Remember What I Forgot

by AlwaysThatGuy

Ten years after the defeat of Voldemort and fall of Harry Potter, footage emerges of a friend long thought dead. Finding him alive and unaware of his past, Hermione does what she does best. But with other factions in play and with nothing as it seems, how far will she go to find out the truth of what happened? H/HR.

1. Prologue

Prologue

An unknown day in April 2012

"I'm getting too old for this," grumbled a hoarse voice from next to him.

James leaned back against the rock with a sigh. There was no shade, and the merciless early afternoon sun beat down upon him, adding further discomfort to a day that had already been far too long.

He gently stretched his legs out before him, and rubbed his thighs, trying to ease some of the soreness from the long march that had brought him near to the top of these rocky mountains in southern Afghanistan.

"You're not even thirty." James replied, glancing over at the man next to him.

They were similarly dressed; tan camouflage from head to toe, brown hiking boots on their feet and enough combat gear on them that they almost wished that all they had to deal with was medieval plate armour.

Luke 'Lucky' Brookes looked over at James and took a swig of water from his canteen. He was a stocky man; made to look even more so by his body armour and combat webbing. A bushy, dirty blonde beard adorned his features. He had removed his helmet and James could see the overgrown dirty-blond hair that matched his beard, sticking out from under a tan coloured baseball cap. The front of the baseball cap was adorned with his 'lucky' Australian flag patch.

Luke looked tired and dirty. Dust covered his face and features, and James knew that he must have looked no better.

"Yeah, but 28 feels pretty fuckin' old right now. That stomp sucked."

James pulled his pack straps off his shoulders with a sigh, enjoying the feeling of being lighter.

"I wouldn't know Luck, I'm only ten."

Lucky let out a short laugh at that.

"What time is dust-off?"

"Should be here in an hour." James said, not even bothering to hide a long yawn as it escaped.

"No worries then. Want me to put the boys down? Let you have a kip?" Asked Lucky, as he checked his watch.

"Nah," said James, climbing to his feet slowly and gingerly, "I'll do it. Wouldn't want to deprive an ancient 28-year-old of his afternoon nap, would I?"

Lucky chuckled and pulled his baseball cap down over his eyes.

"Respect your elders, James."

"We're the same age." James retorted as he began walking towards the other members of the six-man patrol.

"And how would you know?" Came the reply.

James just shook his head as he trudged off through the dust.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

British Army rations, while highly caloric and full of all the essential nutrients needed to sustain a soldier on patrol, were hardly known for flavour. But James didn't mind. He ate it all the same, it was food and food was fuel.

He chewed thoughtfully as his mind turned to the team – his team. The check he had just done had purely been an exercise in checking on their welfare. There was never any reason to tell them how to do their jobs. With the exception of Chris, the new lad, the patrol had worked together as a team for the better part of two years.

James looked over at Mac and saw the big man slowly scanning the mountains from behind his belt fed light machine gun. He scratched absently at his long bikie beard, clearly lost in his own thoughts. They made eye contact and Mac shrugged. All clear, nothing to report.

That was good.

It was then that he heard, faintly at first but growing, the sound of rotor blades in the distance.

He scanned the blue sky until he saw them, little black dots taking shape against the bright blue backdrop.

A long, dual-rotor helicopter flew between two smaller ones.

A lumbering beast and its nimble protectors.

James watched as the Chinook banked to fly around, looking for the infrared strobes that the patrol had, so that it could pick them up and identify friend from foe. James could just make out the dangling feet of the rear crew chief, who was sitting out the back door, undoubtedly scanning the countryside for threats, from behind his M134 Minigun.

Next to the Chinook were two AH-64 Apache Gunships. James had seen firsthand the damage they could do and was always grateful to be under their protection; it meant he had a greater chance of getting his men home alive.

He leaned over and nudged Lucky, whose eyes flew open.

"Lifts here."

Lucky rubbed his eyes and nodded sleepily. James couldn't tell if the nap had helped his best mate or hindered him.

He sat down and was just starting to pull his pack back on, when he heard a yell that stopped him in his tracks.

"MANPAD!"

James looked around and saw a small object flying through the sky towards the helicopters.

