The Road to Home

Although Arcturus had warned him that attempting to carve a tunnel through Mont Blanc would be an arduous undertaking, Harry had not been prepared for just how difficult and frustrating it would truly be.

For weeks, the men had been slowly but surely progressing through the hard rock, chipping away mile after mile towards France.

Using blasting curses was out of the questioned. The destructive spells were unpredictable at best, and the risk of collapsing the tunnel was too high.

No, sections of stone had to be meticulously and carefully removed to mitigate the danger.

Arcturus had been right.

Even with magic, such a feat would not be easy.

Not that Harry had simply relied on the graft of the men to achieve their goal.

Whilst pondering the approach, he had concocted another idea to assist them, and though the benefits would not be reaped until they neared the end of the work, it would be a welcome boon when reached.

To secure this, however, Harry had needed to reach out to another for help, a man he had expected he would likely meet again, but not under such circumstances.

Flashback

Not wanting to involve Minister Fawley in his plan knowing the man would likely disapprove, Harry arrived in Downing St late in the evening with none any the wiser to his presence.

Not wanting to scare the Prime Minister by entering his office in an unfamiliar way, he opted to do so via the chimney, and emerged within from the fireplace.

"Good god man, you put the fright up me," Churchill gasped as he took in the sight of a soot-covered Harry.

"You have my apologies, Prime Minister," Harry offered as he cleared the mess he made with a wave of his wand. "I'm not sure if you remember me…"

"Commander Evans," Churchill cut in. "I don't meet many of your lot, and I don't forget a face. What can I do for you?"

As he had during his last visit, the Prime Minister was smoking a large cigar, and in his other hand he held a tumbler of whiskey.

He had aged also, his hair appearing thinner whereas his face was more lined and fuller.

"I came to discuss something with you and ask for your help with a problem I am facing. Perhaps if I show you our progress with the war and explain the problem, you will understand why your assistance would be most appreciated."

"Is it going badly?" Churchill asked.

Harry shook his head as he removed two rolls of parchment. Unfurling the first one, he placed it on the desk between them.

"This was the state of affairs when we last spoke. The green represents the countries we held, and the red, those held by our enemy."

"Quite the grim picture," Churchill grunted, a deep frown marring his features.

Harry nodded his agreement as unrolled the other.

"This is how much it has changed."

The Prime Minister chuckled, the motion knocking the ash dangling from the end of his cigar loose so that it scattered across the map.

"That's a damn good show, Evans," he praised, toasting Harry with his glass and taking a long puff of the cigar, "but I don't see how I can help you."

"Well, this is where we are," Harry replied, pointing to the current position his men had begun tunnelling. "We are aiming to emerge here."

"Near Chamonix?"

Harry nodded.

"It is imperative that we are not discovered during the tunnelling process…"

"You're tunnelling through the mountain?" Churchill gasped.

"We are," Harry sighed. "France is locked down too tightly to risk any other attack, so this is our best option."

"You're a bloody mad man, Evans," the Prime Minister muttered. "I like that. What do you need from me?"

Harry released a laboured breath before he spoke once more.

"I need the area where we will emerge cleared. I would like for you to drop some bombs here to condemn the area and keep people away."

Churchill frowned and leaned back in his chair.

"The French won't like that," he murmured.

"They won't," Harry agreed, "but if we are discovered, it would be a disaster. Thousands will die, and our war might just be lost."

The Prime Minister nodded, and though he may not quite have understood what was at stake, Harry's tone was more than enough to convey the severity of the situation.

"Bugger the French," he snorted. "The RAF lads will do it. We've got the best pilots and bombers on the planet, Evans. They'll clear that area for you."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and nodded gratefully.

"Thank you," he offered sincerely.

Churchill waved him off dismissively.

"We need to stick together in times like this."

"We do," Harry agreed, "but I would appreciate it if this stayed between us. Technically, I am breaking the law asking for your help."

"My lips are sealed, Evans, if you do one thing for me."

"What is it?" Harry asked warily.

"I want you to get me some Pol Roger. It's been too long since I've had a decent tipple."

Harry chuckled as he nodded his agreement.

For the commodity of a few bottles of champagne, he may have just taken a significant step in ending the war.

End Flashback

As promised, the bombing had begun a few weeks later, and the area on the other side of the mountain had been destroyed with a large crater in the rock having been left that the men of the ICW would soon reach.

(Break)

He had put off the visit home for as long as he could, but the letters from his father grew only more insistent that he did so to marry whom the man believed was his intended bride.

Reg took little joy in how his father's demeanour had initially been one of relief and how it had shifted to one of fury when he'd revealed he was already married.

For several moments, the Lord Yaxley said nothing, his jaw clenched as he looked upon his son, evidently deciding his next course of action.

Finally, he slammed his hand against the top of his desk in his study, his breathing coming in short, sharp bursts.

"The marriage will be annulled," he declared. "You will marry Parkinson's daughter, and you will make no mention of the American. Are we clear?"

Reg snorted as he shook his head.

"That's not going to happen."

His father shot to his feet, and he trembled with rage at Reg's defiance.

Had he found himself on the receiving end of the man's ire before he'd gone to war, Reg had no doubt that he would be terrified of the man, but not anymore.

Having faced what he had, and lived to fight again, he was no longer scared of his father.

He was a weak man who believed he had more power than he did.

Reg knew powerful men, and his father did not compare.

He removed a roll of parchment from within his robes and placed it calmly on the desk.

"That is a copy of my marriage certificate," he explained.

His father snatched it up, unfurling it, his face somehow growing even redder as he did so.

"Potter and Black were your witnesses?" he asked cautiously.

"And Harry conducted the ceremony," Reg confirmed.

His father's nostrils flared before he shook his head.

"Have you been treated so badly that you had to do something like this?" he questioned, waving the piece of parchment he held around.

"You sent me to war!" Reg hissed. "Despite knowing that I could be killed, you sent me, your own son, to fight."

His father snorted derisively.

"So, you just had to get back at me?"

"No," Reg disagreed. "I'm glad you sent me. It gave me a real perspective of what the world is like and how it is different to the ignorant bubble we live in here. I've made friends, most of whom you would spit on merely because of the circumstances of their birth, but these are better men than those you rub shoulders with. They're not held back by stupid traditions or delusions of their own greatness because of the blood that flow through their veins. They are great men because of how they treat those lesser than them."

"Mudbloods and filth," his father muttered with a sneer.

Reg shook his head.

"I'm not trying to change your mind," he sighed, "but you forced me into a life outside of all of this, and I have thrived and become a better person for it. I'm grateful, and I will always love you, but if you can't accept my choices, then I don't see anyway forward for us. The wife I chose is a pureblood, is not some simpering woman who will never understand what I have been through, and the one I fell in love with. Nothing you say or do will change that."

His father eyed him for a moment, almost as though he was seeing his son for the first time.

Was that pride Reg could see?

"And what of Lord Parkinson?"

"What about him?" Reg returned evenly. "Is he really going to take such offense?"

"Most likely," his father sighed. "He will expect compensation."

"He can expect my foot up his arse if he tries to seek it."

A ghost of a smirk tugged at his father's lips.

"You're too much like your mother," he sighed as he rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I will handle Parkinson."

Reg nodded appreciatively, surprised at the turn the conversation had taken.

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

His father waved him off.

"So, when do we get to meet this wife of yours?" he asked.

"Well, with a little luck, the war will be over soon. If not, I'm sure I can arrange something."

His father nodded.

"You've become quite a man in your own right, Reginald," he said thoughtfully. "Just like the ones you've associated yourself with. I don't agree with your choices, and I won't pretend to like them, but I do respect them all the same."

Reg offered the man a smile.

"Is that it?" a voice snapped from the door. "The bastard goes off and does what he likes, and you just accept it?"

"You will shut your mouth, Titus!" his father hissed. "This is no concern of yours."

"It is when I become the Lord of this family," the man countered irritably. "Lord Parkinson isn't going to let this lie. We will find ourselves in disfavour with the entire family for generations."

"Then that is their problem," Lord Yaxley snorted. "You had no right to eavesdrop on our conversation, boy. Now get out!"

Titus shot both men a look of disgust before he stormed from the room.

"Forget him, he's just acting out because of his own miserable marriage. He spends most nights sleeping here now."

"Is it that bad?" Reg questioned.

"Bad enough that the fool has decided to have an affair. I don't know who with, but he is certainly in no position to speak of our reputation with others from his own actions. I will deal with it."

Reg could only shake his head.

The only thing worse than refusing a match through a contract was being unfaithful to your spouse. It was a stain on both families, and any other party involved.

Affairs did, of course, happen, but such dalliances were done so in a way that they were never discovered.

If his father already knew, then it was likely that others did too.

Reg had no doubt the woman in question would be another pureblood. Titus would not sully himself with anyone lower.

Not that it affected Reg in any way.

He had chosen the life he wished to live, and it didn't involve adhering to pureblood practices in such a strict and intimate way.

He wouldn't turn his back on his family, but that didn't mean he would involve himself with whatever they chose to do.

He had a family of his own to build, a wife he loved, and a future to look forward to.

He could not spend it worrying about what foolishness his brother was up to, after all.

(Break)

With another school year on the cusp of ending, Tom had been spending most of his time in the Room of Requirement. His NEWTs wouldn't be until his next and final year which granted him a reprieve of any important exams.

Not that he needed to prepare for any of them.

He had achieved an Outstanding grade for all of his OWLs, and he had no doubt that his NEWTs would reflect the same brilliance he had demonstrated.

This year, he had focused on apparation, a feat he had managed with ease in the second session. Having done so, his attention switched the chamber and how he would combat whatever spells Evans had cast down there.

A simple finite wouldn't suffice, after all.

Throughout his perusal of the library, Tom had discovered many useful spells, some that could be helpful when confronting the magic that lurked in the chamber, and others to simply add to his arsenal.

Still, despite his efforts, he was not ready to venture into the bowels of the castle again.

Not yet, at least.

"What are you thinking about, Tom?" the voice of Helena broke into his thoughts.

"I'm thinking of visiting what remains of my family during the summer," he lied.

Helena smiled sadly.

"Do you think they will be pleased to see you?"

Tom shrugged.

"Perhaps," he replied.

"They would be silly not to," Helena said encouragingly.

Tom chuckled.

"I don't know what to expect. I've never had a family."

He hadn't, and he didn't desire one either.

Tom had always been alone in the world, and that would never change.

He didn't need anyone, not anymore.

When he had been but a small boy pondering if he had a family somewhere, he had wanted for them to rescue him from the orphanage, but when none did, Tom realised he could only ever rely on himself.

"Well, you should be happy that you found them."

Tom hadn't found them.

Rosier had told him that the Gaunts resided in Little Hangelton. Tom would likely not have cared enough to go to any lengths to find them himself, but since no work was involved, he wanted to visit the home of his mother, merely to see the squalor she came from of which Rosier had spoken of.

"Do you miss your mother?" he asked, changing the topic to one that would make the ghost fall silent.

It worked, and Helena said nothing for several moments, leaving Tom with his thoughts.

Much to his surprise, however, she did not shy away from the topic as she usually would.

"I do," she whispered. "I wish things could have been different between us. I wish I hadn't been so jealous of her brilliance and acted as I did."

"Is that why you chose to stay?" Tom asked curiously.

He had always wondered why Helena had not passed on, but every time he tried to discuss it with her, she made an excuse not to do so.

It piqued his interest in the ghost, and was certainly a relief from the usual, dry conversations they shared.

Helena nodded.

"I can't face my mother for the shame of what I did. Her life's work, and I stole it."

"Her life's work?" Tom pressed.

"Her diadem."

Tom had to fight the expression of excitement that threatened to form at the mention of the relic.

He had read about the lost diadem of Ravenclaw whilst he had sought more information about the locket that had once been in Burke's possession.

The diadem had not been seen since before Rowena Ravenclaw died, leading many to believe that it never existed at all.

"I'm sorry, what's a diadem?" he questioned.

"Oh, it's similar to a tiara. My mother's was special and would enhance the wisdom of the wearer."

"Really?" Tom asked, feigning surprise at the revelation.

Helena nodded.

"In a fit of jealousy, I stole it, and before I realised how awful I'd been, my mother died. As you can see, I didn't live for long after I returned to Britain."

"You hid it abroad?"

Helena nodded as translucent tears broke free.

"Yes," she choked. "I am imprisoned here and cannot retrieve it. I cannot face my mother with what I did."

Tom offered the woman a look of sympathy.

"What if I got it for you?" he offered. "If I returned her work to the castle, I'm sure she would forgive you."

Wherever it was, it had been hidden for close to a thousand years and could very well have been discovered by anyone who had no idea the value of what had come into their possession.

The chances of it still being where Helena had left it were slim at best, but Tom wanted that diadem. As a descendant of one of the founders, it should be his.

"You would do that for me?" Helena sniffled.

Tom gave her his best comforting smile as he nodded.

"Of course," he sighed. "We are friends, aren't we?"

Helena gave him a watery smile in return.

"We are," she agreed. "Thank you, Tom, for not judging me."

"We all make mistakes," he replied. "I think suffering for as long as you have is more than a penance paid. I want to help you find peace, Helena. Where did you hide it?"

"It is hidden in a forest on the continent," Helena explained. "I don't know where exactly, or how much the world has changed. It has been almost a thousand years, Tom," she finished apologetically.

The teen nodded.

He knew so little of muggle geography, or even if wizards had their own branch of it, but the world had indeed changed considerably.

Empires had risen and fallen, and countries and their boundaries had changed many times as they had been absorbed and liberated throughout the intervening centuries.

Finding the diadem could be all but impossible.

"Do you remember what the land was called?" he probed.

"It had many names throughout history," Helena sighed. "When I visited, some of the locals called it Illyria."

"Illyria," Tom murmured.

He'd never heard of such a place and would need to look into it.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

Helena shook her head apologetically.

"I don't remember much, but I did chronicle my journey in a diary. It may be able to help you find where you need to go."

"Where is your diary?"

Helena smiled sadly.

"It is hidden in my mother's room. You just need to ask for the Room of Hidden things. It's in there, somewhere."

Tom nodded his understanding as he fought the urge to smirk.

He had discovered the room himself whilst experimenting, and though it was full of junk for the most part, there had been some rather fascinating discoveries he had made in there.

"Then I will find it," he declared. "I may not be able to travel until after I have finished Hogwarts, but I will get your mother's diadem back for you."

"Really?" Helena asked pleadingly.

Tom nodded and allowed a smile to crest his lips.

"I will," he said solemnly. "You have helped me more than anyone else in this castle. It is the least I can do for you."

(Break)

The tunnelling had quickly become a rather irksome task, and Charlus had grown tired of it weeks ago. Nonetheless, the men had made considerable progress, and if Charlus had to estimate, they had to be close to breaking through to the other side where they could finally attempt to dislodge Grindelwald from France.

At this point, Charlus would welcome a battle instead of the dull work of tunnelling, and it seemed that his hope would soon come true if the cheering he suddenly heard erupt from ahead was anything to go by.

Hurrying to the front, he paused as he spotted sunlight pouring in through a small gap.

"Did we make it?" he asked.

"I believe we did," an American answered, his teeth gleaming through the dust coating face.

Cautiously, Charlus peered through the gap that had been created, and he was flooded with a mixture of relief and trepidation.

In the distance, he could see a town, and it certainly wasn't Italian.

"We made it," he whispered, holding up a hand to keep the men silent. "Someone fetch Harry," he instructed. "He will want to see this."

Charlus already knew what would come next, and it would be done so quickly.

Harry too had grown weary of how long the process had taken and would not wish risking the tunnel being discovered.

For weeks, the men had been ready, and now, they would make their journey through the tunnel and across the border into enemy territory.

(Break)

Other than the occasional jab at his defences of France, Gellert had received no reports from his men citing further activity from the ICW forces, something that both relieved and concerned him.

Evans was seemingly probing the defences to find the weakest part to attack, but he would find himself bitterly disappointed when he would find none.

Gellert and those others that were capable had worked tirelessly to ensure the security of the country, and as such, he was confident of his hold over France.

For the past several weeks, his attention had been shoring up the defences in Austria and Germany. With the influx of men he had withdrawn from Spain, they too were nigh on impregnable.

Not without the sacrifice of hundreds of men.

Although the war had undeniably taken a rather sullen, even disastrous turn for him, Gellert now believed his fortune had changed.

There was no victory to be had for Evans, not unless he was willing to become something he wasn't.

Still, despite his own brilliance and faith, Gellert could not shake the niggling notion in the back of his mind that he was missing something, that something was very wrong indeed.

Shaking his head of those thoughts, he chose to pore over the grim sight that was the map he had been updating, the sight of it since the takeover of Italy having inspired only maudlin thoughts of the future.

Now, however, he had begun to see it differently.

The map was full of opportunities for a comeback, something he fully intended on exploring.

Perhaps he would begin by reclaiming Belgium, just as Evans had when he was forced from France?

Gellert nodded to himself as he yawned.

It was too late to make any firm decisions, and he would return to his ponderings when he had rested.

Readying himself for bed, he took a moment to enjoy the feeling of security he was experiencing.

It had been a difficult year of trials and tribulations, but maybe they were now at an end.

Gellert fell asleep with that knowledge, his thoughts unavoidably remaining on his resurgence until he slipped into a peaceful slumber.

He was roughly shaken awake only a few hours later.

The sun had barely risen and Gellert was greeted by the sight of a frantic Cassiopeia Black.

"What is it?" he snapped.

"There is fighting on the French border," she explained.

Gellert chuckled to himself.

"No to worry," he said dismissively. "They won't break through."

"Gellert!" Cassiopeia growled. "They already did. Somehow they entered the country and attacked us from behind."

"How?" Gellert asked dumbly as he stood, the remainder of his sleepy state evaporating at the revelation.

Cassiopeia shook her head.

"I don't know, but they are there," she explained. "The report I've received is not good."

Gellert's jaw tightened.

He knew not how Evans had managed such a feat, but that didn't matter.

If the ICW forces had entered France en masse, and caught his own men off guard, all could be lost.

"I must go there," he decided, readying himself before retrieving his wands. "Is Evans there?"

Cassiopeia nodded darkly.

"According to the report, he is leading his men."

"Then I will do the same," Gellert murmured to himself. "This is it," he added with a snort. "If we cannot repel the attack, our cause could very well be up in flames."

Cassiopeia shook her head.

"No, it won't be the end," she offered reassuringly.

Gellert chuckled humourlessly.

"Oh, my dear sweet girl," he sighed. "I have watched you grow these past years, yet there is still some of that naivety in you. If France falls, there will be no clawing our way back. Evans will make sure of that. Now it is my job to ensure that does not happen."

"And I will be right with you."

Gellert offered the woman a genuine smile as he took her by the hand.

"Then we will emerge victorious or fall defeated together."

(Break)

As planned, they had caught Grindelwald's men unaware, the first few minutes of the ensuing battle having consisted of the enemy attempting to mount a defence.

Before they could, hundreds had been killed, and their twisted bodies were strewn across the land, most unmoving, some on the verge of death, and others screaming in agony from their wounds.

Some tried to flee, but they quickly joined the mounting corpses, and when Grindelwald's followers realised there was no escape for them, they fought for their lives with a ferocity that only such desperation could bring.

Evidently, they had been so cocksure that the impressive defences that kept attackers out of the country would not be breached, and in believing so, they had taken no measures for it.

Grindelwald's men were little more than cornered animals, scared, confused, and wanting nothing more than to break free.

There would be no mercy.

Long before they had arrived, Harry had decided that their enemies would either throw down their wands and surrender or they would die.

He was taking no chances with the lives of his own men.

The enemy had chosen to fight for Grindelwald, after all, a choice they had made willingly.

Batting aside a rupturing curse, Harry returned fire with a spell of his own and watched as his attacker's throat was torn open.

The man collapsed soundlessly to the ground, his wand all but forgotten as he frantically clutched at the wound in an attempt to stem the flow of blood that only added to the rest that had already been spilled.

He fell still even before Harry could engage his next target, a large African who was blasted backwards, his chest caved in from the impact.

The familiar smell of blood and evacuated bowels filled the air along with the never-ending cacophony of screams and moans; familiar, but no less disconcerting than the first battle Harry had taken part in so many years prior.

He despised the mass fighting, the unpredictability of what could happen and the risk of being struck down by an errant spell.

Nonetheless, there was something Harry found so invigorating about it, about feeling so alive when death was so near.

With his presence finally being noted, he soon found himself faced with several opponents at once, their eyes full of fear as they engaged him, the fear only growing when their efforts to stop him bore no fruit.

Instead, they themselves were cut down, some cleanly so that they wouldn't suffer, and others unintentionally crudely, but no longer a threat at the very least.

Harry couldn't be certain how long he fought, nor how many of Grindelwald's followers Charlus, Arcturus, Gilbert, and Yaxley had killed beside him where he knew they would remain.

Everything became somewhat a blur as the battle continued, one face becoming another, and then another as they fell, but were always replaced in a seemingly endless cycle.

It wasn't until a familiar presence made itself known that Harry was pulled from the heat of battle, only to see that Grindelwald himself had arrived and was attempting to rally his troops.

Whilst they reformed into something that resembled a cohesive unit, the man's gaze swept across the battlefield until they came to rest on Harry.

The two glared at one another, the history between them having culminated into this moment, and Grindelwald merely nodded in acknowledgement as he placed his wand to his throat.

"NO MORE OF OUR MEN NEED TO DIE, COMMANDER," he called. "LET US INDULGE IN WHAT APPEARS TO BE FATE'S DESIRE AND SETTLE THE ANIMOSITY BETWEEN US."

Fate.

It was a concept that had seemingly followed Harry around for his entire life, and he had grown tired of it, had come to despise the notion that there were moments in his future that were destined to happen, that they were unavoidable.

This felt like it was one of them, and he forced the words of the prophecy from his mind, his nostrils flaring.

It was not often he would agree with Grindelwald on anything, but the war had brought them to this moment, the words of a prophecy yet to be spoken here perhaps contributing to that.

Regardless of whether Harry believed in it or not, here they were, two men who led others into battle who could settle the entire affair between them.

A year ago, Harry had not entertained the idea that the war would be ended with Grindelwald's death, but as he looked upon what remained of his followers, he began to believe it just might.

With all the defeats they had suffered, their cause would collapse without their leader.

They looked to him and were relying on him to fix the problem they faced. Without Grindelwald, they were nothing.

Harry's men were not of the same disposition.

When he looked at them, he saw determination, a willingness to fight because if they didn't, the world around them would become something far worse than it already was.

Harry snorted as he shook his head and placed the tip of his wand to his throat.

"IF YOU DIE, THEN MAYBE THE WAR WILL BE OVER," he conceded. "BUT MY DEATH WILL SETTLE NOTHING. MY MEN WILL CONTINUE TO FIGHT AS THEY ALWAYS HAVE. MY LIFE IS MUCH LESS IMPORTANT THAN YOURS HERE."

"THEN WHAT IS IT YOU ARE AFRAID OF?" Grindelwald goaded.

"I'M NOT AFRAID," Harry returned honestly.

"THEN LET US NOT STAND ON CEREMONY, COMMANDER EVANS," Grindelwald urged. "LET US MEET AND SETTLE THIS AS WE SHOULD."

Harry simply nodded as he braced himself for the fight to come, only to be held back by Charlus as he moved to step forward.

"You have Rosa and Minerva to think about," he reminded him needlessly. "Let someone else fight."

Harry shook his head.

"This is my fight, Charlus," he sighed. "I won't die here today, but if the worst happens, she will have you. I wouldn't have named you her godfather unless I believed you would do everything for her and Minerva if anything was to happen to me. I have to do this, Charlus. He's right, it was fate that brought us together."

Charlus muttered irritably under his breath.

"Bollocks," he denied. "You're doing this to save us, and the rest of them if you can," he added, pointing towards the enemy.

Harry chuckled humourlessly.

"A good friend of mine said I have a thing for saving people," he explained. "Maybe that is why I found myself here," he added thoughtfully before continuing on his way, and leaving a thoroughly confused Charlus in his wake.

(Break)

"This is it then," Arcturus mused aloud as he watched Grindelwald and Harry exchanging words on the ground that divided the two sides.

"What do you think they're saying?" Charlus asked worriedly.

"Well, I doubt they're discussing the weather," Arcturus snorted.

The back and forth between Harry and Grindelwald continued on for only another minute before the former took several steps backwards, his wand poised and ready.

"YOU ARE NOT TO INTERFERE, ANY OF YOU," Grindelwald commanded his followers, his gaze fixed on a woman at the front of his ranks.

At the sight of his older sister, Arcturus's jaw tightened, as did the grip around his wand.

He had not laid eyes on her since shortly after he arrived on the continent so many months prior and seeing her now caused his temper to flare.

A calming, yet trembling hand came to rest atop his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"Ignore her for now," Charlus urged. "You can decide what must be done after."

Arcturus nodded gratefully.

"Do you think Evans will win?"

Charlus released a deep breath.

"I believe in him," he replied confidently, "but you can never be certain with two men like that."

Before Arcturus could reply, the pomp of the build up towards the fight came to an end as Harry and Grindelwald both struck, the two offerings colliding in mid-air causing the ground beneath their feet to tremble from the force of the impact.

"Fucking hell," Arcturus cursed as he felt the magical backlash wash over him.

Not that he had time to dwell on it as the two combatants continued their deadly dance, each getting the feel for the other.

It was as exciting as it was terrifying, the magic each wielded showing just how they had carved their respective reputations, and Arcturus had no doubt that whatever the outcome was, this was a moment in history that would never be forgotten.

(Break)

"I've never seen anything like it," