Bedside Manner

His eyelids felt heavy, and they ached uncomfortably squeezing them shut as the stark whiteness of the room invaded his vision. It was a familiar brightness, as was the smell of disinfectant mixed with potions he had experienced many times during his years at Hogwarts.

"I don't suppose there's no chance that I'm not in a hospital, is there?" Harry croaked, his throat dry and raw.

The man in the chair next to his bed all but jumped out of it in surprise or relief, perhaps both.

"My boy, you've had us so worried," Nicholas sighed, the relief in his tone unmissable.

Harry groaned as he opened his eyes once more, and though it wasn't as uncomfortable as it had been the first time, it was still unpleasant.

"The lights, Nick," he muttered.

The room darkened, and Harry was able to keep his eyes open, and his initial assessment of where he was proved to be correct.

He was in Hospital, but it wasn't Hogwarts.

"You're in Paris," Nicholas informed him, seeing the look of confusion marring his features. "They did all they could for you in the trenches, but you were moved here when the extent of your injuries became known."

Harry nodded his understanding.

"What happened?" he asked. "I remember fighting Grindelwald, but that's it."

Nicholas released a deep breath.

"You were struck by muggle artillery," he explained. "You're lucky to be alive. I'm guessing the shield you cast on impact saved you. Young Charlus got you out of there."

Harry snorted.

"Bloody saving people thing," he grumbled.

It was evidently a Potter trait.

"He's a good man, Harry. You should be proud of the family that birthed you. He even went back and retrieved this," Nicholas explained, placing the dagger he had gifted Harry on the bedside table.

"I am," Harry assured him, "but it doesn't mean I won't give him a kick up the arse for risking his life like that."

"Would you not have done the same?"

Harry conceded the point with a nod.

"So, what's the damage?"

Nicholas shook his head.

"Your left leg was in a bad way. You almost lost it because of the injuries, but the healers here have done a wonderful job putting you back together," he explained. "They had to cut away a considerable amount of flesh from your left side and regrow a significant part of your lung before they could even administer the Skelegro. They felt comfortable enough to do that three days ago, and the healers assures me you're well on the way to being back to your usual self."

"Quite bad then?"

Nicholas's nostrils flared.

"You died twice whilst they were fixing you, Harry," he sighed. "Merlin knows how you pulled through, but you're still here and will live to fight another day."

Harry released a deep breath.

"It would be too easy if he was killed, wouldn't it?"

Nicholas shrugged in response.

"Nothing has been heard of him," he informed Harry. "The fighting has come to a stop, so he is either dead, or in no better state than you."

Harry shook his head.

"No, he's still out there. The world wouldn't be so kind to make it so easy."

"I don't suppose it would," Nicholas replied sadly. "Perenelle sends her love, and a considerable portion of the world is waiting to see if you pull through."

"The world?"

Nicholas nodded.

"Your fight with Grindelwald and what happened has been well documented this past week. I'm sorry, but it seems everyone is looking to you to defeat him now."

"Great," Harry muttered sarcastically. "What about Minerva, have you seen her?"

"I received a letter from her shortly after the news broke. She is inconsolable. You should let her know you are doing well before anyone else."

"I will," Harry assured the alchemist. "Is Perenelle angry."

Nicholas shook his head.

"Terrified, as we all have been," Nicholas replied with a smile. "If you'll take a look to your left, you will see how much you mean to everyone."

Harry did so and his eyes widened at the mountain of gifts, flowers and cards that had been delivered here.

"The healers have had to move you twice to make space for it all, and they've had to empty a storage room for the rest. The world is grateful for what you've done, Harry."

"Fighting Grindelwald?"

"Not just that," Nicholas said dismissively. "Everything. Leading your men, the dementors, the dragon. The list goes on. As much as you despise it, you are a hero to many, and have achieved the level of fame you managed to leave behind when you arrived here."

The Frenchman was smiling smugly, and Harry felt the urge to kick him.

"You're enjoying this," he accused.

"I am," Nicholas said unashamedly. "You have done extraordinary things that you should be proud of, and the world doesn't even know of half of them."

Harry released a deep breath.

"I'd rather they didn't know any of them."