The object, a rocket, flew towards the helicopters at incredible speed, and James didn't know how his eyes managed to keep up with it as travelled on its deadly path.

The three helicopters immediately split up and began firing white flares behind them as they deployed their countermeasures.

They were ineffective.

James groaned as the rocket collided with the Apache helicopter on the right flank of the circling Chinook.

The explosion damaged the tail of the helicopter and it buckled. James could see it was listing heavily to its right-hand side. He knew the pilot was fighting to keep control; struggling to stay in the air.

James moved into action.

"Where did that come from?"

The patrol was alert now, readying weapons and scanning the mountainous terrain that surrounded them.

"Over here, James."

James took off at a sprint and came down next to Mark, who had called out to him.

He was looking through the scope of his H&K 417 Designated Marksman's Rifle.

"400 metres, axis of my bore, three large boulders leaning together, one knuckle right. Seen?"

James pulled out his binoculars and had a look, glancing up at the helicopter which was still fighting to stay airborne.

Through his binoculars, James could see a group of men in a mixture of tribal, farmers clothing and camouflage clothing. They were obviously attempting to get a lock on one of the helicopters with another Stinger MANPAD.

"Seen." James confirmed. "Mark?"

"Yes, James?"

"Re-educate them please."

"Naturally."

A rifle shot cracked through the air. But there was no echo. The suppressor on the end of Mark's rifle, while not making the rifle silent, dispersed the sound and made it harder for the enemy to detect where the shots were coming from.

James watched as the man holding the launcher stumbled and fell to the ground.

"Hit; keep at it."

James was moving again. He was running over towards Mac, who was now scanning the mountainside with renewed intensity, his machine gun in his shoulder, and ready to go.

"Hello Juliet, 4-1-0, this is Thor-2-A." Said James, keying in his radio to address the incoming helicopters. "I've got a few people down here who have taken exception to your presence, standby for fire mission, over."

James crashed into the rocks next to Mac, just in time to hear the big man call calmly in his thick Scottish brogue, "Contact."

Hell broke loose.

Mac let off a long burst from his machine gun into a rock formation that was located about 50 metres from the patrol. James saw the rounds skip dust off around the rocks, and a small group of men dove for cover behind them.

At the same time, all around the mountains, muzzle flashes kicked into life as enemy combatants launched into action, peppering the patrol with fire.

"Hello Thor 2-A, ready to receive, at the rush, if you don't mind, Over."

The voice on the other end of the radio was panicked. No aircrew liked being in the same air as rockets that were locked in on them. James quickly looked at the GPS on his wrist and the map he had mounted on his other.

Maths had never been his strong point, but he managed to calculate the location of the anti-air team using the tools at hand.

"Thor 2-A, Grid 67894561, I say again 67894561, over."

He had no sooner said the word 'over' than a rocket was launched from the undamaged Apache, which exploded, exactly where the enemy rocketeers had been located, with a puff of smoke.

"Juliet 4-1-0, appreciate the assist on that, stand by to pop smoke for evac, over" Came the crackled voice from the other end of the radio, more relaxed this time.

"Thor 2-A, Copy all, be advised, Troops in Contact, wait out."

James lifted his head up and saw that the wounded Apache was swaying around in the air. The pilot appeared to have managed to get some semblance of control, which was encouraging.

He then looked out and saw that several of the approaching enemy had been killed by his team, and the rest seemed to be pinned by the outcropping.

Another group were firing at his team, from a small inlet, on the downslope near to him.

James burst into action, firing several rounds in their direction, accurately enough to get them to put their heads down, but none for good.

"Lucky! Lucky, on me!" He called out.

Footsteps followed and Lucky slid in behind James next to the rock he was using for cover.

"Lucky, get the team ready to extract, those birds aren't going to want to hang around for much longer, especially with one of them damaged. Don't know how he kept it together up there, must be one hell of a wizard at the controls, but I don't think he has much airtime left. I want effective fire on the enemy's fire support position near our left flank. Get Chris and Adam on each flank, no one sneaks up on us. I want the lads out of here as soon as we can, the longer we stay the harder that gets."

"No worries mate, but James?"

"Yes, Luck?"

"Nothing stupid."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Life, inside the cockpit of the Apache that had been hit, was far from pleasant. Warning lights and sirens were screaming at the pilot and the co-pilot. The pilot, a young lieutenant from a long line of young lieutenants, fought to control it.

In the background, the co-pilot was a rather calm individual. He let the pilot fight the controls, while he tried to manage everything else.

But he knew - well, they both knew - the aircraft was not long for this air.

And then of course, it happened.

Just as the co-pilot was about to radio through that they needed to look for a place to put the aircraft down, the tail rotor gave out and died.

Blue. Brown. Blue. Brown.

The helicopter started a counter rotational spin in opposition to its main rotor. The co-pilot jumped on the radio. His voice was calm.

"Spitfire this is Black Prince, Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, we are going down. I say again, we are going down."

Blue. Brown. Blue. Brown.

The alarms on board the helicopter became louder and louder as he watched the spin of blue to brown. He never heard the reply from the radio. He never heard his wingwoman's response.

It was much more brown than blue now, and his mind turned to home. Turned to his childhood and his gardens. His dogs.

Finally, his mind turned to his wife and his young child.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

There was a lull as the helicopter careened towards the earth. All eyes were torn away from the sights of their weapons and up to the bird of prey as it spun.

James was no exception. He watched as it spun towards the earth, and he willed it to crash close. With the amount of hostile fire coming his way, trying to manoeuvre his patrol to get to it, through the current terrain would be a horrible enterprise. He would certainly take casualties, and there was no guarantee that they would be able to retrieve the pilots.

Even with all their training and all their equipment, they were vastly outnumbered. They were also human. They bled, they were wounded, and they died no differently to any others.

James willed it closer.

Please. He thought. Please land nearby.

As if by some external force, the helicopter veered back towards the patrol. James was amazed that the pilot seemed to have managed to get some control of the helicopter and aim it towards the patrol.

The Apache helicopter crashed into the Earth on a rocky mountain side. It rolled twice and came to a stop wedged between a series of rocks.

And men in robes and camouflage ran towards it.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Lucky knew what he was going to do before he did it.

"James, don't even fuckin' think about it!"

But he was gone. He had vaulted over the top of the rocks and was sliding down the rocky crag.

"Cover that fuckin' idiot!" bellowed Lucky across to the other members of the patrol.

Mac just shook his head, before he stepped up the volume of his fire. He sent bursts of machine gun fire at the confused enemy. Any of them who stepped, leaned, or even peered out to try and get a shot onto James was met by a hail of bullets.

For Mark, he turned his attention to the longer ranges Mac would take care of the grouped enemies who would be trying to put James down. The enemy trying to get to the downed helicopter would be his responsibility.

"I'm going to kill him. He'll fuckin' wish he died down there. Fucking useless prick of a human." Lucky bawled, sliding down next to Mark and using his rock for cover to put some fire on the enemy.

Mark had to stifle a grin, despite the seriousness of the situation. Lucky always said that when James did what James did best.

"You or the missus?"

Lucky paused his repeated mantra about all the creative weird and wonderful ways he would kill and dismember his best mate.

"Not a word of this to her." Lucky said, uncharacteristically serious for once in his life.

A smile started to break out on Mark's face.

"Oh Don't you worry about me Lucky! I'm not going to pull his arse out of the fire, just for her to put it back in there…"

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

James had to admit, his move may not have been the brightest he had ever pulled off in his life. But then, this wasn't the first time James had found himself in this kind of situation.

He really should think more.

The volume of fire increased in intensity as he crawled behind another boulder on the mountainside. Sparks came from the rocks where they were hit by rifle fire. A rock chipped off and hit him on the cheek, splitting it open.

He had to move.

As quickly as he could, he began dashing between rocks and boulders. Rounds kicked at his feet and around his body, but somehow all of them missed.

He could hear that his teammates had picked up their rate of fire and were doing everything they could do to provide support. Bursts of machine gun fire from Mac, coupled with slower, yet more concentrated rounds from the rifles, accompanied his every move. They could clearly see him, and they knew him so well by body language alone, that they could tell when he was going to move.

They were well-practised in James's half-cocked, individual efforts.

He looked around from his boulder. The crashed helicopter was smoking, but it had not exploded. He could see it was about 100 metres away from him, lying on its side against a couple of boulders.

The issue for James was that he had run out of cover. The final 100m to the helicopter was open ground with only small rocks lying around. The other sides were sheer and steep, they would only cause him to be exposed for longer as he navigated that uncertain terrain.

No, there was only one option and that was across the open ground. He would just have to brave it.

A man in long flowing white robes got to the helicopter and began running towards the cockpit, his rifle held up high.

James controlled his breathing.

And shot him. Two rounds, string shooting, both in the chest.

The man collapsed to the ground, his white robes quickly turning a bright scarlet red.

A second man had accompanied the first, he met the same fate before he could figure out exactly where James was located.

Sparks flew from the rock near James's face as someone tried to get a bead on him and put him down. He ducked back.

He took a few breaths. He didn't have long – the pilots – didn't have long.

He pulled a small cylinder from his combat webbing and pulled the pin, stepping back and throwing it as hard as he could. It landed about 30 metres away and rolled to a stop.

There was a pop and white smoke started billowing from the cylinder.

He gave it a few seconds to get nice and thick before he started sprinting across the open ground.

Just before he reached the smoke, he threw another smoke grenade on the run.

Dust kicked around him, from his boots on the ground and from the rounds that kicked up around him.

He was amazed, and not for the first time, about how the rounds seemed to just miss him as he ran. It was almost like he was blessed, like he was protected.

It gave him the confidence to keep hauling. He did not feel the weight of his armour weighing him down, or his rifle in his hands, the blisters on his feet or the soreness of his legs and shoulders.

He just felt like needed to get to that helicopter. He had an urgent and burning need to get there.

And then he was through the second smoke.

About forty metres lay between him and the helicopter and it was open. There was nowhere to hide. All he could do was run.

Several more men had arrived at the helicopter and were beginning to try and open the cockpit to get to the crew.

He didn't have time to stop, however he watched as the chest exploded of one of the men who was close to the nose of the craft.

The others ducked back, and in doing so, one of them looked over and saw him.

The man raised his rifle and began to spray rounds at James.

James's gloved hand instinctively came up to his face. He waited for it. He waited for the end, for one of the rounds to strike him and kill him. He waited for death to tap him on the shoulder and take him off into the great beyond.

But it never came.

It sounded like a swarm of lethal, angry bees were all dancing around his head. He could feel them as they zoomed past him. James could clearly hear the repeated snaps as they broke the sound barrier.

Any second now.

But still, it did not come. The rounds missed. Before he knew it, the man was still holding down the trigger and spraying rounds above James' head, having not accounted for the recoil. His gun went dry.

Seconds felt like minutes.

Minutes like hours.

And then he was there.

James slammed his full body weight into the trigger-happy man and drove him back into two of his mates behind him.

They all crashed to the ground in a great big heap, a tangle of legs and arms.

He could hear the men yelling and crying out underneath him as he pushed down on them with all his might, trying to prevent any of them getting a clear shot.

With that he reached into his hip holster and pulled out his pistol.

Three quick and accurate shots later and the pile stopped moving.

In that second, silence reigned. James quickly tracked his surroundings with his pistol. Nothing moved. The last enemy in the vicinity had been killed by Mark.

He quickly holstered his pistol and checked his rifle. It was still in full working order and by his approximation, had more than half a magazine of ammunition in the rifle, but he changed the magazine anyway, topping up his supply.

It was a lull. A brief one.

He ran over to the side of the cockpit.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

James had just pulled the pilot into the small cave that he had found nearby. It was shelter from the enemy and was the best location to hold up and reassess his next move.

"You still alive down there, Genius?" blared his radio.

"Still kicking. Found a little bit of shelter. Pilot is down, and the co-pilot is out, treated his arm with a tourniquet and, splinted his leg as best as I could. He isn't running a marathon any time soon. The rocks are messing with my Comms, I need you to coordinate with the helos for the next move."

"Glad to hear it. Because if the enemy don't get you, I'm going to fucking get you. We are moving to a better position to support you by fire, mate. The other choppers are on comms, we are already trying to coordinate a way to get you blokes out. Likely going to get the chinook to land pretty close to you and get you to mount up. We will cover you, then the second gunbird will cover us."

"Yeah, Yeah mate." James replied. "Just don't tell your wife. There's enough people trying to do me in at the moment."

"Oh, she knows," came the reply from Lucky, dripping with sarcasm, even over the radio, "She's actually waiting for you to get hit so she can make your recovery time a hell of a lot more painful."

James couldn't help but chuckle.

"Something particularly funny about this situation?" came a strained voice from behind James. The co-pilot was trying to sit up, which was being hampered by his wounded arm and splinted leg.

"Oh, you know," James replied sardonically, "Just another pleasant April stroll through the mountains."

The co-pilot nodded and grimaced in pain, the top half of his face hidden behind his helmet and thick tinted flying goggles. James hadn't removed them during his initial triage of the co-pilot's injuries. In case of a neck injury, it was best to leave the helmet on to keep the neck in position, as well as to provide additional protection to his head.

The helmet came off and revealed a shock of red hair, a lightly freckled and handsome face.

He began to poke around at his arm, feeling at his injuries.

"How's Stephen?" he finally asked, satisfied at the level of care that had been rendered to him.

"Dead," James said softly, "I'm sorry."

The man just nodded. Eyes resting on the brown combat boots that were poking out from under an olive drab shelter that James had retrieved from the Helicopters survival kit.

"He was a good man. One of the best Pilots in the Air Corps."

"I'm sure he was. But the time to mourn him is later, we still need to get you out of here."

The man stared at the boots for another long moment before turning to look at James.

"Well Corporal, what's the plan?"

"Corporal?" James shook his head. "No one calls me that. I'm James, just James. Rank means nothing to me. However, we find ourselves at a bit of an impasse. Am I supposed to refer to you as 'Your Highness? Or perhaps the Prince of Wales? Or is it 'Your Highness, the Prince of Wales'? I'm not up to date with the pageantry."

The man stared at James for a moment, then burst out laughing, so hard he had tears streaming from his eyes, until he stopped and grimaced in pain.

"Oh, don't make me laugh, it hurts. Alright 'Just James', call me Edward, or Ed. No need for the formality, particularly not here."

James gave him a nod.

"Alright Ed it is. Situation isn't ideal. You're partner in the sky took out the MANPADS, but I'm uncertain if there are more. Hopefully there aren't. My patrol is moving around the mountains to get a better support by fire position so that the chopper can land, I can load you and Stephen, and we can pick up my team before we get right out of here and head home. Well, home for you. The FOB for us. Still got a month left on our bid."

"Well don't go through the trouble of it all for little old me."

James smiled a lopsided smile.

"We already have Ed, we already have."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

The bodies out at the front of the cave were starting to pile up when he finally got the word that everything was set. It was not a moment too soon. Several RPGs had exploded near the mouth of the cave, and it would not be long until they managed to walk their rockets on. Needless to say, a rocket exploding in the mouth of the small cave would prove to make everyone's bad day worse.

He was not too keen on that course of action coming to fruition.

He moved over to Ed, who was now seated against the wall of the cave, clutching an MP5 submachine gun between his hands. James had insisted the man take it, so that if James went down, he would have something better than his pistol to defend himself.

"Alright Ed, it's time to go. Let's get you onto the back of the chariot, eh? I'm sure it's not as nice as your grandmothers, but I'm afraid it will have to do."

"Take Steve first. Come back for me after, I will not leave him behind." Ed looked up resolutely at James, he meant it.

"I will come back for him, Ed, I promise. But you are alive. You are the priority, and you go first." James said, not unkindly.

Ed opened his mouth to argue but James cut him off.

"Back in the world, you may be the Prince of Wales, but right here right now? You are a casualty, and I am in command of the ground team. You go first. But I promise you, I will get him out. We don't leave bodies for the enemy, never have and never will."

The iron in James' voice steeled Ed, and he nodded.

"Alright, up we go."

In one fluid motion, James hoisted Ed onto his shoulders and settled him down into a fireman's carry. James felt every gram on his shoulders, and he could feel his knees protesting this newfound weight. But it did not matter.

"I'm set, Lucky. On your go."

"Choppers about down James, hold one."

James tried to shift Ed's weight on his shoulders to make it more comfortable, however all it did was make Ed grunt with pain.

"Thor!" Ed suddenly exclaimed.

"Eh?" Came the grimaced reply from James.

"Your Callsign? Thor?" Ed said excitedly.

"What about it?"

"You've a very distinct scar on your forehead. Does it come from that? The god of Thunder?" Ed seemed excited despite the circumstances.

"Did you know," James said tiredly, "That you are the first person to come to that conclusion?"

"Really?" Ed asked, surprised.

"No. Now put your helmet on."

James felt Ed laugh again, then he groaned, positioned as he was across James shoulders. It was almost drowned out by the approaching rotor blades that thudded outside. He couldn't see them; but he knew that they were out the cave and to his right. He had another one hundred metres of damned near open ground to cover before he was in the back of the bird.

He couldn't have everything go his way after all. It was time for another open air run under fire.

James felt like his back was about to give in with all the weight, but he suppressed making a noise. Instead, he exhaled sharply and gritted his teeth. It wasn't like Ed could see his face.

"Choppers down James, starting covering fire."

The sound of the rapid firing of small arms blurred out the sound of the helicopter and James tightened his grip around Ed's leg.

"Alright Ed, here we go. Just hold onto me and I'll get you there. Nothing to worry about."

"Nothing James, nothing at all."

James took several steps towards the entrance of the cave.

"Oh, and James?"

"Yes, Ed?"

"I'm actually the Duke of Sussex."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

James sprinted faster than he had ever run in his life. Each step took him closer to the waiting and welcoming rear of the helicopter. He could see it, just 100 metres away and closing fast. He could see the crew chief in the rear of the vehicle firing his minigun towards a nearby ridgeline. The rounds were firing so fast that each of the tracers became a blur and made it look like a continuous yellow laser was coming out from the end.

The M134 Minigun has a cyclic rate of up to 6,000 7.62mm round per minute with a muzzle velocity of 850 metres per second. The damage and carnage it could cause was unparalleled.

When he had worked with the Yanks, they had had a saying.

'When the going gets tough, the tough goes Cyclic.'

It would seem the going had gotten tough.

He could see another crew chief standing next to him and beckoning towards James, urging him to run.

As if I'm not aware that I should hurry.

Rounds kicked up all around his feet.

He could, again, hear the snap as they passed close.

How they did not hit him, he had no idea. All he knew was that he had to run, and he had to run quickly.

The Chinook was half landed and half hovering, its front wheels still in the air, hanging over a cliff, the rear wheels on solid ground, with the ramp just off the ground.

He ran towards it.

50 metres. Maybe he would make it.

Wouldn't he?

25. Nearly there.

So close. So bloody close he could smell the fumes.

He could see the still flying Apache was circling around and engaging targets on the ground to give him cover. From the way it hovered and moved around, James was reminded of the movies he had seen of old west gunslingers, drawing and shooting, out in the open.

James' boots crunched onto the metal ramp, and he was inside the helicopter. He ran to the red seating on the left-hand side of the aircraft and as gently as he could, he lowered Ed onto a seat.

Ed hit the netted seating with a groan, that must have hurt.

"You okay? You good?" James bellowed to the man, trying to be heard over the rotary engine.

Ed gave James a thumbs up, and with that, James was gone, back out into the bright sun and rocky crags.

He heard the crew chief who had been beckoning to him yell as he ran past.

"What the fuck?"

"The pilot!" James yelled on his way past, and then he was gone.

The run there had been awful. Truly awful. Rounds had been kicking up around him and he had just waited for one to hit him, just waited for one to slam into him or into Ed.

The run back was worse.

The covering fire from his team had lessened, as they had seen him board the helicopter. They did not for one second think he was stupid enough to come back out. But he was James Black, and sometimes he did those kind of things.

"James, the-actual-fuck-are-you-doing?" The adrenaline in James's system caused him to notice peculiar things, like the strength of Lucky's accent when he was bewildered or stressed. Like now. The entire sentence had pretty much come out as one word. He did not know why he noticed that particular thing in that particular moment, but he did.

If he was fast when he ran towards the helicopter, he was faster when he ran back, unburdened by the heavy weight of Ed.

"Pilots body. It's bad down here." James gasped back out over the radio.

"For you." Came the curt reply, "Could have fucking said something, we aren't in a cover position, anymore."

"It's on me. Get the lads on the helicopter, I'll be back in a moment."

James arrived at the cave at the same time as a curious enemy.

James paused only long enough to shoot him. It wasn't textbook shooting in terms of stance, breathing and positioning, but he was so close that it made no difference.

He bolted into the cave and grabbed the pilot -Stephen- he reminded himself. He was doing this for a person, after all, dead as he may be.

James hoisted Stephen into a fireman's carry. If Ed was heavy, Stephen was worse. There was no holding himself up, no relief, just dead weight.

Don't say dead.

James turned around and gasping for breath, ran back out into the open towards the helicopter.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

The adrenaline was wearing off and was no longer fuelling his aching legs. He was tired. Each step he took was slower than the last.

His legs were giving out, but still he ran, urging himself forward with ragged breath.

He could see his patrol had adopted supportive positions near to the helicopter. They were giving him as much covering fire as they could, however they were no longer elevated, and the fire was less effective.

He could see Lucky screaming out to him. James had no idea what he was saying, but it seemed encouraging.

With each step, his legs felt heavier and heavier. His breathing became more and more laboured. He focussed all his energy in taking quick steps, but the reserves seem to be gone. Frankly, James was exhausted.

He was about 60 metres from the helicopter when his luck finally ran out.

He felt like he had been hit in the back by a sledgehammer made of fire, and it knocked him arse over tit.

He sprawled, face into the dirt and slid along.

The weight of Stephen slammed into the back of his head and dazed him slightly.

He lay there for a second. Just a split second. Contemplating that he had never been as comfortable as he was right there. Off his aching feet, off his aching legs, off his aching back.

He also contemplated that it was as good a place as ever to sleep.

But he couldn't. It would be his last sleep if he stayed.

He pulled himself up onto his knees. Pain laced around his back where the round had obviously penetrated his body armour.

He reached under his front plate with a gloved hand and felt the wetness seeping through.

He pulled it out and his brown glove was now a bright scarlet. A through and through.

That was not good.

Not good at all.

But he had made a promise to Ed. He needed to keep his promise.

With sharp intake of breath, and with a strength he did not know he possessed, he managed to hoist Stephen back onto his shoulders.

He was definitely not running now. It was a walk. A shuffle maybe.

He focussed on each foot stepping in front of the other.

Not far now. Not far at all.

One step. Two step. One step. Two step.

It was all he could do, to not black out from the pain that was creeping from his back and his front. He felt like at any moment he would crumple to the ground and that would be it.

He made it another 20 metres before he felt two more blows. These ones were to his right shoulder and his left leg. He sprawled to the earth, even harder.

He took several deep breaths as the pain turned into agony.

And then he pushed.

Hard.

With all his strength he managed to push himself up onto all fours.

He reached towards Stephen's body. He was so close.

Stephen moved out of reach.

James looked up, just in time to see Mac hoisting the pilot up and over his shoulders as if he was lifting a small child.

He felt an arm go around his body and hoist him to his feet. His feet felt unsteady, and he crumpled, but the grip on him was strong.

"I've got you mate. I've got you. Hold on."

Lucky began walking him forward, and it was all James could do to stop himself from sprawling them both face down into the ground.

James coughed and blood splattered down his dark beard and onto his armour and the ground.

"It will be okay mate, just fine. See, we are nearly there. It's like thirty metres now. It's nothing at all. Nothing at all. I'm barely even helping you. You've got this."

They kept trudging forward.

"I'm s-"

James words wouldn't come out.

"Don't talk mate, it's all good. Let's just get you there and then get you back to the medics, eh? Adam is already getting his trauma kit ready. You made sure he did all that training, now he gets to show you where all that taxpayer money went."

"I'm really sorry." James managed to gasp out, as more blood drained from his mouth and onto the dust.

"It's fine mate. Nothing to be sorry about. Nothing at all. Let's just get you looked at eh. You always have to go saving people, eh? You've really got a thing about that. But you didn't need any help. Well, mentally you do. You've always needed help. I've always told you that."

James smiled despite himself. Then coughed. Blood misted in the air.

The world was going fuzzy. James could just make out the rear of the helicopter as his boot made its first step on it.

Lucky helped him the remaining few steps into the rear of the helicopter before he collapsed to the ground. Falling forwards before rolling onto his back.

Lucky was there in an instant, James could see him, see him starting to fade to black. He could feel Lucky's strong grip around his hand.

"Hold on mate. We have you. Hold on. Please, mate. Listen to my voice. You're fine!" Lucky's voice was unconvincing.

James knew he wasn't fine. The world was darkening.

As the blackness came for him, James thought he heard a voice from the deep recesses of his mind. A voice that came from a memory that he had forgotten. A voice that came from behind lock and key, from a place that was hidden, even from himself.

A voice that came from before.

"Hold on Harry."

It was a kindly voice. A woman's voice. A mothers voice.

"Hold on."

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In a nice, cosy townhouse in Muggle London, a woman woke with a start. She lifted herself up and scanned her dark bedroom.

Nothing. Nothing there. No Death Eaters, no Dark Lords, no enemy combatants. Nothing.

A dream. Just a dream.

But what a dream. It had been so vivid.

Her breath came in quick and fast. Sweat clung to her body, and not from the heat of the night. It was a cool night in a heat wave. She rubbed her face into her hands.

3:32am. The alarm clock provided the only illumination into her room, and even then, it wasn't much.

A vivid dream. One filled with visions that swarmed through her head. It had not yet faded into forgotten memory but stayed swirling around.

She lifted a glass of water from her nightstand and with trembling hands, raised it to her mouth. Letting the cool refreshing water fill her dry mouth and run down her parched throat.

She slowly lowered herself back into the bed and stared at the dark ceiling she could not see.

Normally, her dreams about Harry were pleasant ones, ones of the good times they had in Hogwarts or the snatched moments of happiness in the bleakness of the Horcrux hunt. They were dreams where she woke up and felt the tragic disappointment that he was still gone.

Alternatively, they were nightmares. Harry dismembered on the ground with lifeless eyes that looked at her with rampant accusation. Eyes that seem to say: You could have done more. Why did you not save me? This is on you.

Sometimes in her nightmares he said those words out loud. Or she watched him die, saw him hit by green light and looked into his lifeless eyes.

They were nightmares born of memories she did not have. Her imagination filled the rest.

She had never seen his body. None of them had. It had never been found. But he had been pronounced dead anyway. It was something that tore at her to this very day.

But this dream, this one was different. Harry the soldier. Running through heavy gunfire like something out of a Muggle action movie. Harry rescuing the dashing Prince from great danger.

It had only been snippets and snapshots. Moments in time that did not exist. But Hermione remembered them well.

Seated and joking around with another soldier.

Carrying a wounded man.

Running into a helicopter.

Carrying a dead man.

Falling to the ground.

The joking soldier helping him along.

Just snippets of a soldier in action that happened to look like Harry.

She took a deep breath and another sip of water. Just a dream.

But what a dream.

As she was just about to roll over into her comfortable bed and fall back asleep she saw two pinpricks of light in the darkness. How long had they been there? She slowly and carefully reached for her wand.

'Lumos.' She whispered, and a pinprick of light shone from her wand

Crookshanks was seated on her chest of drawers.

Looking? No. Staring directly at her. His tail swished slowly and deliberately back and forth.

"What are you doing Crookshanks, my love?" she asked, her voice coming out croaky from sleep.

Crookshanks, for his part, never answered. He only continued to stare.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then,' she grumbled, finishing the illumination spell and placing her wand back on the bedside.

She rolled over into her covers and pulled them all around herself, getting as comfortable as she could in her nice big bed.

I'll figure out what that dream meant in the morning.

But she wouldn't.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX