Disclaimer in chapter 1.

I also do not own Full Metal Panic, nor any of the intellectual property expressed therein.

Chapter VII: The Desert Son

When Harry stopped spinning, a blast of dry heat hit him in the face. It stung his eyes, causing him to squint as the coarse desert sand pelted his combat uniform. A dark-skinned wizard wearing a bright purple robe with three gold slashes on the sleeves met him, bowing deeply and then looking around. "Have you brought word of when your Ministry can send wizards? Our villages are being slaughtered by the Nundu, and they send a messenger?" His English was clipped and incredibly fast, a variant known as King's English. He sounded frustrated.

The Boy who Lived pulled a square of cloth out of his utility pocket, then tied it securely over his mouth and nose to protect the sensitive membranes in his nasal cavity and throat. "I am not a messenger, I am a soldier. Take me to your commander." Harry replied, returning the bow and following the irate wizard to a nearby tent.

Inside was a maelstrom of activity. Dark-skinned wizards in garishly colored robes pored over a mess of maps strewn over a thick wooden table. Fireplaces blazed in every corner of the tent, which was substantially larger on the inside than it was on the outside.

A particularly tall man with a lurid green beret stomped over to him, a small smirk on his face. "You are barely old enough to shave your head, but this is not a problem. You can stay, it would be incredibly rude to refuse help, however young you may be. It is at about your age that our boys become men, they must slay a lion. Let us see if you can help us to slay the Desert Son."

The man motioned for Harry to go to the far corner of the table, where another man in a lurid beret was waiting with instructions. 12 hour rotations, 4 men in each recon picket. 3,000 square mile search grid. This was going to be a long night, and most likely an even longer week. It was a mission all the same.

After receiving his orders, he was issued a bunk in a rather cramped canvas tent. There were 3 other men in the tent with him, spaced out on two bunk beds across from each other lengthwise. Harry, being last into the tent, got top bunk in the closest rack to the door. Now a gust of either scorching or freezing wind would hit him every time the door flap opened. His bunk looked as though it had never been cleaned, there were tears in the seams that allowed the yellowed cushioning material to show through. Rats, most likely. Even that couldn't dampen his spirits. He'd survived in far more squalid conditions. At least they gave him blankets here.

"You're a wee little Brit, aren't you?" A very large black-haired man with a wicked looking scar running across his forehead sneered. "I thought they were sending some aurors, instead they send a brat to babysit. Why don't you run home and play with your dolls, leave the fighting to real men."

"That's enough, Jackson. We've all had a long day, go to sleep before you say something you're going to regret." Said a man with a stern, fatherly face. His sandy hair was close-cropped, his hazel eyes showed signs of the weary weight of command. A leader, one who had lost men. Jackson obeyed as if ordered, they must be on a team together. From the knowing smile on the third man, a slender figure with a long blonde ponytail trailing down his back, these men were all quite familiar with each other. He nodded slightly and set about making his bed.

Their accents were American, was this Nundu so threatening that soldiers crossed the Atlantic to contain it? It wasn't troubling, there hadn't been this many wizards from this many countries assembled since the attack on the Irish Ministry in 1997. No matter, he needed sleep more than he needed to ponder the ramifications of such a large recon picket.

Harry woke to the sounds of the men stirring. He feigned sleep to see what he could learn.

The fatherly man was named Shepherd, the slim man was named Miller. Jackson swore that Harry would be the death of them all, he was too young and inexperienced, probably didn't even know which end was up on a wand. He should do them all a favor and send him back to the nursery. Shepherd wouldn't have it. Miller didn't say a thing. They exchanged fierce whispers until the Boy who Lived sat up in bed, causing an awkward minute of silence inside the canvas tent. Without sparing a glance at his bunkmates, he quickly got dressed in his combat uniform and exited the tent in less than 20 seconds. This was not his conversation.

Breakfast was a simple affair, if you discounted the fact that there were over 100 people eating. There were more that had just gotten off rotation, so the size of the group seemed to be between 150 and 250 wizards. Some witches too, but it was easier to call everyone a wizard. More came in the night, perhaps there were even more coming today as well.

Harry couldn't use transmutation in desert environments, the sand's constantly shifting and granular nature prevented him from making contact with enough of it at a time to make anything useful. He had a backup plan if the Nundu proved too powerful to handle with normal magical abilities, but all these people were going to get in his way. He mechanically shoveled the cardboard-flavored pancakes into his mouth as he worked scenarios in his head.

He didn't register his bunkmates sitting down next to him at the table, he was singularly focused on making a plan that didn't involve everyone dying. It wasn't until Jackson slid something at him that he slammed his hand down on top of it and looked away from the other side of the tent. Upon closer observation, it was a red lollipop.

American lollipops were spherical balls of sugar in solid form. They were not recommended dietary material in desert environments, sugar dehydrated you faster than absolutely necessary. They got you salivating, though, which could fool your body into thinking it was taking in water. So you wouldn't think you were thirsty, but you'd be thirstier than if you didn't eat one. Perhaps it was a cultural symbol.

Harry did not want to seem impolite to the people he would be on recon with. They would function better as a team if he established a positive rapport. "Thank you, Jackson." He said as he tucked the lollipop into his utility pouch. Jackson barked out a laugh. Apparently, lollipops had a negative cultural connotation in America. This was going to be a long day.

Harry finished his meal and made his way over to the rationing depot. He was issued several canteens of cold water and a bag of food. His teammates arrived and they were given a grid to search. Several snickers were heard as he unshrunk his broom and mounted it, but nobody said anything. After repeating their orders, they took off into the sky and started their search. As he flew north, he noted offhandedly that this was a loosely run camp. Nobody had even asked his name.

Ginny frowned as she ate lunch, hunching over her food so nobody could see her scowl and ask questions. She only had one question in her mind. Where was Harry? She fell asleep next to him on the couch, woke up with a grin splitting her face and giggling softly to herself. Then she came to breakfast and he was gone. He always ate with the three of them. Always! He wasn't in potions, and he never missed class for any reason. He wasn't in the Hospital Wing. Now he wasn't at lunch? Harry Potter had a lot of explaining to do, and he was going to do it just as soon as she hunted him down and cornered him like a parole violator.

4 days later, Harry still hadn't seen anything but sand and dead Kenyans. The Nundu's breath was a pestilence of biblical proportions, capable of wiping out entire villages within a few minutes. The plague had no incubation period at all, no sooner were you infected than you began to show outward signs of infection. It was actually a benefit, in that your suffering was far less prolonged and you had a greatly decreased chance of infecting others.

If contact was made with the Nundu, every man had orders to put repelling charms on themselves to keep air from touching them. If air couldn't get to them, they couldn't get infected by an airborne virus. The negative aspect of that was that if air couldn't get to them, they couldn't breathe. Harry on his best day was only capable of holding his breath for 5.5 minutes, and that was only when he was completely at rest. Every action you took wasted precious oxygen, and the body could only hold 4.2 liters of it. Harry still hadn't figured out what to do with his teammates around. There was no way the 4 of them could subdue a Nundu, and the signal flare they were supposed to send up would take precious minutes for reinforcements to arrive.

He had learned more than he ever wanted to know about the Nundu. It was called the Desert Son because of the way it appeared. After gorging on human flesh, it buried itself beneath the shifting sands of the Chalbi desert to hibernate. When its hunger returned, between 4 and 6 decades later, it would struggle free of the sands as if freeing itself from the womb. It preferred its prey rotting, so it would use its virulent breath to kill entire villages at a time and return after days in the scorching heat had softened its food considerably. Its appetite was incredible.

Jackson was still a bastard, even after taking a few jabs at Harry yesterday. "Hey Brit, what's your mother's name?" the scarred man had asked after they finished their patrol. Brit was his unofficial nickname, nobody had bothered to ask his real one. He was still the only British wizard that his Ministry had sent.

It seemed like his teammate was making progress, if he was making inquiries into non-essential aspects of his life. It was one of the first steps to establishing rapport. Before he could answer, Jackson continued, "I just wanted to know if it was her I rode like a dog last night." He laughed alone, everybody else on the team felt the air get thick with tension around them.

"My mother died when I was a year old. Don't talk about her." Harry informed him, feeling his pulse quicken. There had been soldiers like him before and there would be again, but he really didn't like people talking about his family. They were heroes, they shouldn't be slandered.

Jackson smirked. "How'd that happen, did she finally realize that you weren't gonna get any prettier?" He snickered again, slapping Miller on the back. Miller wasn't laughing, and hadn't said a single word as far as Harry knew.

Harry gripped his wand a little tighter. Inhale, exhale. Don't kill your teammates, they're too useful alive. "She died shielding me from the wand of the darkest wizard since Grindelwald, and she deserves far more respect then you are showing her. Don't talk about her." A wisp of pride flowed through him, he was so proud of his mother, the sheer courage she showed in the face of terror.

Jackson snickered, "Shielding you? I suppose you're going to tell me he took one look at you and ran in terror?" His vocal patterns were highly sarcastic. Well, he asked...

"No. I killed him." Harry's voice was deathly quiet, his eyes blazing as he struggled not to use his wand on a teammate. That sort of thing could get you in a lot of trouble, Boy who Lived or not. He could drop the wand and just punch him, which would probably earn him a slap on the wrist at most. It was getting harder and harder to think of a reason not to. Jackson stared at him for a moment, open mouthed, then he started laughing as hard as the Boy who Lived had ever seen him.

"You're makin' this too easy, Brit! That's the biggest crock of -"

He was silenced by a hand on his shoulder. Shepherd was looking piercingly at the green-eyed boy. "You're Harry Potter, aren't you." He said softly. The man always spoke quietly, always commanded attention. Harry nodded slightly, tracing the faint outline of the scar on his forehead.

"Tell you what. We all get out of this alive, I'll buy you a pint of milk in a dirty glass." Shepherd stuck out his hand, Harry stared at it for a moment before he shook it. That would have been an insult, coming from anyone else. Somehow, it held deeper meaning when it was said by this man. Was it another cultural symbol, milk in a dirty glass? Jackson didn't say anything, but the confused look on his face placated his desire to punch the man. Barely.

He got a chance to talk with Shepherd that night, it was enlightening. In America, it was customary for wizards in politics to have combat experience in case they were ever called to war. This was to prevent them from trying to manage something they knew nothing about. Shepherd wanted to be a senator after his tour with the wizarding branch of the American military.

All he wanted to do was help people live better, fuller lives. Lives that would be free of fear, free from the thought that they might be killed. It was a great ideal. Maybe that's what Harry was working towards, as well. It sounded so close when Shepherd spoke of it, like they would wake up tomorrow and there would be no more wars. His brown eyes were always distant when he spoke of it. It made the teenager think.

Harry didn't know what he'd do if there were no more wars. His entire life had been fighting in them, it was all he knew. Even after he defeated Voldemort, even under pressure from Sirius to find a better life, he chose to keep his position as full-time problem solver. Sirius didn't seem to understand that this was him. He was exceptionally good at his job, the thought of finding something else felt like a waste of his talents. In another word, it felt like betrayal. Even if there was something else out there for him, something else he could throw himself into completely, he couldn't make someone else do his job. The fact remained that his job was suicide for most wizards, and a death wish at best.

Where is he?! Ginny wondered for the fifteenth time in as many minutes as she sat against a goalpost on the Quidditch Pitch. She'd borrowed a snitch from Madam Hooch's office and been waiting since 8 o'clock, just in case he came out early. Harry was never late. Ever. He often told her that being punctual was the sign of a professional, and that you should strive for professionalism in everything you do.

He had been conspicuously absent for the last few days, none of the faculty would tell her anything, including Dumbledore himself. That old bat infuriated her sometimes! If he was out in harms way, she deserved to know! After all, she was ... what was she, anyway?

Never mind what SHE was. HE was the late one. Was he sleeping in, was he eating breakfast? Did he not know how much self-doubt she was suffering through at the moment? She went through a lot of trouble to look presentable today, it was awfully hard to look decent in clothes comfortable enough to fly in, and her hair rarely cooperated like it did today. She hugged her knees a little closer as a stiff breeze cut through her sweater. He didn't strike her as the type that would stand her up. Even as she thought it, a sliver of misery pierced her. She hated that feeling.

It had happened before, a berk by the name of Ernie MacMillan promised to take her to Hogsmeade before Winter Holiday last year but snuck off with some Hufflepuff hussy. She waited for him all day, her pride stubbornly refused to believe that someone would stand her up like that. She wanted so much to feel wanted, needed. She didn't give up until nightfall, when everyone returned from Hogsmeade anyway. Then she went up to her room and soaked her pillow clean through. She hated feeling weak, and she had never felt weaker than at that moment. More than anything, though, she hated herself for falling for that bastard. Why did she always pick the bastards.

This time was different, she told herself. She wouldn't leave the pitch until he came. She might hate him for it, she would definitely hate herself for it, but she couldn't leave the knife halfway in. A tear escaped her eye and slid down her cheek, she scrubbed at it furiously. She would leave the pitch with Harry or with that knife firmly planted in her heart, and there were no two ways about it. She sniffed back her tears and scanned the field before her, waiting for him to walk across it.

As yet another uneventful sunset came and went, a bitter feeling rose in Harry Potter. He was supposed to be flying around a Quidditch pitch chasing after snitches right now, not around the white-hot Chalbi desert chasing after mirages and the most dangerous magical beast to ever roam the earth.

He had given his word to her. There wasn't much that was more important to him than his word, his promise that every time he said he would do something, it got done. People knew this. They never had to second guess him. He said he'd be there, so he'd be there, as simple as that. He took pride in that consistency, the amount of respect it afforded him.

If he had to choose between chasing a snitch and a mission, it was an easy decision to make. The mission came first, but he'd never had to make the choice before now. His life WAS the mission, back when Voldemort was still alive. It had been mere months since the dark wizard had been defeated, and the broad mission assigned to him by his Godfather conflicted with everything he had been working for. The classes kept him from training, the constant social interaction distracted him further, dulling his reflexes and with them his edge in combat. He was used to a quiet life, one of nonstop training and self-improvement. Did he really need to spend as much time engaging in social interaction as he did? It was satisfying, of course, but was it worth the damage to his combat instincts? He had no answer.

They spotted a red flare shooting skyward from the south, and the time for reflection was over. "Move!!" Shepherd shouted, they banked and flew towards the signaling charm as fast as their brooms could take them. Harry's broom was faster, he arrived at least a minute ahead of them at a vast expanse of desert. Now he could tell why the Kenyan Ministry wanted so many wizards.

Harry couldn't understand why the Nundu was called the Desert Son, there was nothing childish about it at all. It was a leopard of titanic proportions, nearly 70 feet long from the look of it, not counting the length of his tail. Huge, razor-sharp teeth were bared at the flying wizards who were loosing curses as fast as they could aim them. There were at least 50 already on the scene, but their magic wasn't affecting the Nundu in any meaningful sense. Cutting charms seemed useless, there hadn't been a single one that had cut through the thick hair and hide of the mythical beast. Conjunctivitis curses were bouncing off of its face; they were not powerful enough to pierce even the eyelids of this beast. As the Boy who Lived closed in on the target, he clicked off his limiters and let them fall to the desert floor a hundred feet below. The world slowed down as he took in a deep breath of cold, dry air. The wind whipping through his hair was invigorating. Refreshing. Even after 8 straight hours on a broom, he felt great! As much as he hated the feeling of wearing those bracers, he loved taking them off. He likened it to being raised from the dead.

A greenish cloud was expelled from the giant leopard's mouth, a group of wizards flew right through it before they could turn away. They slowed to a stop as they realized their mistake. The cloud began to expand as the lead man shouted out, "If you can hear me, turn your fucking repelling charms on!"

The Nundu's head swiveled as the man passed in front of it, vertically slitted eyes narrowing at more strange humans riding sticks. A paw the size of a dining room came up, swatting with surprising speed at a cluster of wizards who were staying too close to each other. The claws severed limbs and heads with equal ease, knocking several out of the sky in out-of-control flatspins. They hit the desert floor hard; nobody was focused on levitation charms at the moment. Several shouts rang out as the Nundu lashed out again and again at the humans swarming around it like flies. Harry could see why the Nundu was thought to be the most dangerous beast alive. Blood and body parts flew like raindrops spattering on a windowpane. The men were being decimated.

Harry took in a deep breath and cast a repelling charm on himself. The wind died immediately, the sound died with it. It was absolutely silent, nothing was reaching his ears due to the repelling charm.

As he entered range he circled the creature, sending cutting curses at the back of its legs, hoping to sever a tendon or two. It might keep him from clawing at the rest of the wizards. His cutting curse deflected off of the first leg, but the second curse managed to connected with the creature's rear left leg right above the ankle. A small fountain of blood spouted from the wound, causing the creature to whip around to face him. Its tail lashed dangerously close to a soldier that looked like Jackson.

Harry banked away from the Nundu just as jaws flashed shut where he would have been. Fast! The cutting curse didn't go deep enough to sever the tendon, and he had a feeling that none of the next ones would. Harry looped around, deciding to take a more direct approach.

He banked hard and flew straight at the creatures face. When the creature blinked, he cast a conjunctivitis curse at its left pupil. It opened its eye just in time to see the beam, but too late to blink again. With what looked like a hiss it blew up a cloud of sand, obscuring it from Harry's view. He immediately ascended above the sandstorm and quickly scanned the area. It was entirely covered in thick greenish fog, the Nundu plague had infected the entire area. He had at most 2 minutes of air left, but how were the other wizards faring? The plague took 3 to 5 minutes to kill a fully grown human, at most.

The Nundu was gone. It had disappeared completely from view, either it could run incredibly fast or it had buried itself again. 5 wizards ascended through the haze of sand and flew over to Harry, grim faces on each of them. Shepherd was among them. He motioned to Harry then put his fingers to his eyes. Where is the enemy?

Harry shook his head, then patted his shoulder twice. Follow me. Were they the only ones left? It had all happened so fast, it didn't feel like 3 minutes. And yet it felt like an eternity, when he thought about it.

They circled the area, looking for tracks. A creature that size must have tracks, as long as you were far enough away to recognize them as more than dried up lakebeds. There were no footprints of any size on the salt-crusted surface of the Chalbi. Perhaps it had gone subterranean. Shepherd pointed down below them to the north, where there was a single crack in the flat desert floor. It was getting longer. Could the Nundu tunnel through the desert? It would certainly explain how they took so long to find it the first time. The creature was moving fast, even underground. How did a 70' long leopard tunnel through the desert, and at such speeds?

Harry Potter was running out of air. Several of the other wizards had already cancelled and reapplied theirs, hoping they were far enough away to keep from being infected. The crack had stopped moving, but nothing else. It was hiding. Waiting.

As one of the remaining wizards circled, they dived unexpectedly. Harry wasn't close enough to see the problem, but he must have been infected. He slid limply off of his broom and hit the desert floor. The sand erupted.

A gaping maw exploded from the desert, followed closely by two huge paws that swiped with tremendous speed at a cluster of 3 wizards. 2 avoided the first swipe, but nobody could dodge two of those things. They were still righting themselves when the claws hit them, shredding broom and body alike.

With nobody else to distract it, the Nundu set his sights on Shepherd, the last remaining wizard in the area, and pounced. As the American dived on his broom, his last glance wasn't at the beast in front of him or the ground below, it was to Harry. His face was strangely calm, wistful.

He disappeared, replaced with a row of teeth that were each as large as he was. The mythical creature chomped again, a severed arm and several shredded pieces of wood fell from its bloodstained mouth.

Ginny was tired. Exhausted really, even though she hadn't flown at all. Her broom lay discarded and forgotten several yards away, the snitch floated lazily around her, prodding her in the head every so often to remind her that yes, she was supposed to chase it. She batted it away, her frustration beginning to show. Damn him.

She had tried, really tried to make a connection with him. She knew Sirius' warning to her, she knew it wouldn't be an easy road, but she wasn't expecting this. He just ... left. His classes, his team, his classmates. Her. He left her without so much as a word, an excuse or an apology.

Softly knocking her head up against the metal shaft of the goalpost, she stared up at the setting sun. She should be up there, finally teaching HIM how to do something.

Thinking back to the first time they met, a sad smile came to her face. He really tried, didn't he? Brow knit in frustration as he struggled hard to make his mouth turn up into a grin, it came out like he was incredibly angry at someone. She remembered her words to him, just after he had beaten several years of life out of Draco Malfoy. A smile was for when you were happy, and wanted to tell someone.

What did she have to be happy about right now, when Harry bloody Potter was in the process of standing her up? She scowled, her cold nose brushing against her upper lip and sending a shiver down her spine. It was too cold out here to be this still, her hands had gone numb hours ago. She'd put warming charms on her gloves to keep from getting frostbite, but it didn't help at all against the wind.

No, Ginevra Weasley had nothing to smile about.

"No!" Harry screamed wordlessly, wasting the last of his precious oxygen. They were all dead. Every other wizard sent against this beast had been killed. It landed and whipped around to face the Boy who Lived yet again. Its one good eye narrowed hungrily as it crouched, tail whipping up sand as it balanced for the attack.

And then, the creature loomed in front of him. Harry instinctively rolled to the right and pushed off of his broom. The black broom, special-made for him by the Nimbus Corporation, disappeared in a flash. His right foot impacted with the Nundu's bloody yellowed teeth, sending him spinning towards the ground.

Harry had often wondered which mission would be his last. It was a thought he carried with him like a block of concrete in an ALICE pack. He had known that Voldemort was immensely powerful, he had gone into battle that day knowing with dreadful certainty that his life would end. When he emerged victorious and very much alive, he was at a loss. Did it even matter anymore that he lived? What did he have to look forward to afterwards but another mission, and another? Sooner or later, fate would catch up to him. In all his years of fighting men and beasts and demons, never before had he found a reason to fight against that fate.

Now things felt different. He could see death inviting him into the desert floor to join his comrades. For an inexplicable reason, he violently pushed the thought away. He refused to accept death out here in BFE. Harry Potter refused to die.

He had to live. His friends were waiting for him to come back. His friends. People who were completely useless on a battlefield, yet were singularly the most important aspect of his life. A fierce determination flooded him, warming and calming him. He knew what he had to do.

With his teammates gone, at least he no longer had to worry about injuring or killing any of them himself. With a final shout, he released his animagus form.

Harry Potter was by nature a rigidly disciplined being. Every aspect of his life was assigned a time and date, a value, a meaning. A purpose. When he mastered the animagus transformation, all of his teachers and he himself envisioned a new weapon he could harness for his purposes. What he got was a beast with a terrible hunger and a primal mind all its own. Running purely on instinct, lacking basic human qualities like restraint, moral decency and mercy, it attacked anything and everything regardless of who or what it was. Harry's mind reverted to its most basic state when in his animagus form, and the best wizarding minds in the country couldn't figure out how to help Harry regain control over it. It was a completely unpredictable creature, capable of saving his team's life or devouring them with equal propensity and equal regret afterwards.

Harry kept tight reign on it, rarely letting it out. It was without a doubt the most dangerous weapon in his vast arsenal. It was also proof undeniable why those who would become animagus' were told in no uncertain terms to never attempt to become a magical beast.

Harry's repelling shield shattered, his shoulder blades seared as if a red-hot spear was thrust into them. Huge black bony protrusions shot out from them, stretching 20' in each direction. They unfurled quickly, flapping as the support bones became rigid. Black scales erupted from his skin, his whole body was tearing itself apart. It hurt more every time he let it out, but there was nothing else he could do. His tailbone extended, whipping about in the wind as he slowed his descent to the desert floor. Huge black claws shot out from his hands and feet, which were growing along with his body at an incredible rate. Twisted bronze horns sprouted from his head as similarly colored spikes grew out of the end of his tail. Every breath was a lance that pierced his chest. Merlin, but it hurt!!

He couldn't see his eyes, but knew that his pupils now had a vertical and horizontal slits that formed a crosshair. He knew the creature could see in total darkness with these eyes, but he couldn't even tell them which way to look. Control only ever returned to him after he woke up several hours later, his human form never knowing what he'd done and feeling like he'd just regrown every bone in his body. At least he wouldn't have to worry about the Nundu plague anymore, dragons were immune to every form of muggle and magical disease.

Kill! With that final command, Harry's consciousness was forcibly repressed by his animagus form. An earth-shaking roar was loosed as both magical beasts landed on the ground, sending swirls of sand in every direction.

It had been too long.

An emotion similar to that of being released from a long prison sentence pulsed in the Hungarian Horntail as he took in his surroundings, flexed his heavily muscled body and used his nictitating membranes to shield his sensitive eyes from the arid desert wind. His tail whipped about in pleasure, horns glinting dangerously in the moonlight. It was clear as a sunny day to the dragon. Freedom, at last. He would never fall asleep again, and he couldn't wait to get his claws on a nice piece of fresh meat!

The creature in front of him did not seem to share in his joy. He smelled both confusion and all-consuming rage in the giant Leopard. The Nundu dwarfed him, from head to tail he was only 29' long. He wasn't afraid of anything, no matter how large it was. Dragons were prideful creatures, and he was a perfect specimen. His tail rubbed against the length of his body, creating a rasping tremor that shook the ground beneath him.

Stretching his neck and baring row upon row of glinting ivory teeth as he roared a challenge, he grinned predatorily at the larger creature. It wasn't every day he got to kill something bigger than himself, and this creature was one he had never eaten before. Perhaps it tasted better than manflesh. There was only one way to find out.

Opening his mouth, the Horntail squeezed glands in his throat and blew a cone of bright blue flame at the Nundu. While keeping up a steady stream of fire, he leapt off the ground and flew at breakneck speed towards the creature, who was avoiding the superheated flame as best he could. Nothing that large could dodge forever, especially not when your weapon had an lethal range of nearly 60'. The sharp smell of burning hair and seared flesh filled the desert as a scream of pain erupted from the Desert Son.

The leopard's claws flashed upwards, intent on carving the dragon like a Christmas turkey. The Horntail's spiked tail whipped down and around, stabbing the Nundu's forearm viciously. The bronze spikes bit into his flesh with ease, the leopard bit back at an unprotected length of the dragon's tail. Twisted bronze horns and razor-sharp black claws sunk into the Nundu's neck and jaw, even as it prepared to loose another jet of blue flames at the towering creature.

Another feral shriek filled the air of the Chalbi desert as the Leopard shook his head mightily, forcefully removing the dragon's horns from its neck. The Hungarian Horntail beat his wings once to gain altitude, then showered the hapless Nundu with another cone of fire. No sooner had the flames subsided then the dragon dived, latching onto the leopard's back with all four clawed limbs and biting savagely at its neck as his spiked tail beat mercilessly against the skull of the smoking beast. Shudders resonated through the leopard's body as the wicked spikes penetrated its thick skull. Bone fragments and bronze spears met brain tissue, causing a surprised yelp and a longer, drawn out yowl to emerge from its throat.

With a final forceful snap, the Horntail's powerful jaws severed the Nundu's spinal cord, dropping the creature to the desert bonelessly. With a triumphant cry of victory the dragon began to sear and devour the Desert Son even before its life expired.

Harry groggily opened his eyes, shielding them from the rising sun with an arm that felt like solid lead. His body was on fire, he was sure of it. His breathing was labored; each time he inhaled it felt like molten sand was coursing through his veins. The acrid smell of rotting flesh filled the dry air, it was the nauseating stench of the battlefield.

So many people thought the life of a soldier was somehow glamorous. As if the battles he had fought were noble or just simply because he was on their side. There was nothing just in war, no matter how justified. They had no idea what he saw, the hellish nightmares that plagued his sleep when he was exhausted. No way of knowing exactly how it felt to look out over the battlefield and see the terrible evils that existed there. There were men, decent hardworking human beings, eviscerated by some spell or another. They died a tortured death, each breath killing them slowly as their blood and ruptured internal organs spilled out of their mortal shells to stain the field beneath them. Some were burned alive, filled with unimaginable pain and unable to scream because there was no air to breathe around them.

In his opinion, Avada Kedavra was the most humane curse ever used in battle. It killed, yes, but at least it was quick and painless. Harry had seen uses for even the most innocent of charms that would cause most noncoms to suffer a nervous breakdown. They had no idea what true horrors the battlefield contained, and with luck they never would.

Shaking his head to rid it of useless thoughts and struggling to regain control over himself, he patted his body down to make sure he was indeed himself. His mouth was covered in dried blood that cracked every time his jaw moved. No scales, no horns, no claws, no tail from the feel of it... Good.

He struggled up into a sitting position, gauging the position of the sun to determine the time. It couldn't be any later than 5:30 in the morning, which meant it was 3:30 at Hogwarts.

Looking out in front of him, he saw a charred and mauled carcass that must have belonged to the Nundu. There was nothing left but bone and fur; the meat had been stripped from its body entirely. A single eye that was taller than he was stared vacantly out at the infinite beyond. It was entirely and irreversibly dead. Mission accomplished.

The mere thought of that familiar phrase overloaded him again with a powerful sense of fulfillment. He had survived. Standing shakily, he coughed and summoned his wand. After transfiguring his shirt into a long white cloak that covered his head from the ever harsher sunlight, he set off. It was going to be a long walk back to the FOB.

As a half hour elapsed, then an hour, Harry saw sights that promised more nightmares to come. Men who had fallen from the sky and been unable to catch themselves hit the ground at such force that something strange happened to their bodies: nothing. There was blood, immense amounts of blood, and sometimes brain matter would leak out from a skull impact, but otherwise the victims were perfectly normal looking. One would think that they would be unnaturally flat from such a fall, but from a distance it merely looked as if they were in a deep sleep. It was a faster death than most. Harry took another swig from his canteen, thankful that the cooling charm hadn't worn off yet.

Body parts littered the desert floor. A hand here, fingers there, an elbow and lower leg over there, half of a man that he walked around on his journey. Men with faces that were frozen open in shock. Soldiers who had been infected, coughing up black ichor and blood as they convulsed so hard they broke their own necks. Their veins were dark and bulging, their skin sallow and pale. Harry finished off his last canteen and tossed it aside.

It looked somehow surreal, seeing these bloated figures he had flown with, fought with only hours before. It always seemed surreal, surveying a landscape of carnage that words could not adequately describe. Harry hoped that words never would adequately describe the landscape that day. People did not need nor want to know.

It took only an hour and a half on foot to reach the Forward Operating Base. He headed directly to the war tent, where the massive table and maps of the area were. There were only 4 men there, all with the lurid green berets that marked them as commanders in the Kenyan Ministry. They were somber, motionless and silent as Harry approached.

A pitcher of water was offered as he fell without resistance into a crude wooden chair. Nodding his thanks and unwilling to risk speech with such a parched throat, he drained two full cups before leaning back and relaxing at last. His breathing was still raspy and harsh, his throat must have sustained environmental damage from the dry, dusty air.

"What happened out there?" The large black man who greeted him when he arrived asked gravely. After a long moment Harry put his wand to his temple and drew a silvery bundle of threads from his mind. The man leaned forward and the Boy who Lived tapped the end of his wand to the man's skull, transferring his memory of the last 12 hours to the Officer in Charge. Immediately, he sheathed his wand again.

No sooner had the man righted himself than Harry fell out of the chair, unconscious before he hit the dusty floor.

When he awoke, his throat had stopped hurting. As he performed a mental checklist of his physical status, he realized that his entire body had stopped hurting. He was on a bunk with clean, crisp white sheets. A metal tray with empty flasks and bottles was next to him, someone had force-fed him potions. Whoever they were, they were more than competent.

Harry slid his feet off of the bunk and onto the hard floor below. He was still fully dressed, boots and all. They had been cleaned thoroughly, no trace of blood remained. That made it easier. Pushing aside the tent flap and squinting against the harsh light outside, he made his way over to the war tent once again and awaited instruction.

He stood at attention until addressed by the same large man he had transferred his memories to. His brown face was split with a large grin. "You have done an incredible thing, boy, although I do not understand how it is possible. You have rid us of the Desert Son. It is a miracle!" The man clapped a heavy hand on Harry's shoulder, nearly making his knees buckle. The other Commanders in the tent were all engaged in firecalls, most likely informing them that the Nundu was defeated.

"Sir, if it is possible I would like to return to my country immediately." Harry said in the strongest voice he could manage.

The man's joyous laughter died, he looked seriously at the green-eyed boy. "I am Masai, young Potter. When a boy in our culture kills his first lion, he receives the gift of manhood from the gods. From that day on, he is a man capable of living his own life, making his own decisions. When you killed the Desert Son, you became kakawana. Strongest of men." The man closed his fist and placed it over his heart. "Live well, kakawana. You will be honored in our history for your strength."

Harry nodded, placing his own fist on his heart in a sign of reciprocity. Pride swelled in him. Though he had only just met this man, he found himself intensely proud that his actions were impressive to him. "Live well, Commander." He repeated.

The portkey that brought him here was prepared for him again and with a jerk Harry found himself once more in the Headmaster's office.

Albus was in the middle of a firecall, so Harry stood at attention until addressed. "Welcome back, Harry." Albus said, looking both relieved and incredibly tired. "It is good to see you again."

"It is good to be seen, Headmaster. Mission successful. Requesting permission to retire to my dormitory for R&R." Harry's throat was healed, but he couldn't keep the weariness out of his voice.

"Granted. Good night, Harry." The Headmaster stood as the Boy who Lived turned and walked out of his office.

As he entered the Gryffindor common room, the first thing he noticed was a figure sitting against the wall next to the bottom of the stairway. A neatly combed ponytail of red hair protruded from the curled-up girl. Ginny? Harry's breath caught in his throat. She was waiting for me, wasn't she. She waited all day for me. An wrenching mix of happiness and regret caused his stomach to flip.

Softly making his way over to the stairway, he turned around and sat down next to her. The slight motion caused her to stir slightly. She mumbled tiredly, her eyes staying closed. Her eyelids were puffy and red, she had been crying. The tears weren't even dry yet. How long had she cried because of him?

"I'm back." Harry whispered, hoping she wouldn't be angry with him.

Ginny leaned up against him; her head fell against his shoulder and rolled down to rest on his chest. She was cold, shivering. Slowly, he raised his arm and put it around her shoulders, pulling her closer so his body heat would warm her. He wanted to say he was too tired to cast a warming charm, but truthfully he liked the feeling of her sleeping against him. Warm tears soaked through his shirt as she cried softly. He rubbed her back in as soothing a gesture as he knew how to make. Soon enough her breathing slowed and she drifted off to sleep again.

Harry stared down at the back of her head, lost in thought. She was so vulnerable right now. So completely open and trusting with him. She didn't know what he had seen, what he had just been through. She just leaned against him and forgave him completely.

Something that had long been dormant in Harry's soul was rekindled that night, though he didn't notice at the time.

Hope.