AN: For those who don't know, "Alea Iacta Est" is Latin for "The Die is cast."

The Next Day, Daybreak

The entire Imperial camp awoke to the sound of multiple bugles sounding out the Imperial version of Reveille. The effect of these many bugles carrying out the same tune was impressive. Men and women practically flew out of their tents towards the area where their designated shower stalls were, since whomever got there first would be guaranteed a spot, whereas those who lagged behind could very well end up going the whole day without one.

The camp, already a massive compound (since it had to house the 100,000 or so soldiers that comprised Neville's wing of the general attack), was now also buzzing with life as men and women dashed to and fro to get ready, even as the bugles rang out with calls of "Fall In."

As Neville left his own tent, having wisely decided to wash the previous night, he casually clasped on his Imperial-issued khaki Brodie helmet and observed his surroundings at the same time. Today was the big day, and it seemed like everyone in the camp knew it, judging by the excitement.

Last-minute preparations were being made, with sapper specialists running to and fro carrying large crates of what Neville assumed were the explosives they were going to need if the path up the docks was found blocked. It was unlikely, but it was also best to be prepared for such an eventuality.

To his left, he could see General Harry Guinness, the nominal CiC of the operation, leave his own tent, his Brodie helmet safely tucked under his arm while he scratched his scruffy beard with his free hand. Though Guinness was Neville's superior, there was no question that Neville was truly the man in charge in this operation. Guinness, of course, knew this, and had deferred to the younger officer appropriately. The man had no illusions of his own skill, and he knew that the Duke, possibly the greatest military mind in modern history, had handpicked his commanders with exceeding care. As such, who was he to protest?

Guinness seemed to notice Neville watching him at this point, and offered the younger man a casual salute, which Neville returned with a grin. There was no antipathy between the two. They both knew exactly where they stood, and neither thought it beneficial if bad blood existed between them.

"Chilly weather," commented Guinness as he followed Neville's example and strapped on his helmet. "Makes your blood feel cold, doesn't it?"

"Aye," agreed Neville. "Hard to think we're so close to the end," he admitted.

Guinness walked over to Neville and clasped a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about! If we all do our jobs, this will be over before we know it," he said confidently. "The men and I have complete faith in you and the Duke."

Neville chuckled. "No pressure, huh?" he joked, eliciting a laugh from the older man.

"None at all, m'boy," said Guinness with a grin. "Now then, how about we split inspections duties between the two of us, eh? It'll go much faster if we each take a chunk of the lads and inspect them instead of going through the whole lot."

Neville shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

Guinness smiled. In Neville's opinion, Guinness always seemed to be smiling. 'Must be a happy man," he guessed.

"Excellent! I'll take the lads I brought along and you deal with yours, deal?" he proposed. Neville wordlessly nodded and received a friendly clap on the back from Guinness. "Excellent! See you in a few, then."

Neville watched as his superior officer walked away, a little spring in his step. He guessed one of the reasons for the general's good mood was the fact that he, unlike most of the 100,000 soldiers gathered in the camp this day, would not be under any threat of death. Given the strict regulations on commanding officers being at the frontline, Harry had casually gotten around that by appointing Guinness—an otherwise unremarkable commander with a solid grasp on conventional strategy and logistics—as commanding officer and Neville as subordinate officer, clearing the way for Neville to lead the attack from the front. It was a wily plan, but no one could find fault with it.

A thought occurred to Neville. Turning to a passing aide—who seemed particularly anxious as he carried several rolls of maps in both arms—Neville stopped the man and asked, "Have we heard any word from Colonel Bones?"

Torn between being frustrated at being stopped in the middle of his errand and paying due respect to a hero of the Empire, the aide settled for a quick shake of the head. "Sorry, sir, but no. If you'll excuse me—" Barely had the man uttered these words before he took off again.

Neville frowned. He knew that the scouting team had been split up shortly after Susan had joined them—something about investigating some interesting tracks—but it was still odd that she had not made an appearance of some kind since said split. Not even a magical transmission had been made. This was very much unlike the fiery redhead he knew.

Still, Harry had told him not to worry about it; that he would have his people look for her while Neville led the attack. Neville felt grateful for that reassurance. If anyone could find Susan and the missing scout team, it was Harry and his men.

'Speaking of which…'

Neville turned to a passing aide. "Where are the elements that transferred from the First Legion?" he asked. He'd noticed that the few men he'd recognized from his Hogwarts days seemed to have disappeared.

Unfortunately, the aide didn't seem to know, and Neville quickly sent him off to continue his work, leaving the Brigadier standing amongst the chaos of the camp with a frown on his usually patient face.

The First Legion, dubbed the Snake Eaters, were the most enigmatic of the Six Legions—the core of the Imperial Land Forces. While there existed six more Legions, the first Six were considered the cream of the crop of the Imperial land-based forces. Of these six, however, the First was always shrouded in mystery. While very visible, no one seemed to know much about the actual operations of the First Legion. What little was known was that the First served directly under Harry, even if they were nominally under the command of Field General Jacob Winters. It was one of those weird things where the men themselves totally disregarded the chain of command.

Not that Neville could blame them; Harry had been, previous to being shoved into the much more restrictive post of Imperial Air Corps Field Air Marshall, their commander, way back before the coup. Word had it that Winters himself would not move a finger without consulting with Harry first. That was why it was so surprising to have found elements of the First Legion imbedded into his attack column.

He'd wanted a chat with Lyles, at the very least, but for some reason, all of them had disappeared the day after the column had set up camp behind the protective barrier of the mountains that circled the Hogwarts Valley. It was positively nerve wracking to think that he had lost, in the literal sense of the word, about 1000 men and women. Without even engaging in battle.

How did one lose a battalion, anyway? It wasn't like losing your car keys, after all!

Neville sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He just hoped that he was overreacting and that they had settled their camp with Guinness' lot. Otherwise, he dreaded having to explain to Harry how a full battalion of his finest soldiers had performed a vanishing trick right under his nose.

Shaking his head in a vain attempt to free himself of these worries, he straightened his helmet and walked towards the East assembly area of the camp; Guinness was obviously at the West assembly area. If all went well, the two men would meet up in the centre, where their tents were, and then proceed to give Harry via the communicator platform their confirmation codes, so he could know that they were in position and ready to attack. Depending on General Sulu's own speed, as well as that of Admiral Staples, the attack could be ordered at any point between that very day or a week from now.

As expected the crowd of soldiers in the assembly area was immense, and still growing. If it hadn't been for the few Warders he had managed to acquire from the main attack force putting up sound muffling wards, he was certain Voldemort would have heard them coming a long time ago. As it was, the roar of the crowd moving into rank and file merely assaulted his ears.

Seeing that a platform had been quickly constructed for him to stand on to address the troops, Neville walked onto it and firmly placed himself in view of all his men. As expected, once they had caught a glimpse of him, the din began to subside as they awaited orders. Fifty thousand soldiers in total awaited his commands—it was nerve wracking, in a way. But then, he had once been the commander of the Third Legion, so nothing really topped that in terms of nerve-wracking experiences.

Once the noise had abated to the point where he could talk at normal sound levels with the aides around the platform, Neville nodded to the multitude of officers lines up at his sides, thus giving them the unspoken signal to put their men at attention.

"Fifty-First Regiment!" shouted one officer.

"Twenty-Third Regiment!" shouted another.

"Thirty-Fourth!"

"Sixty-Second!"

The shouts of the officers carried loud and clear over the mass of soldiers, with the 25 different regimental numbers being shouted out in such a way that none present could miss them. Then, almost as if by previous agreement, all 25 regimental officers shouted out at the same time,

"Atten-tion!"

The effect was amusing, in Neville's opinion. The sound of 100,000 boots clicking together at attention made for quite the sound. 50,000 men were now stiff-backed and awaiting further orders. Neville took a deep breath, ready to address his men. A silent Sonorous spell on himself ensured that his voice would reach even the furthest edges of the mass of troops.

"Men," he began, his voice reverberating throughout the area. "We have fought long and hard," Neville quickly made calculations in his own head. "Seven years, in fact. Seven years of warfare; of blood, sweat, and tears. Of toil and sacrifice!"

None in the crowd moved—Neville hadn't expected them to, either.

"How many brothers have we lost? How many sisters? How many graves have we dug with our own hands to lay to rest our cherished comrades?" he continued, his hands moving from his sides and gesturing as he spoke, almost with a life of their own. "All that sacrifice, all those tears…for this one moment in time!"

He lashed out with a hand towards the sky above his men. "This one moment! This one second, this one minute—this…one…day! The day when old sins are purged from this world! When all our burdens are finally relieved!"

Neville let that sentence hang for a moment before consciously drawing back his arms to his sides and then clasping his hands behind his back. He was back to his role of serious military officer.

"You are all veterans of the Imperial Army. None of you have only just entered this war," he stated plainly. "For that reason alone, I will go no further with the speeches. That is the Duke's forte. Instead, I will tell you what I have always told my men: fight well, watch your mate's back, and never give up. Even when things get bad, never, ever give up."

Silence permeated the crowd as Neville finished his speech—a jarring difference from the reaction the troops usually had whenever Harry delivered one of his soul-raising, courage-inducing rallying speeches. But Neville was not Harry, and he knew this. Only Harry had that gift—Neville's was to merely lead by example.

Neville turned his head to give the order to inspect the men when a low murmur caught his ear, rapidly spreading throughout the crowd of men and women before him.

It was clapping.

To Neville's astonishment, the troops completely broke from attention to start clapping his speech, gradually growing into a cheer that rapidly spread throughout the thousands of soldiers. In the end, he could even hear them shout out the occasional "Three cheers for Longbottom!" or "Go Brigadier!"

It was a touching moment for him, considering that he had never truly stood out in the limelight before. Certainly, his brief stint as the CO of the Third Legion had given him a bit of fame, but that had almost been entirely snuffed out when it was butchered in Canada and he was presumed dead. He had also distinguished himself in the defence of Harrisburg, but even that didn't come out as legendary as Harry Potter's perfect plan to destroy the Death Eaters in one fell swoop.

He was Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter's right-hand man. That was all he was: an appendage of the most powerful man in the globe.

Was that enough? Neville himself didn't know. Susan would have told him to do whatever he wanted; surpass Harry, stay beneath Harry, equal Harry—she didn't care what he did, so long as it was what he wanted to do.

Gods, he missed Susan. He missed her so much it hurt sometimes. He missed her even when he could see her. Back at the drop point, when she had actually approached him to yell at him, he had actually loved every second of it—it reminded him of the times they'd had together when she just let loose on him for doing something stupid. But she had left just as soon as the problem had been solved, leaving him alone again.

He knew he was at fault for the rift between them. He knew no amount of justification would make things right. But he also knew that he'd had no choice. He had to follow Harry in his Harrisburg defence plan. It had been the only way to save the city from destruction. When his raven-haired friend had told him of the plan at first, he had been utterly sceptical about it, but since he was still freshly wounded from the massacre in Empire's Helm and completely unfit for duty, he had relented and chosen to wait before making his comeback.

Over time, he had then noticed that everything was falling into place just like Harry had predicted. It was like watching a puzzle slowly put itself together, and halfway through, Neville had understood what Harry had seen when he made his plan.

If the famous Third Legion returned immediately after the Empire's Helm disaster, then the enemy would have undoubtedly diverted even more troops to the attack, as well as accelerated their thrust into Harrisburg. The Imperial forces would have been totally overrun. Harry could not stop the entire Armed Forces from leaving Harrisburg on missions—especially if it so happened that whatever threat they were leaving to neutralize ended up being a big deal. So he had to manage the situation as best as possible with as little as possible.

And he'd done it.

It was the single most spectacular and thrilling battle Neville had ever experienced. Fighting in the streets of Harrisburg had been an eye-opening experience. It had rammed into him the exact importance of the battle, and its consequences. That was the moment he knew he had been right in following Harry's plan. Even if it meant the contempt of the woman he loved.

But even that sounded hollow to him in retrospect. It did not eliminate the pain of knowing the woman he loved didn't even want to look at him anymore.

Reality snapped Neville back into focus. The cheering was dying down, even as he had managed to scrounge up a thankful look on his face. Finally turning towards the officer nearest to the podium, Neville gave the order for the inspection to be carried out.

Predictably, the next thing Neville heard was, "Troops! Atten-tion! Prepare for inspection!"

EWEWEWEWEWEW

It had only taken about two hours to get the inspection of the whole of Neville's wing of the army done. He had then proceeded to meet up with Guinness at the centre of the camp, as they had planned, and both had then entered Neville's tent, where the communicator platform lay dormant.

Glancing at the older man next to him, Neville caught him taking in a deep breath, even as he personally leaned forward to activate the platform. This was a big moment for both men, so Neville didn't blame the older man for feeling the need to cool his nerves. Time, however, was not on their side, so Neville proceeded with the activation regardless.

Sure enough, Harry's image flickered to life as the platform was activated ('How on earth did they manage to make these things punch through the anti-technology wards, anyway?' thought Neville).

"Brigadier Longbottom, General Guinness," acknowledged Harry with a nod.

Both Neville and Guinness bowed briefly in respect, following protocol to the letter in this moment before the most important battle of the war. They had even taken off their helmets and had them tucked under their arms.

"What news do you have for me?" asked Harry. From the image provided, both men could see that the Duke was sitting in his command chair—probably on the deck of the Invincible.

Neville didn't even need to look to his side to know that Guinness wanted him to be the one to give the word.

"Your Grace," Neville began firmly. "We are ready to move out at your command."

Harry was silent for a moment, his eyes closing for just a second, before nodding once. "Sulu and Staples are in position as well. Wait for the signal, then proceed as planned. Over and out."

Good luck, he didn't say. He didn't need to, either. At the cusp of the greatest battle they would fight, it didn't seem like enough, and there just didn't seem to be words to deliver the appropriate feeling.

The image flickered out, and Neville and Guinness were once again left alone in the tent. Guinness had paled a bit since the conversation had begun, but Neville remained steadfast and neutral-gazed. He could not afford letting anyone down at this point. This was his last mission in the war, if all went well, and he would never forgive himself if he somehow messed it up.

"General Guinness," he spoke softly, but clearly. The older man turned his head slightly to look at his nominal subordinate. "We should get the men into position. Once the Duke has told General Sulu and Admiral Staples that we are ready, the signal will probably be sent soon thereafter. We must be ready to move out as soon as that happens."

"Yes, of course. Quite right," agreed Guinness somewhat nervously. The pair descended into silence then, and neither made a move to leave the tent. It was only after Guinness sighed loudly that he then broke the silence fully.

"I envy you, Longbottom," he admitted somewhat reluctantly.

"Sir?" Neville had turned slightly to look at his superior officer.

"You are young, and brave. Powerful, and determined," explained Guinness. "Whereas I am old and, though not frail, I am no use in battle any longer. I can only cover your back. Some soldier I am."

Neville said nothing. Instead, he turned towards the tent flap and grabbed his loose helmet from underneath his armpit and proceeded to strap it on as he walked out. However, even as he did, he gave Guinness one last message.

"Keep my back covered, General; I'll make sure to have the front crushed in return."

EWEWEWEWEWEW

On board the Invincible, the crew on deck were calmly and professionally carrying out their duties with an implacability that would have been the envy of the entire Armed Forces at this point in the war. Part of the reason for this was the aural presence of Harry Potter, the greatest Imperial hero in history, whose mere presence instilled in the men a need to remain professional and efficient. Another part of the reason for their unnatural calm was the fact that they were aboard of the most heavily armed and defended Airship in the world. Quite frankly, if they were worried about being brought down, then all the other Airship crews would probably go insane with worry.

Seated in his command chair, Harry was contemplating the state of his army; after getting off the communication line with Neville and Guinness, he now had a fully prepared and battle-ready army at his disposal. He went through every move they had done since even before landing on the British Isles, and reviewed every tactical decision since landfall. Was he missing anything? Was his hand overstretched, or was it perhaps underplayed? Had he concealed his trump cards adequately, or would Voldemort see right through his deceptions?

Harry sighed inaudibly. There was only one way to find out, and that was to start the attack. Not immediately, of course; Voldemort was probably expecting him to let loose his army as soon as possible. So naturally, he instead decided to delay the attack just long enough for Voldemort to start wondering whether it was coming or not.

Raising his left arm, he made a small motion that instantly brought an aide to his side.

"Yes, Your Grace?" asked the man deferentially.

Harry closed his eyes, his face the very image of calm. "Hold back the go ahead signal to Sulu for an hour," he ordered. "Furthermore, inquire as to the status of the shuttle inbound from Harrisburg. I want to know the moment it gets here."

The aide bowed in acquiescence before shuffling a few steps back and then leaving to carry out his orders.

Everything was set now. Well, everything except the last important piece of the chessboard. The King.

His eyes still closed, Harry called up his magic and guided it towards his curse scar, where it hovered for a split second before striking at it with all the brutality of a dagger. Despite the unbelievable, sharp pain that struck him, Harry did not flinch, and in less than a second, it was over. Taking a deep breath, Harry opened his eyes.

And smiled.

"Hello, Tom."

EWEWEWEWEW

Neville was now waiting patiently for the signal, at the very front of his troops. They were all kneeling down, conserving energy before they had to sprint the length of the Black Lake via the deployable bridge Neville hoped Staples had brought with him. Otherwise, this was going to be the shortest flanking assault in history.

Sergeants and the occasional lieutenant were running, hunched over, along the rows of soldiers, making sure everyone was geared up and ready for the assault. Whispers assaulted Neville's ears as sergeants sometimes berated the occasional soldier for losing focus. One of the Majors slowly frog-stepped his way over to him.

"Anything yet, sir?" he asked in a hush. Even so close to their objective, they could not afford to run the risk of having their cover blown by loud sounds.

Neville shook his head. "Nothing. General Sulu is probably getting his artillery into position," he hypothesized. Glancing back at the man, Neville jerked his head towards the men. "You had best get back, Major. The moment that signal goes off, you're going to need to stick to your men like glue."

The Major nodded once before returning to the lines, leaving Neville alone once more at the front. Neither flags nor band were to accompany them this time. This time, it was a plain old fight to the death. No pomp and ceremony whatsoever; a dirty, gritty brawl.

Minutes ticked by and the signal did not yet grace Neville's view. His patience was not wearing thin just yet, but he was wondering what was taking Sulu so long. Harry had told him that everyone was in place, so why hadn't the signal gone off yet?

"This is taking too damn long," he hissed under his breath as he stretched his knees by slightly elevating his posture and then once again kneeling. "What's taking so long, Sulu?"

He could hear the footsteps of the person coming up behind him as clear as day.

"Sir, the men are getting restless," spoke up a soft, female voice. Neville glanced back and saw that the woman in question was a lieutenant. Neville made a point of nodding at her in acquiescence before answering.

"I know," he admitted, rubbing his slowly stiffening hands. "I'm getting restless too. Nothing to be done about it, though. We can only wait until the signal's been given." Neville glanced back at the lieutenant then. "Get back to the line and try to soften them up, alright? It is imperative that we do not cause any more noise than is absolutely necessary."

"Yes, sir," she answered, before slowly making her way back to the lines.

After about half an hour more of waiting, when Neville was about to just go back to the camp and call up Harry for an explanation for the delay, Neville's eyes were graced with the sight of a green jet of fire being fired into the daytime sky before exploding with a resounding boom.

Neville barely had a chance to take a deep breath before he turned his head to look behind him and nodded. "This is it!" he called out in as low a voice as he could without compromising the audibility. "Move out!"

Previously inactive, the column of soldiers slowly rose up to their feet and soon began to move out, wave after wave, with Neville at their head. As they entered the scouted out mountain pass and began going downhill, the column began to pick up speed, until they were all moving at a trot.

Neville could feel his mind practically going blank as he moved further down the passage towards the Black Lake's awaiting shoreline. Already he could hear the roar of the Imperial Army's artillery being fired on the gates of Hogwarts. The splashing sounds also told him that Staples had arrived and the consequent booms announced the firing of his fleet's cannons. That just left one wing of the assault to move into battle—his own.

His breath was all that he could think about, oddly enough. It seemed like the only noise he could hear, becoming louder with every step he took that brought him nearer to the very real and very dangerous battlefield ahead. He knew that the moment he set foot on the banks of the Black Lake, there was no going back. This was it—make or break, he would be on the frontline of this final battle.

Was it worth the risk?

Was it worth his life?

What would Susan say?

Where was Susan?

Where were the men from the First Legion?

All of these questions faded to nothing the moment he realized he had left the passage and was now facing the Black Lake in its entirety, the deployable bridge fully laid out and awaiting its passengers.

No going back.

Even as he set foot on the metallic bridge, Neville took a deep breath. It would be the clarion call of his attack. The signal to his men that the battle, for them, had officially begun.

"CHARGE!"

Post-AN: A recent review by Ryu4366 has brought to my attention that some may believe that I have strayed from the theme of the might of the Empire in these latest chapters and into "the hidden," as it was described. First of all, let me apologize if it seems that way. This was not my intention. The theme, as I think of it while writing, is still the might of the Empire; it's just that there are different ways to express might other than brute military strength.

When dealing with the Death Eaters, brute military strength was used in order to make a point, besides winning. It was used to settle, once and for all, who was the strongest power in the world, and the lengths they would go to in order to protect themselves. With Voldemort, this approach is simply not usable. The might of the Empire, in this case, would serve no point other than just crushing some upstart, which would make many a country in the world a tad nervous, since it would show Imperial disposition to use excessive military strength to crush anyone who remotely looked at them badly.

So instead, Harry has been building up "secret" plans to deal with Voldemort--a goal he has been hard at work with since before Harrisburg. Once Harrisburg was set in stone as the plan to take down the Death Eaters, Harry was able to use all the extra time to deal with the Voldemort question. In doing so, he has kept many things hidden, including from his closest subordinates. In fact, at this point, the only person who knows everything about the Voldemort plan is Harry himself. Not even Ginny, or his family know all the details.

That being said, Harry hasn't changed his ideas about protecting his men from undue danger. This is still a very prevalent part of his personality. What has happened is that he doesn't actually know what Voldemort intends to do. He has a good idea of what the gist of Riddle's plan is, but he does not actually know it well enough to counter it. Harry's good, but this Voldemort is equally good. That's why this battle alone will be multi-chaptered, whereas others tended to get done within the same chapter (with the exception of Harrisburg).