Making Headlines

It was an unusually warm morning in the Scottish Highlands, something that Minerva had not experienced since she had been a little girl. For the past couple of years, she had made it a point to visit her parents over the summer months, but she hadn't made it a habit of staying for any more than a few days.

This year, however, she would be here for some time.

Albus was taking a well-earned break from tutoring her, and she felt no need to be in the castle.

Minerva had all the books she required to continue with her studies independently, and she too was keen for some time away from the castle, and with her parents.

"I don't think I will ever stop being fascinated with your postal system," Robert chuckled as the large tawny perched on the windowsill of the kitchen, clutching the morning edition of The Daily Prophet in its beak.

Word of what was happening was slow to reach this part of the country, so Minerva had opted to take out a subscription for the duration of her stay.

If anything urgent was to happen, the Flamels would be in touch, but they too were quite busy looking for another property they could live in until the war was over.

France certainly wasn't the safest place to be at the moment, as was proven by the headline presented to her.

Minerva gasped as she took in the article and the photos published with it.

"He's actually trying to kill me," she whispered. "Oh, I'll get there first."

"Is something wrong, Minerva?" Robert asked, a frown of curiosity tugging at his features.

"Wrong?" Minerva snapped, her Scottish brogue becoming more prominent as her cheeks flushed. "Aye, something's wrong!"

She slid the paper over to her mother who gasped, her eyes widening.

"Good Lord!"

Minerva pursed her lips, her nostrils flaring.

"What is it?" Robert asked impatiently.

Isobel shook her head as she handed her husband the newspaper.

"This can't be real," he denied, looking towards his wife and daughter in turn. "Dragons? Dragons are real?"

Minerva nodded.

"Very," she confirmed shortly. "They are about as dangerous as creatures come."

"Killing one takes dozens of wizards working together," Isobel interjected. "But that doesn't happen often. Dragons are a protected species."

"Then why is Harry killing one? How did he kill it?"

"The other side must have used it as a weapon," Minerva sighed. "As for him killing it, I have no idea. It's just one of those Harry things he does."

"Has this happened before?" Isobel asked.

"Not with a dragon, but he did kill a basilisk when he was twelve."

"A basilisk?" Isobel scoffed.

"A little lizard?" Robert questioned confusedly.

"No, a basilisk is a snake, and even more dangerous than a dragon. Just looking into it's eyes will kill you."

"And if it doesn't get you with its stare, its venom is just about the most potent known to us."

Robert's mouth was agape. He was overwhelmed by the influx of information.

"It's not important," Minerva said dismissively. "What's important is that Harry Evans is going to get my foot up his…"

"Language," Isobel warned.

Minerva released a deep breath.

"I thought he was a police officer of sorts?" Robert asked.

"He was, but now he is fighting on the front lines."

"Goodness me," Robert said sadly. "Is the lad alright?"

"For now," Minerva muttered as she took in the images in The Prophet.

Trust Harry to do something so utterly dangerous that it would make national news.

He really wouldn't like that.

The thought brought a smirk to Minerva's lips.

That'll teach him.

"It says here that he also fought off werewolves and dementors," Isobel explained, frowning as she read the article.

Minerva was too angry and irritated to read further.

"Anything else?" she asked, unsurprised by the revelation.

She knew that Harry was excellent with the patronus charm, something she too was making time to work on.

"Just that he is believed to have sustained some minor injuries. He was very lucky."

Minerva snorted.

He wouldn't be so when she got her hands on him. She'd make the dragon he'd faced seem like a tame kitten.

"Oh, he is in trouble," Robert chuckled.

Minerva hummed her agreement.

"Don't be so hard on him lass," he urged. "It says that he saved a lot of lives. The boy is a hero."

Minerva deflated.

She could only imagine the carnage the dragon would have caused had Harry not intercepted it.

She was angry, worried more so, and wanted to throttle him as much as she wanted to hold him to make sure he really was okay.

Perhaps she could do both?

"I need to write to him," she declared with a huff, taking her leave of the breakfast table, not seeing the looks of amused of both her parents.

(Break)

If any were to happen across Nicholas Flamel in his current state, they would likely believe that he had taken leave of his senses, or that he had finally lost his six-hundred-year-old mind.

Nicholas was cackling gleefully in an amusement of the likes he hadn't felt in many years.

From the moment he had met Harry and heard his life story, he knew the young man was exceptional, but even so, his expectations had been completely blown away.

"A dragon," he chuckled, managing to regain his composure somewhat as he continued reading the paper.

"If I didn't know any better, I would think that you are up to something, Nicholas Flamel," Perenelle said pointedly as she returned from the shower.

The two of them were staying in a hotel for a few days whilst they viewed property around Britain.

"Me?" Nicholas asked affronted. "I can assure you my dear that I am up to nothing."

Perenelle raised an eyebrow at her husband.

"Have you heard from Harry?"

Nicholas shook his head.

"He hasn't written yet," he explained. "He has been busy."

Nicholas took no small amount of joy in handing his wife the newspaper, enjoying the twitch of irritation that crossed her features, an expression usually reserved for him.

That look meant only one thing.

Harry was in trouble, and Nicholas would enjoy the dressing down he would witness.

Not that he wasn't proud of the boy for what he'd done, he was exceptionally so, but it wasn't often enough that someone else was the object of Perenelle's ire.

So much so that she uncharacteristically cursed under her breath in their native tongue.

"Is it possible for me to have a heart attack?" she asked.

Nicholas shrugged.

"If you haven't had one yet after living with me for so long, I doubt it," he replied cheerily.

Perenelle's nostrils flared.

"I have the right mind to stick that boy across my knee," she grumbled. "He's done some foolish things, but this is something else."

"Calm down," Nicholas sighed.

"Do not tell me to calm down, Nicholas," Perenelle snapped. "He could have been killed. He is reckless, irresponsible…"

Nicholas waited whilst his wife went through the painstaking process of reeling off Harry's shortcomings, each one becoming more ridiculous than the last.

Perenelle was merely venting.

It was how she calmed herself down, though she would reserve enough of her anger for when she next saw Harry.

Perenelle was furious, but more than anything else, she was worried.

She had grown to care deeply for Harry, and it pained her to see him simply being himself.

He was a selfless man, a protector, a defender of those that could not defend themselves.

That was Harry's nature, and to try to change that would be like trying to change the tides.

It wouldn't happen, and Perenelle knew that.

This was just her way of coping with caring for someone like Harry.

"He's safe," Nicholas comforted when Perenelle had finished ranting.

He pulled her into his arms, and she nodded against his chest.

"I know, but he won't be when I get my hands on him."

Nicholas chuckled.

"We both know that the first thing you will do is make sure he is not hurt, and that he is fed before you give him his telling off."

"He doesn't know that," Perenelle huffed. "You will write to him, Nicholas. Tell him that I know what he has been doing and that I look forward to his next visit. Let him stew."

"With pleasure," Nicholas agreed with a smirk as he retrieved some ink, a quill, and a sheet of parchment.

For once, he was just pleased that it wasn't him being left to stew.

(Break)

"We will have your report now, Mr Moody," the Supreme Mugwump requested tiredly.

The members of the ICW had gathered hours ago for the emergency meeting but had been kept waiting for much of the day whilst the commanders compiled an accurate version of events.

With a nod, Gabriel stood and cleared his throat, uncertain what more he could offer that hadn't been explained already by the others.

"It is as you have been told. The rest of the commanders and I were in the conference room here discussing tactics, our defences for the most part," he began. "It took some time for an emergency message to reach us, and by the time we made it back to the trenches, the fighting was all but done."

"Except for the Ukrainian Ironbelly flying above the battlefield," the Irish representative broke in.

Gabriel released a deep breath at the memory.

Seeing such a creature was not something he'd forget in a hurry. Not to mention the young man that had taken to the sky to tackle it.

"Aye," he acknowledged.

"I'd like to hear what your men had to say," Abreo instructed. "Your group suffered the least casualties."

"Thanks to Evans and Potter," Gabriel explained, given the credit where it was due. "In my absence, they led the men throughout the fighting. It was Evans that fended off the dementors and who killed the dragon."

The representatives of the ICW murmured animatedly amongst themselves for a few moments before Abreo held up a hand to silence them.

"Evans?" he asked.

"Oh, Harry Evans. He's an investor from Britain."

"Isn't that the young man who defeated Cassiopeia Black at Hogsmeade?" Doge questioned.

"The very same," Gabriel confirmed.

"And did you mention a Potter?"

"Aye, Will's lad."

Doge shook his head sadly.

"And it was the two of them that led your men?" Abreo questioned.

Gabriel nodded.

"They're quite the pair of wizards," he sighed, relieved they'd taken the initiative to fill his role whilst he was away. "By all accounts, if it wasn't for the two of them, many more would have died."

"They would have," Abreo agreed. "They shall be commended by us for their efforts."

"And in Britain," Doge added.

Gabriel couldn't deny they both deserved it.

Evans, as mad as he was proving to be, had put his life on the line to save the others, and Charlus had made his own contribution. He had killed three trolls himself and two rampaging erumpent.

William would be proud of his boy.

"How is Mr Evans?" Abreo asked.

"Recovering well," Gabriel snorted. "He will be right as rain in a few days."

"I am pleased to hear it," the Supreme Mugwump replied sincerely. "Give him our best and pass on our gratitude."

"I will," Gabriel assured the man.

"Excellent," Abreo declared, "and that leaves us with one final point to address. My colleagues and I have been discussing the possibility of forming a special unit compiled of men of distinction from the front. I would like the commanders to submit to us the names of those they believe have something to offer such a group. Of course, Potter and Evans will be the first to be considered," he finished.

Gabriel wasn't certain that either of the lads would be interested, but they should be given the opportunity, even if it would leave him lacking the prowess they were demonstrating.

How many others could claim to have killed a dragon by himself?

Gabriel snorted at the thought.

"Who will train this group?" he asked, curious as to who would be capable of such specialist tuition.

"Our surviving Hit-Wizard," Abreo announced. "Ms D-Fox has agreed to train and lead this group."

Gabriel frowned.

On the few occasions he had seen the woman, she had not made a good impression on him. She was petulant, petty, and certainly not a leader.

She had no skill when it came to dealing with people, and the thought of her trying to command men who had been in the trenches was laughable.

Fox did not have the right temperament for the job.

Not that it was Gabriel's place to voice those thoughts, but judging by the expressions of the other commanders, they were thinking the very same.

No, he wouldn't mention his doubts here, but he would give Evans and Potter a heads-up of what may be coming their way.

He couldn't imagine either of them taking too kindly to a woman like Fox.

She could be the most skilled witch in the world, but that meant nothing when it came to being a leader.

Still, maybe almost being killed had humbled her somewhat.

Again, Gabriel had his doubts though he hoped Fox would prove him wrong.

(Break)

Most of his hand was an angry pink colour, an improvement on the blistered and bubbled texture it had been when Harry had returned to the trenches. Along with the burns on his hand and one of his shoulders, he'd broken four ribs, his femur on his left leg, and punctured one of his lungs.

"How're you feeling?" Charlus asked as he entered the room.

The man was looking too smug for Harry's liking, and he frowned at the Lord Potter.

"Fine," he answered dismissively. "Why do you look so happy?"

"You're in trouble," Charlus replied simply. "Minerva is going to kill you, and my mum will take her pound of whatever is left of you. Oh, I can't forget about Mrs Flamel and Poppy."

"Bollocks," Harry groaned, throwing a pillow at the laughing Charlus.

He hadn't thought about what he'd done, though he shook his head in denial after a moment's thought.

"They won't know unless you tell them," he pointed out, "and you can keep your gob shut."

Charlus was grinning once more, and Harry's stomach sank.

That grin always meant trouble.

"You can't blame me for this," Charlus chuckled as he removed a copy of The Daily Prophet from within his robes and handed it to him.

"Shit," Harry said simply as he read the headline and took in the accompanying photo. "How did they even get these?"

"Must be journalists lurking around here," Charlus answered with a shrug. "You should get them framed. You won't get better pictures than that."

Harry released a deep breath as he stared at the moving image of himself weaving between short bursts of dragon fire as he fired spells at it.

The one below was off the two of them plummeting towards the ground, and the last him driving the sword he conjured through its skull.

That one filled him with sorrow.

It was one thing to tangle with such a beast and escape a painful death, but even so, Harry felt no elation taking its life. He'd felt relief that the fight was over, but the killing had been done out of mercy.

He had blinded the dragon in one eye and both wings had been almost torn off as Harry had subdued it with his chains.

Its life would have been a miserable one, and the look in its one good eye was of defeat and pleading.

Dragons were proud creatures, and she had died without shame.

The Dragon slayer of Great Britain

Harry didn't want to read the article, especially with Charlus tittering like a schoolgirl from his bunk.

"This is not good," he groaned.

"Are you joking?" Charlus guffawed. "Even the most devout of purebloods will be queuing up to kiss your arse after this. I can see it now, you walking the streets of Diagon Alley and even Lord Malfoy fighting off everyone else just to shake your hand."

"Bugger off," Harry huffed irritably. "Is there any chance this will be forgotten about?"

"Only if you do something else that is more memorable, but even then, I doubt it. People don't kill dragons, Harry, not by themselves, and not on a broom. You do realise that everyone will want a Nimbus now. I'm thinking about getting one myself."

Harry hadn't considered that.

The gold lettering of his broom was visible in one of the photos.

"Oh, shut up," he grumbled, though he wouldn't complain about the additional gold he'd receive.

Charlus merely continued grinning.

"In all seriousness, you saved a lot of lives, Harry. Merlin knows what would have happened if you hadn't done what you did."

Harry nodded.

He knew that Charlus was right, but he hadn't expected such exposure. The men in the trenches would of course remember, and the tale may have become little more than a myth they would one day tell their grandchildren.

There was little chance that would happen now.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a knock at the door, and when Charlus opened it, a middle-aged woman in healer robes entered.

"How are you feeling, Mr Evans?" she asked shooting him a knowing look.

"Better than I did," Harry replied.

The woman nodded as she opened her medical bag.

"I'm here to check you over and to make sure you have sustained no permanent damage. Remove your shirt please."

Evidently, she was a no-nonsense sort of healer whose bedside manner could use a little work.

With his shirt off, she inspected every part of his torso, humming at the various fresh wounds and old scars that littered his body.

"The burns are healing well, but you will need to apply a salve for another few days. Your ribs will be tender, and your lung has been healed well. You're lucky you had a competent healer to hand."

The man who had looked him over initially and administered treatment was a young Frenchman who had just obtained his healer status.

He'd volunteered at the front to protect his country from invasion, and Harry was certainly grateful for his presence.

His injuries had been most unpleasant until he had been looked at by Pierre.

"How is the leg?"

"A bit numb still."

The healer nodded.

"The breaks have been repaired sufficiently. You will need to take it easy for a few days but should suffer no lasting damage. Consider yourself very fortunate, Mr Evans."

The healer handed him a jar of burn salve before packing the rest of her things and offering him a speculative look.

"I was asked to give you a message."

"A message?" Harry asked cautiously.

"From Poppy," the healer explained, and Harry ignored the gleeful snort from Charlus. "She says that you are a stupid prat and you should think yourself lucky that it wasn't her sent to treat you. She is rather angry," the healer added pointedly.

Harry released a deep sigh.

"Thank you" he grumbled.

"My pleasure, Mr Evans," the healer replied sweetly. "You have no idea how tempting it was to send her, but I wouldn't have wanted to be an accessory to whatever she did to you. Good day."

With that, the woman was gone, and as the door closed behind her, Charlus experienced another bout of uncontrollable laughter.

"Oh, this is brilliant!" he declared cheerily. "Please let me be there when you see Minerva."

Harry's nostrils flared.

He could only imagine the dressing down he would get from the irate Scot.

"I should have just let the bloody dragon finish me off," he sighed as he headed towards the door.

Harry needed some fresh air, but as he took his leave of the room, it was to a waiting group of sombre but grateful men who began applauding him and offering words of thanks for what he'd done.

This wasn't something new to Harry who'd been on the receiving end of such treatment whenever he'd caught the Snitch during a Quidditch, but this was different.

This wasn't thanks for something that now felt so meaningless as a game of Quidditch at school where he'd earned the praise of his peers.

This was gratitude and respect for saving the lives of these men, and it was genuine. They didn't know that he was Harry Potter, the-boy-who-lived, or anything else he had gained his notoriety for.

They were clapping for Harry Evans, the looks of admiration they wore for a man seemingly of no consequence.

"Alright, that's enough from you rabble. You've seen he's alive, now get back to doing something useful," Gabriel Moody barked.

The men offered Harry some final words of thanks and congratulations as left to go about their days, leaving Harry with Charlus, Moody, Gilbert, and Yaxley.

"How are you, lad?" Moody asked.

"I'll be fine in a few days."

Moody grunted.

"You're bloody lucky to be alive at all," he growled. "I don't know if I should have your head looked at or cave it in. What you did was reckless, stupid, and dangerous."

"But amazing," Gilbert interjected with a smirk.

"Aye," Moody agreed reluctantly. "Expect to be summoned to a meeting in due course. You too, Potter."

"A meeting?"

"The brass is impressed with the pair of you, as am I. There may be an opportunity coming your way to be part of a new elite group the ICW are putting together. You'll even get to be trained by a Hit-Wizard."

"Hit-Wizard?" Harry asked curiously.

"Aye, if you're anything like me, you'll hate her, but you won't get better training anywhere else. The Hit-Wizards are amongst the best, even if they are a bunch of high and mighty shits."

"The Serpent is a Hit-Wizard," Yaxley pointed out.

"Was, as far as the ICW are concerned. He turns up here but he's not been in touch with them. Fox is the only one left."

Harry's jaw tightened at the mention of the woman.

She shouldn't be left in charge of training a pigeon, let alone a specialist unit.

"What will this team do?" Charlus asked.

Moody shrugged.

"I have no idea, but it sounds to me like the ICW are looking to replenish the Hit-Wizards for when this is all over."

Harry snorted as he shook his head.

"I'm not interested," he said firmly. "I'd rather stay where I am."

Gabriel shot him a look of surprise but nodded his understanding.

"That's your choice, Evans," he sighed. "I'll be glad to have you here. What about you, Potter?"

"I'm staying."

Moody shook his head at the pair of them before chuckling.

"Then as you were, gentlemen," he instructed, "and good work. Between the two of you, we avoided a complete disaster last night, and the rest of the men know it."

Yaxley and Gilbert offered the duo an appreciative nod as they followed Moody.

"You know this Fox?" Charlus asked.

Harry nodded.

"We'd be safer here than under her leadership."

"Then we will stay," Charlus declared. "I trust you, Harry. We are in this together now."

"I hope you'll be this supportive when it comes to dealing with Minerva."

"And my mum," Charlus reminded him. "And Mrs Flamel. Oh, and Rosa…"

"Alright, I get the message," Harry muttered. "Do you think there's any chance they'll just be glad I'm okay?"

Charlus snorted as he shook his head.

"They'll be glad, but that doesn't mean you won't get an earful to remember. You'll be lucky if Minnie doesn't string you up."

"That's what I was afraid of," Harry sighed, ignoring the laughter that followed from a thoroughly amused Charlus.

(Break)

"Did you happen to catch The Daily Prophet this morning?" Armando asked.

Most of the staff had left for the summer, Rosalina, Albus, and oddly, Horace had opted to remain within the castle.

Armando suspected he was taking advantage of the safety Hogwarts offered. Not that he minded of course.

It was always useful to have a potions master to hand.

"No, I stopped getting it weeks ago," Rosalina explained. "I don't need anymore doom and gloom in my life."

Albus nodded his agreement and Horace ignored the question entirely.

"Well, I suppose you'll get quite a kick out of this," Armando said sarcastically as he pushed his copy of the paper down the staff table.

"Unbelievable," Albus whispered, his eyes taking in the article and images quickly. "This is an incredible feat."

"That little shit!" Rosalina growled irritably. "He must be the most irresponsible and reckless idiot walking the planet."

Armando couldn't disagree, though he wouldn't have resorted to such crass language.

The sentiment, however, was undeniable.

"Oh, he's done it this time," Rosalina muttered to herself.

She left from the table and stormed from the Great Hall and Armando decided to leave her to it.

Harry had brought whatever was coming on himself, and he certainly wasn't going to intervene on his behalf, not when Rosalina was in such a foul mood.

"Oh dear," he chuckled to himself.

"Do you really believe it?" Horace asked, finally contributing to the conversation. "It's not just propaganda to scare the other side?"

He seemed concerned, and Albus looked at Slughorn questioningly.

"I don't think something like this could be sensationalised in such a way, Horace," Armando sighed. "Why do you ask?"

Slughorn deflated as though he was carrying a great burden.

"Young Tom recently took a keen interest in Mr Evans after an unfortunate incident between them."

"Unfortunate incident?" Armando asked.

"I think Horace is referring to Tom listening in on private conversations. Harry caught him and did not take kindly to it."

"Evans tried to kill him!" Slughorn said hotly.

Albus shook his head.

"If Mr Evans wanted young Tom dead, I believe he wouldn't be alive now," he said pointedly.

"What does this have to do with Tom?" Armando pressed, pointing at the newspaper.

"Well," Horace began awkwardly, "Tom is…"

"A vengeful and cruel boy?" Albus questioned.

Horace huffed as he shook his head.

"You are determined to have it in for him, Albus."

"No," Albus disagreed, "but I refuse to be blinded by his false smiles and charm."

"Enough!" Armando instructed, putting an end to the bickering. "Do you spend much time with the boy?"

"He drops by my office from time to time," Horace replied. "He's curious about our world. He doesn't know much about it and doesn't have anyone to explain things to him."

"What does he ask about?" Albus asked curiously.

"About the school, and prominent families mostly," Horace answered with a frown. "He asked about Evans after the incident and if a descendant of one of the founders could claim the castle as their own. Other than that, he asks about magic and where he can find specific spells. Did you know he mastered the disillusionment charm in his second year?"

Armando hummed.

Many of those were quite concerning, something that Albus seemingly agreed with.

He would discuss the matter with his deputy in private.

"Is that all?" he asked.

Horace nodded.

"He is a good boy, headmaster. I believe you merely misunderstand him."

"That remains to be seen," Armando sighed. "If he proves me wrong, I will be most surprised. He has traits and tendencies that give me cause for concern. He is petty and cruel."

"And believes himself superior to others," Albus added. "I am an advocate of confidence, but not the way Tom conducts himself."

"I admit he has an ego," Horace huffed, "but who doesn't at his age?"

Armando could only shake his head.

Horace was blind to the boy and the cruelty he possessed.

Armando just hoped he saw it before young Tom crossed the line.

(Break)

Gellert had slept little, opting to spend the early hours of the morning pondering the successes and failings of the attack. For the most part, he was happy, much more so than Osbert who was deeply saddened by the loss of his beasts.

The ICW had responded admirably to the adversity piled upon them, and though their evident victory may serve to boost their morale, it was a calculated risk Gellert had needed to take.

Eventually, he would need to break the stalemate between his forces and those preventing him entering France.

He had learned much from the previous evening's efforts, and how man and beast would work together on the battlefield, an advantage his enemies did not have.

"Where is he?" Gellert asked impatiently.

"He assured me he will be here," Weber placated. "It is not so easy to travel at the moment."

Gellert nodded, though his patience was wearing thin.

He wanted information, to see for himself how the events of last night were being presented to the world.

"You have my apologies," Selwyn said breathlessly as he entered the study with a newspaper tucked under his arm, "I was being followed by a couple of aurors in London."

Gellert waved the man off and held his hand out expectantly.

Selwyn handed him the newspaper and took a seat at the table with Cassiopeia, Weber, and Hans whilst Gellert pored over it.

"Evans!" he huffed irritably.

"Harry Evans?" Cassiopeia questioned dangerously.

Gellert nodded and handed her the copy of The Daily Prophet and watched as her grip tightened around the edges of the newspaper.

The woman was bitter about both of her defeats to the man, an understandable feeling when she prided herself on her ability in duelling.

Learning that Evans had singlehandedly killed a dragon would do little to improve her mood.

"So, he has joined the war," she seethed.

"Probably in response to you attempting to murder his aunt and uncle," Weber pointed out disapprovingly.

Cassiopeia shrugged and Gellert shook his head.

It seemed that he may just have another powerful enemy to contend with, this one openly fighting against him on the front lines, and not lurking in the shadows like a coward.

"Evans is dangerous," Weber said matter-of-factly. "He is an unknown who killed a dragon."

"What do we know about him?" Gaulitier asked curiously.

He'd had little involvement in previous discussions about the man.

"Very little," Weber sighed. "He is an orphan that arrived at Hogwarts to complete his last two years of education. He graduated and became an investor. His work in the field is already noteworthy, his investments swelling his wealth."

"That's it?" Hans questioned with a frown.

Weber nodded.

"There are no records of him prior to attending Hogwarts."

"He is a half-blood," Cassiopeia added, "and he is close to the Potter family."

"I don't suppose he is best pleased that William Potter was killed in action," Selwyn broke in knowingly.

"I suppose not," Gellert muttered, "but Weber is right. He is an exceedingly skilled wizard. It was not luck the way he handled the dragon. He defeated it with poise, skill, and ruthlessness. He has been trained well or is experienced in such things. No man could remain so composed when faced with a dragon if they hadn't been in such danger before."

"What about his patronus?" Selwyn questioned. "Couldn't that tell us more about him?"

Gellert frowned thoughtfully.

"A dog," he acknowledged, remembering the ethereal being chasing the dementors away from the battlefield.

It was an impressive piece of magic that took considerable work to master.

"A grim," Weber interjected.

"A grim?" Cassiopeia whispered. "An omen of death."

"Or embodiment of Death," Weber offered.

"Embodiment of death?" Gellert asked, his hand wandering to his wand.

Weber nodded darkly.

"In some cultures, Death is represented by the Grim, a large canine that gathers the souls of those passed on. It is a bad omen to see. Some believe that death comes for those that it visits from the shadows."

It was quite an unnerving tale, but that was all it was and Gellert snorted.

He had an object purportedly created by the mystical being.

He certainly wouldn't pay heed to something so trivial as a patronus.

For all Gellert knew, Evans' patronus was nothing more than a common mutt.

"If he remains on the front lines, he could prove to be a problem," Weber pointed out. "His mere presence will embolden his comrades."

Gellert nodded his agreement.

His curiosity in Harry Evans had been piqued, not only for the prowess he had demonstrated thus far, but the mystery that surrounded him.

"If he is to be a problem, then he is to be dealt with."

"I will do it!" Cassiopeia volunteered immediately.

Gellert shook his head.

"No," he denied. "I will meet him on the battlefield myself. I will get a measure of how gifted he truly is."

Cassiopeia was unashamedly affronted, but she said nothing, her jaw tightening to prevent herself from doing so.

"Do you think it is wise, Gellert?" Weber asked leaning forward in his chair. "It would only take an errant spell for disaster to strike."

"It is risky," Gellert admitted, "but I will show them that their lives will be forfeit if they were to try and engage me. The men of the ICW will fear me, and then I will confront Evans."

"So, more attacks?" Weber questioned.

"Tactical ones," Gellert confirmed. "It is time for them to witness the power that I possess."

"What of The Serpent?" Weber asked.

Gellert nodded thoughtfully.

"If he decides to slither out of his hole, I will be ready for him."

The Serpent had already escaped him once, and Gellert would not allow that to happen again.

When it came to Evans, he was merely a man who had admittedly been resourceful enough to kill a dragon.

An impressive feat, but Gellert was no dragon.

Gellert was much more dangerous than a fire breathing lizard.

He had the wand of destiny, and his destiny was to see his vision of the world come to fruition.

Not Evans nor The Serpent could prevent that from happening

(Break)

Grindelwald's men were shouting across no-man's-land again, but they were receiving no reply. They were feeling confident, bolstered by the events of the previous night.

Twenty-three men had been killed, but as Moody had pointed out, it certainly could have been many more.

"Are they still carrying on?" Gilbert huffed.

"Ignore them," Yaxley urged taking a swig from his water bottle. "Let them think they've achieved something. We'll soon wipe the grins off their faces."

For Harry, that couldn't come soon enough.

He didn't itch to find himself in the chaos of another battle so soon, but the constant insults were beginning to grate on him.

Still nursing the injuries he'd sustained, he was not in the best of moods, and the letter from Nicholas had done little to lift his spirits.

He was still yet to hear from Minerva, but he knew she wouldn't be best pleased by his antics.

Harry released a deep breath as he hissed gently, the sound of it echoing across the expanse of land he and his companions called home for the time being.

The insults ceased immediately, and all was quiet for a moment before panicked shouts were heard from the opposing trenches as commands were given.

They truly feared being visited by The Serpent.

"NOT SO BLOODY TALKATIVE NOW, ARE YOU?" Gilbert called over, laughing heartily. "HEY, IF YOU ASK NICELY, WE MIGHT HAVE SOME SPARE PANTS FOR YOU."

The rest of the men in the trench joined in the laughter as the sound of hissing continued and the symbol The Serpent had adopted flared into life over no-man's-land.

It was little more than some clever charms work that Harry had carried out that allowed him to summon the symbol to appear at his whim, but he couldn't help but compare it to the Dark Mark he remembered with such disdain.

The mark itself was nothing but an image, but it was what it represented that made it such an effective weapon, and though Harry was loathe to use a tactic adopted by Voldemort, he couldn't deny the impact such a simple thing could have.

Fear.

Grindelwald's men feared Harry the same way wizarding Britain had come to fear Voldemort, the mere sight of his bastardised version of the Hallows eliciting panic and terror amongst the ranks.

"I'm going to bed," he announced. "I need some more burn salve."

He did.

His hand was tingling intensely, making the urge to itch it almost unbearable, and with the enemy having been cowed for the time being, it was time to get some rest.

Entering the room he shared with Charlus he flicked his wand into his hand, a feeling of something that didn't belong here making itself immediately known.

The magic was somewhat familiar, but it wasn't until he took note of the two red envelopes left on his pillow embossed with the seal of the ICW that he recognised who it belonged to.

"Fox," he muttered.

Evidently, she had used some advanced concealment charms to enter the trenches to deliver the envelopes, all in the name of making her all the more mysterious.

He would need to discuss her intrusion with Moody.

He sighed as he opened the one addressed to him, the other belonging to Charlus.

Dear Mr Evans,

You are cordially invited to attend a gathering of the International Confederation of Warlocks on 01/08/1940 to honour the valour of you, and a selection of your comrades in the ongoing conflict against Grindelwald.

Your actions have of late have been noted and it is felt that you are deserving of our recognition.

You are to be the recipient of our highest honour, and we look forward to presenting you with it.

Congratulations, Mr Evans.

We look forward to greeting.

Yours faithfully,

Pierre Abreo

Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Warlocks.

Harry shook his head as he folded up the letter and pocketed it.

Now was not the time to be handing out accolades, not when the entire focus of those opposing Grindelwald should be firmly on fighting him.

Harry suspected the award was being given to help convince him and Charlus to join the special unit Moody had informed them of.

No award would change Harry's mind, and he resented the fact that any believed he could be bought with a mere trinket.

He didn't fight for medals or to carve himself out a memorable legacy, and the ICW would find that out for themselves soon enough.