"That just makes you an even better man than anyone could hope for," Nicholas chuckled. "Anyway, I should inform Perenelle that you are alive and on the mend. Besides, there are a couple of people who wish to speak with you waiting outside. I'll send the first one in."

Harry frowned as Nicholas left the room, and just as he began to wonder who was here, the door opened to admit someone who would not have even been in the first five people he would have considered.

"Do you remember me, Mr Evans?" he asked.

"You're the Supreme Mugwump."

"Pierre Abreo," the man confirmed. "I'm not here in my official capacity, well that's not strictly true, but I'm here as a man of France first and foremost. The people of France are indebted to you as they are the rest of the men defending our border. Time and time again you have kept us safe from those that wish to subjugate us, and for that, my people would like you to have this."

The man removed a box from within his robes before opening it and revealing a white, green, and gold medal on an intricate gold chain.

"It is known as the Legion of Honour and is our highest award to those deserving of it. What you have done more than merits this, Mr Evans."

"Do I not get a ceremony?" Harry asked.

Abreo snorted as he shook his head.

"I think in the circumstances, such things can wait until after the war, don't you?"

The man had learned his lesson, and Harry nodded his agreement.

"Of course, with the unfortunate death of Monsieur Moody, you have been elevated to the position of Commander of the British Forces. I expect your country will make that announcement now that they know you will pull through."

"What happened to him?"

"His body was sent home, and he will be buried with the highest honour of your country and mine. He was given the very same medal as you but posthumously. We French do not forget the sacrifices made on the battlefield. I am deeply sorry for what happened to him, he was a good and brave man."

"He was," Harry murmured.

Abreo gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

"Let no loss or sacrifice be forgotten, Monsieur Evans. The best way to honour the fallen is to give them the victory they fought for."

With a nod, the man took his leave of the room, only for another to enter before the door had closed.

"Yaxley?" Harry asked, even more surprised by this visitor.

"I was sent to guard you, sir," the man explained. "Potter wanted to be here, but he's in charge at the moment."

"I bet he's loving that," Harry snorted.

Yaxley shook his head.

"He was bloody furious when he wasn't allowed to come."

"So, you did instead?"

"I've been here since they brought you in," Yaxley confirmed.

"Protecting my life with your own?" Harry quipped.

"Exactly," Yaxley said severely.

Harry was taken aback by the seriousness of the reply, but more so the sincerity the man spoke with.

"Well, I appreciate it," he said gratefully.

Yaxley nodded.

"I'll leave you to it," he offered, "But I won't be far away if you need me."

Harry could only shake his head as he was left alone once more.

Never in his life would he have thought that a Yaxley would be protecting him. One had tried to kill him in the Department of Mysteries only a few years prior, not that they knew that now.

"How're you feeling?" Nicholas asked as he returned.

"I've been better," Harry chuckled.

"I imagine you have," Nicholas returned with a grin as he picked up the medal Abreo had left on the bedside table. "This is a real honour, Harry. Never forget that you earned this."

"I'll feel like I earned it more when Grindelwald is dead."

"By your hand?"

Harry nodded.

"It doesn't seem like it will end any other way," he sighed. "The prophecy…"

His words trailed off and Nicholas offered him a comforting smile.

"You think that it applies to Grindelwald now?"

"Both," Harry huffed. "Born to those that thrice defied him. I'm not William's son, but he defied Grindelwald three times before he was killed, just like my parents."

"That could be coincidence," Nicholas pointed out.

"It could," Harry conceded, "but it seems I have been marked as his equal," he added, pointing to the barely visible mark of the elder wand that sat beneath his eye.

"Perhaps not such a coincidence," Nicholas relented. "Prophecies and the like are types of magic I have little understanding of, but it seems to me that you have been chosen as fate's champion to right another wrong in the world."

Harry nodded.

"As much as I try to ignore it, there has been something pulling me and him together the same way it did with me and Voldemort," he explained. "Maybe it is my lot in life to fend off Dark Lords until one of them finally kills me."

"Or you vanquish them."

Harry snorted.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord," he parroted the opening line of the prophecy. "Lord, not Lords."

"Does it need to be so specific?" Nicholas questioned.

Harry shook his head.

"It never is with divination," he replied irritably.

Nicholas offered him a look of sympathy.

"For what it is worth, I don't believe I have ever met a better man the world can look to that can help them when it is most needed. As noble as you are, Harry, you've proven to be ruthless when needed, an able wizard, and strong leader. It maybe you that kills Grindelwald and Voldemort, but with the loyalty you inspire, the journey won't be a lonely one. I still have every faith that you will emerge victorious, that you will not only survive, but live a fruitful life that will be remembered. Your legacy is already building, and I don't believe your story ends with this war or the next."

Harry eyed the alchemist questioningly for a moment, the belief in him quite moving.

"How can you be certain?"

"Because I've watched you grow from a scared and angry boy into a man that I couldn't be prouder of. I've seen what you are capable of, what you've become."

Harry shook his head.

"I'm not so different from them," he pointed out. "I have killed, I have terrorised his followers at every turn, and I don't feel an ounce of guilt for it."

"And why should you?" Nicholas asked. "The world has treated you cruelly, and what you have, you've had to fight for. These men would kill you without remorse, you've just been better at it, and not because you seek power or influence, but because you wish to keep those safe that do not have the means to do so themselves."

What Nicholas had said was true, but that wasn't his only motivation.

"What if I want revenge for what has been done to me?"

"Must the reasons why be exclusive?" Nicholas questioned.

Did they?

For as long as he could remember now, Harry had been fuelled by his desire to kill Voldemort for what he had done to his parents, for what had happened to Sirius, and to him.

Before then, he had spent his formative years being terrified of the man that haunted him, had fumbled his way through each encounter with the Dark Lord until he realised that fate would not be satisfied until one had killed the other.

Harry wouldn't give Voldemort or Grindelwald that satisfaction, and he wouldn't see any other subjected to the same misery he had experienced.

Maybe Nicholas was right.

The man grinned triumphantly.

"Even after six centuries of living, it still feels good to prove someone wrong," he boasted. "Now, you have a letter to write, don't you? Besides, I've been here for a week. I can only imagine what kind of mischief Camille has gotten herself into."

"Camille?" Harry asked curiously.

"Oh, she's a beautiful little pup I found in the woods," Nicholas explained. "Perenelle pretends she's not as fond of the girl as I am, but she's being won over."

"And if anyone throws shit over your wall again, you can return the favour when you go home."

"I said the same thing!" Nicholas exclaimed excitedly.

Harry could only shake his head.

Nicholas would always be a troublemaker where his neighbours were concerned.

Why he had never just brought the house when it went up for sale, Harry knew not.

A part of him believed Nicholas enjoyed the rivalries he had with his neighbours too much to solve the problem in such an uncomplicated way.

"You'd best get me some ink and parchment," Harry sighed, choosing not to voice his thoughts.

Nicholas would only deny it anyway.

(Break)

Gellert was not in a good way. For hours after Cassiopeia had portkeyed him off the battlefield, the healers had been hard at work keeping him alive via a multitude of potions as they pieced him back together.

One of his arms had been hanging off and his stomach needed extensive medical attention to fix.

For a while, Cassiopeia had been fearful he wouldn't make it, but the timely intervention of the healers had assured his survival.

He had woken up a few days' prior, dazed and confused, but very much alive much to her relief.

Since then, he had been insisting he be allowed to return to the trenches so that the men could see all was well, but he hadn't been able to even stand.

His body may be broken, but his spirit could not be quelled.

Gellert was determined, a strong man if nothing else, and one Cassiopeia was proud to serve.

"Will I be allowed to leave today?" he huffed as she entered his room, her arms full of the books he'd requested.

"No," Cassiopeia answered simply. "Until you are able to eat unassisted and your wounds have healed, you are to remain here."

Gellert was not pleased by the denial, but he didn't argue.

As ever, he would bide his time and be back to himself sooner than the healers would like.

He was mostly there already which explained his impatience to leave.

"Are we going to talk about what happened now?" Cassiopeia asked irritably.

Gellert had said nothing of the night he and Evans had fought, falling stubbornly silent whenever it was mentioned.

"What is there to say?" Gellert muttered. "It is as I have been saying all along. The muggles have become very dangerous, and what happened proves that."

"What about Evans?"

He had proven himself to be a dangerous foe.

Cassiopeia had watched as the young man and Gellert had come to blows, and though neither had gotten the better of the exchange. There was no denying, from what she had witnessed, that he could be a threat.

"He is very good," Gellert acknowledged, "powerful and his form is impeccable, but he is no match for me. We barely warmed up before we were interrupted, but I got enough of a measure of the man to know that in the end, I will defeat him."

He believed it and the confidence he exhibited filled Cassiopeia with relief.

She believed in Gellert more than any other ever could, but to hear him so sure alleviated her concerns.

Much to her own chagrin and shame, she had finally admitted to herself that she wasn't a match for Evans.

"Do we have any news on his status?"

"Weber says that he is alive, but in no better state than you. He was transferred to Paris a week ago according to his spy."

Gellert nodded his understanding.

"They are hailing him a hero," Cassiopeia pointed out, showing the various newspapers she had accumulated over the passing days.

"To those that oppose us, he is," Gellert sighed. "To many, I am a monster that wishes to rule over them, to dictate the way their lives should be lived. They cannot see that I wish to help them, to set them free. The muggles are dangerous and will only become more so if they are left unchecked."

"Magical folks are stubborn," Cassiopeia sighed. "They don't like change."

"Not even if it is best for them?" Gellert chuckled humourlessly. "That is why we must be successful. We must prove to them that what we are doing is for the greater good. Once they see it, we can rebuild the world together in a way that ensures our safety."

"And if they don't?"

"They must," Gellert said firmly. "There is no other way."

Cassiopeia nodded her agreement.

The war such as the one they found themselves embroiled in was not what Gellert wanted, but he would fight until his dying breath to see his vision brought to life, and she would be right there with him.

"Shouldn't we try to have Evans killed whilst he is vulnerable?"

Gellert shook his head.

"No, a man like him deserves to die on his feet, by my hand. Our own men will have their doubts now, and I must put them to rest. For that, Evans must be seen to be my inferior."

"If you're sure?"

"I am," Gellert replied with a smile. "Thank you for bringing me these. Do keep me informed of any developments."

"I will," Cassiopeia replied as she stood from the chair she had been occupying. "Why did you ask for books on runes?" she asked curiously. "You're an expert in the art."

"I am," Gellert acknowledged, "but I must devise a way to prevent what happened from doing so again. I need to protect our men from the muggles."

Cassiopeia nodded her understanding.

Whatever the muggle weapons were that had been unleashed on them had been devastating.

Many had lost their lives as they fled.

"Then I will leave you to it."

Gellert waved her off, his head already buried in one of the books she had brought, and Cassiopeia returned to her duties, ensuring the men were prepared for the next unavoidable fight that would occur.

(Break)

Being in a position of command was not something Charlus had considered, but with the death of Gabriel Moody and Harry being out of commission, the responsibility fell to him, for the time being at least.

It was not something he relished.

For the past week, he had spent his time compiling a list of the dead and signing generic letters informing the families of their losses. When he wasn't doing that, he was reading through missives from the ICW and other commanders along the trenches.

Why they couldn't just come and speak with him, he didn't know. But a part of him was glad they didn't.

He was in no mood to feign politeness, not when he was so worried about his friend whose life was hanging in the balance.

How own injuries had been minor in comparison, and a days' rest had seen him feeling much better.

A fractured arm, some bruised ribs and some cuts were quite trivial to heal, and he hadn't lost much blood.

He was back on his feet the next day, unable to rest anymore with the thoughts that plagued him, and the memories that played over in his mind.

War was something none should experience, something that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

"What is it?" he growled as someone knocked on his door.

Charlus was once more reading letters when he should be out continuing the training with the men. In his capacity, he had doubled the time each day they spent practicing.

Many had complained, but he was trying to save their lives, and when he explained his motivation for the increase, they had fallen silent, their complaints quickly forgotten.

"This just came from Yaxley," Gilbert informed him, handing Charlus a sealed envelope.

Without preamble, he tore it open, releasing a deep breath at the most welcome of news.

"How is he?" Gilbert asked.

"Awake and doing well given the circumstances. Come on, let's break the news to the men, shall we?"

Gilbert nodded eagerly and the two of them left the room where most of the men under his command had already gathered, the arrival of Yaxley's missive not having gone unnoticed.

"He's awake!" Charlus announced, unable to hide his own smile.

The men cheered uproariously, so loud that even those in Grindelwald's trench would have heard their jubilation.

"That doesn't mean we are going to slack," Charlus warned when the noise had died down. "We are going to work just as hard so that when Harry gets back, he won't have to spend so much time kicking your arses up and down the trenches."

The group laughed, though Charlus expected with Harry in charge, there was little humour to be found in his words.

Harry would ensure they were prepared, and if the men believed Charlus was a taskmaster, they had seen nothing yet.

He remembered their days at Hogwarts when Harry would be up hours before anyone else, practicing his magic and doing whatever else he did before the sun had even risen.

No, they had been eased into the additional training thus far.

By the time Harry was done with them, there would be none more prepared for what was to come.

"Get your arses out in the back field," Charlus commanded.

They followed his instructions, a spring in their step at the news of Harry's recovery, their morale restored.

"I WANT SOME LAPS OUT OF YOU!" he called after them, snorting as they groaned, but complied, nonetheless. "That means you too, Gilbert."

The short man nodded and followed after the others and Charlus paused in his own stride as he caught sight of the spider crawling up his sleeve.

"He's fine," he assured the woman, "well, he will be. Keep doing what you are and let me know the second you find anything."

Summerbee clicked her pincers together before lowering herself to the ground on a thread of silk.

Charlus had set her to work in Harry's absence, knowing his friend wouldn't want to delay her efforts despite his condition.

With her scuttling off to continue her investigations, Charlus took to his heels, running to catch up to the men he was in charge of, though not for much longer.

As soon as Harry arrived, he would assume command, the thought of his friend being awake, and probably making life hell for his healers bringing a grin to the Potter lord's lips.

(Break)

Fretting, that's all Minerva seemed to do since Harry had gone to the frontlines to take the fight to Grindelwald and his men. It was a tiring past time, and one she could do without, but Harry's proclivity of landing himself in trouble could only be matched by his knack for getting out of it again.

Still, that didn't stop her worrying about him, and even cursing herself for feeling the way she did.

No, that wasn't true.

Despite the worry he caused, she wouldn't be without him.

"Minerva, you have a visitor downstairs," her mother informed her as she opened the door to her bedroom.

Like a shot, Minerva was out of her chair and all but sprinting down the stairs.

When she entered the kitchen, it was to find her father seated at the table with Nicholas Flamel, the alchemist looking tired but relaxed.

"Harry?" Minerva questioned.

Nicholas nodded, a bright smile cresting his lips as he removed an envelope from within his robes and handed it to her.

"He is doing remarkably well," he assured Minerva who was already tearing the letter open.

Dear Minerva,

I think I might have worried you again, but this time it wasn't my fault. Who could have predicted a muggle explosion would have gotten me?

Minerva gave a watery chuckle at the absurdity of the situation before she continued to read.

For what it is worth, I am sorry, and I will be fine as soon as these mad healers let me out of here. Honestly, they are as bad as Poppy.

Is it possible that she's a little bit French?

Anyway, there's nothing I can write here that I don't want to say to you when I see you, which I'm hoping will be soon.

I miss you and hope you won't be angry with me by the time I'm home.

I wish I could promise that I will be careful, but as my luck goes, we both know I can't do that.

Harry,

Alive and well, just not well enough for you to kick my arse as I know you've considered.

Minerva chuckled once more, wiping away the tears that unwittingly spilled out at the sheer relief she felt knowing Harry was going to be okay.

"Stupid man," she huffed amusedly.

"That he is," Nicholas sighed in agreement, "but a good one."

Minerva nodded.

"Is he really okay?"

Nicholas released a deep breath.

"As well as can be expected. He's incredibly lucky to be alive."

"What's the damage?"

Nicholas shook his head.

He broke just about every bone in his left leg, tore away the muscles and ligaments, and a portion of his torso. They've fixed his leg, and his lung has been regrown along with his ribs and skin on his left side."

Minerva swallowed deeply, those kinds of injuries could have been fatal.

"Will he make a full recovery?"

"He's already up and walking," Nicholas chuckled. "He's a stubborn man."

"Up and walking?" Robert interjected in disbelief.

"Wizarding medicine is much more advanced than what you're used to, dad," Minerva explained, "but isn't it still too soon for him to be up?"

Nicholas shrugged.

"I suppose with the phoenix tears in his blood, he heals quicker than most," he mused aloud. "The healers didn't expect him to wake for another week, and predicted he'd be with them for a few more after that. If Harry had his way, he'd be back in the trenches already."

He would.

Minerva knew him better than anyone and the man could not remain idle.

"I'm sorry, phoenix tears?" Isobel broke in.

"From something that happened to him when he was a boy," Minerva explained. "So, he'll be going back?"

"I don't think any of us could keep him away if we tried," Nicholas replied sadly. "If truth be told, he is needed. His men look up to him, have the utmost respect for him. I can think of no other more suitable to lead them."

"Lead them?"

Nicholas nodded.

"With the death of Gabriel Moody, Harry has been made the Commander of the British Forces. It was an inevitable appointment."

Minerva chuckled.

"I bet he just loved that."

"Oh, he had a few choice words for his new position, none that I would repeat in polite company."

"But he accepted?"

"What choice did he have? He is a hero, and the best man for the job."

"Did you tell him that?"

"I did," Nicholas confirmed.

Minerva smirked at the thought of Harry having quite the sulk at being called a hero. He would never see himself in such a way, no matter what it was he'd achieved.

"Thank you for bringing me this," she said sincerely. "I'm relieved, but already awaiting the next time he gets himself into trouble."

"As are we all," Nicholas huffed good-naturedly. "If there is nothing else, I shall return to my own home."

"Goodbye, Mr Flamel," Robert offered, showing the man to the door.

"I can't believe we had him in our home," Isobel muttered. "The Nicholas Flamel."

"Is he famous?" Robert asked.

"As about as famous as anyone can be," Isobel replied.

"What, that old chap? What has he done to become so famous?"

"Are you going to tell him, or shall I?" Minerva asked.

"That will take some time," Isobel laughed. "I will tell him, dear. I can already see your hands itching to write to him. Go on, you go ahead."

Minerva offered her mother a grateful smile as she headed back to her room, chuckling at the last outburst she heard from her father before she closed her door.

"SIX-HUNDRED-YEARS-OLD!"

It would take her mother a while to convince her father of the truth and explain the complexity that was alchemy and the Philosopher's Stone.

If she could manage it at all.

In the meantime, Minerva had a letter to write, and though she wanted to chastised Harry for what had happened, she couldn't.

She realised long ago that being a part of Harry's life meant growing used to him finding himself in dangerous, and ridiculous situations.

Minerva didn't like it, especially the fallout where he would be hurt, but she was growing used to it.

There were times she could strangle Harry, but for now, she was just pleased to know he would be okay, that he would recover, and that she would see him again.

She missed him, more than she ever thought she possible, and even more so the more time that passed since she last saw him.

It had been months, and she was anticipating his return, looking forward to it more than she ever had anything else.

With a sigh, she took a seat at her desk and retrieved some fresh parchment, some ink, and a quill, her eyes drifting to the photo of the two of them fighting over the last mouthful of treacle tart.

They were simpler times, and Minerva looked forward to when they were here once more.

(Break)

"That could work," Gellert murmured to himself as he finished etching out his runic circles, "but how to create it?"

For hours he had pored over the books Cassiopeia brought him in an attempt to mitigate the risk the muggle weaponry posed to his men, and though he was confident he had formulated something that would work, it would be much more complex to create physically than he'd anticipated.

The Elder wand was a powerful tool, but he had his doubts that it could cast all the necessary magic at once to see his idea come to fruition.

It would take some further pondering, but in the meantime, Cassiopeia had arrived whilst he was working and was looking at him expectantly.

"What is it?" Gellert asked.

The woman said nothing as she placed the edition of The Daily Prophet on his lap, and he read the headline with no small amount of irritation.

Harry Evans named Commander of the British Forces!

Gellert didn't need to read the accompanying article to know that it would be little more than a ringing endorsement for his foe, though Evans' appointment could be a blessing in disguise.

Checking over his formulations once more, he nodded thoughtfully.

"It could work," he mused aloud. "It certainly could work."

"What could?" Cassiopeia questioned.

"Nothing definite," Gellert said dismissively, not wanting to discuss his current trail of thoughts with the woman who would react quite poorly. "Fetch me some parchment and ink, and an owl."

Cassiopeia frowned but did not question the order as she left the room.

"It could work," Gellert reiterated as he checked his work for the umpteenth time, a triumphant smile gracing his lips.

(Break)

"See, I can walk fine," Harry huffed. "Can I leave now?"

He had woken up three days ago now, and as ever when he found himself under the care of a healer, he was keen to be released.

He did feel fine for the most part.

His leg was a little stiff, but it would be back to normal soon enough.

The French Woman huffed irritably.

"Monsieur Evans, you must be the most difficult patient I have dealt with in a very long time."

"I don't like hospitals," Harry grumbled.

Madame Borg hummed.

"It is not only your leg that concerns," she said gently. "By rights, you should not be on your feet yet, and your lung needs more time."

"My lung is fine, look."

He took several deep breaths to show that he could breathe without issue and the woman eyed him curiously.

"You feel no discomfort?"

"None."

The healer shook her head.

"You are quite the marvel, aren't you," she murmured. "Very well, I will speak with Monsieur Laurent, but if he says no, you will be back in that bed even if I have to tie you to it!"

"Promises promises," replied cheekily.

Madame Borg's nostrils flared, evidently not appreciating his dry humour.

She left the room and Harry sat in the chair.

He's spent too long in bed and had no desire to waste any more time in it.

Madame Borg returned several minutes later with a short, bespectacled man in her wake who said nothing before examining Harry's leg.

"Your leg is healing remarkably well," he commented. "I think some light exercise will be good for you, now hold still."

Drawing his wand, he cast some charms on Harry's torso and tutted as he shook his head.

"I'm afraid not all of the scarring will fade, Monsieur Evans, but your lung is very strong. I do not think there is anything else we can do for him, Madame Borg."

"Does that mean I can leave?" Harry asked hopefully.

Laurent nodded, though quite reluctantly.

"You must take it easy for at least a week," he instructed. "If I see you back here, it will be for an extended stay with us, understood?"

"Understood," Harry replied, excited by the prospect of leaving the hospital.

"Then you should get dressed and then you can be discharged. Madame Borg will see you out."

"Finally," Harry muttered as the man left and Madame Borg glared at him with her arms folded across her chest.

"I do not agree with Monsieur Laurent, but it is his decision. Now, do as you're told. Get dressed and get out. I'm sure someone else will have need of your bed soon enough."

"I will," Harry assured the woman as she headed to the door.

She paused and turned to face him when she reached it, her eyes softening considerably.

"Thank you, Monsieur Evans, for keeping us safe."

She didn't wait for a reply and left Harry alone with his thoughts as he prepared to take his leave.

Nicholas had taken all the gifts and cards away from his well-wishers when he'd returned to Britain, and all Harry had was a new uniform that Yaxley had delivered and his dagger.

It didn't take him long to ready himself, and when he did, he left the hospital quickly, convinced that Madame Borg would have found a way to keep him here longer.

She seemingly hadn't gone to the trouble and as soon as it was safe for him to do so, Harry activated his portkey and left the French capitol behind and arrived in the room he shared with Charlus in the trenches.

Before he could catch his bearings, he felt himself being pulled into a tight embrace.

"What are you doing here?" Charlus asked.

"I'm back," Harry answered simply.

"Should you be?"

Harry shrugged.

"The healer wasn't keen on letting me go, but I'm fine."

Charlus looked at him sceptically before shaking his head.

"Even if you're not you wouldn't let anyone see it," he grumbled. "Anyway, since you're here, you can have this."

He removed the armband that sported three gold stripes with the crest of the ICW stitched above it and handed it to Harry.

"You can deal with the crap that being the commander brings."

Harry released a deep breath as he accepted the band and slid it onto his own arm, the burden of his new position already feeling heavy.

He looked at Charlus's tired face, the bags under his eyes and week-old scruff around his chin showing what little rest the man had gotten in his absence.

"Thanks," Harry said sincerely, "for getting me out of there."

Charlus waved him off.

"There'll be none of that," he insisted. "You've saved mine too. It's like you said, there will be a lot of that before this war is over. I only did the same thing you would've done for me, nothing more."

Harry nodded his agreement.

"How are that lot getting on?" he asked nodding towards the door, indicating the men on the other side of it.

"It's been a big adjustment for them," Charlus answered honestly. "They're scared, Harry. Having seen what he's capable of, they should be. If you hadn't have made it, I don't know what they would do. They believe you'll be the one to kill him."

"They're probably not wrong," Harry sighed.

"You never know, it might be me," Charlus replied. "Not that it matters. As long as the bastard is put in the ground, preferably with his balls rammed down his throat, I'll be happy."

"Is that a request?" Harry returned with a grin.

Charlus laughed as he clapped Harry on the shoulder.

"Come on, they'll want to know you're back."

Harry nodded as he followed Charlus from the room and into the trenches where the men were spread around, some playing cards to pass the time, others eating.

Regardless of their activities, the response from each of them was the same when they saw him.

Harry felt quite uncomfortable as they clapped and cheered for his return, but it warmed him to see how much his presence lifted their spirits, and the level of respect he could see in their eyes.

He held his hand up after a moment to silence them.

"As you were," he instructed.

"Yeah, don't clap for him too much," Charlus chuckled. "If you thought Moody was a pain in the arse, Evans will be worse."

"That's Commander Evans to you, Potter," Harry corrected with a wink.

Charlus gave him a mock salute and the men laughed.

"Enjoy the rest of today," Harry urged them. "Tomorrow, we get back to training you."

"YES, SIR!" the men chorused cheerily.

Harry could only shake his head before he frowned at the owl he spotted perched on the edge of the trench.

"Who's is that?" he asked.

When none of the men answered, he retrieved the letter it carried, and the bird took flight immediately.

Harry's jaw tightened as he took in the wax seal depicting the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, and he ran his wand over the envelope, checking for anything harmful.

There was a strong magical presence, but it was benign in nature and not intended to cause harm. If anything, it oddly felt to be the opposite, not something he would have expected from Grindelwald.

Carefully, he broke the seal before removing the sheet of parchment and reading the missive.

To Commander Evans,

It is with the utmost respect that I correspond with you in the hopes that a mutual understanding can be reached between us, only temporarily, of course.

You have now witnessed first-hand the danger that we are in from our muggle counterparts, and as I believe that you are a compassionate man that cares for the welfare of the men you lead, I would like to propose a coming together between ourselves so that we may prevent a repeat of what we endured when we last crossed paths.

I believe I have found a way that we can protect our men from such a thing occurring once more, but in order to achieve it, the work involved will require your assistance.

You need not decide now if you wish to offer it, and for the time being, I am merely requesting a meeting between us on neutral ground to discuss the possibility.

You have my word that neither myself, my followers, nor any other will harm you during this discussion, sealed by my blood.

Should any do so, the penalty to myself would be quite severe.

To reciprocate in kind, please place a drop of your own next to mine at the bottom of this parchment, and the agreement will be sealed by us both agreeing to the above terms.

I would propose that we meet in the middle of the field that separates our men in a weeks' time.

I eagerly await your response.

Gellert Grindelwald

Conducting a more thorough check of the magic that had been imbued into the parchment, Harry found that it was exactly as Grindelwald had described.

It was nothing more than some charms that were activated by having blood from two different people added to them.

Harry couldn't deny that he was curious, and also quite hopeful that there was indeed a way to protect himself and his men from the muggle shells.

He certainly had o desire to experience what he had again.

"What is it?" Charlus asked.

Harry handed him the note and the Potter lord scoffed.

"Does he think you are stupid?"

"It is as he says," Harry murmured thoughtfully.

"You're not thinking of agreeing to this madness?"

Harry rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"I think he means it," he replied. "I think he has found a way that could stop the muggle shells, and he certainly wouldn't ask for help if he didn't need it."

"So, you're going to help him?"

Harry shook his head.

"No, I'm going to make sure that we have one less thing that could kill us whilst we are here," he replied, drawing his wand across his finger, and adding the required drop of blood to the parchment. "He can't attempt to harm me," Harry assured Charlus when he looked at him incredulously. "Just as much as I won't be able to harm him."

Charlus shook his head.

"I don't like this, Harry."

"Neither do I," Harry sighed, "but sometimes we have to do things we don't like. If it keeps those shells away from us, then it might just be worth swallowing my pride to at least discuss it with him."