it cost me six years.

I wouldn't waste six more.


New York City

(October 3rd, 1945)


After all the monsters I've faced in my lives, both human and otherworldly, all the challenges I've undergone, I had thought myself the bravest (or stupidest) man on any Earth.

However, I was terrified to step off the plane.

We'd landed, I had been given my ragged Army-issue duffle by the nice Stewardess, and I was to leave.

I knew my brother would be waiting for me beyond the plane, and my heart soared to be reunited with little Andre once more, but my brain, feared how he might receive me.

Would he hate me, his older brother, for abandoning him?

Would he hold me responsible for the decisions of my commanding officers?

I didn't know to be frank, but I had to take a plunge, a… leap of faith, if you would.

Pooling together what remained of my… Gryffindor (I found myself reeling for the word, as I barely remembered that life, so long ago) courage, and took a shot of the liquid variety, before leaving.

I stepped out, the light of a new day blinding me, before setting sight on what lay before me.

A man stood there on the tarmac, a fine suit fitting his frame, his hair smoothed nicely, just as his fine mustache was.

I could hardly recognize the man, his suit, his face, but there… there was his eyes.

The same light blue that once shined in my little brother's, but dulled in a sense.

I imagine my green orbs were similar.

This was my brother, all grown up, and successful.

I could only smile.

He smiled as well, a thin little gesture, but I knew he meant it.

"Welcome back, brother."

I bet we were a sight, Andrew Ryan in a tailored suit, hugging a scraggly man in filthy clothes.

But no matter what anyone thought or said, we were together once more.

We were the Ryan brothers, and we could do anything together, even the impossible.

Just like I told him so long ago.

I was right, as always.

The world had hurt us both, the possible had ruined what we held dear.

We had only one real choice, of course.

We chose… the impossible.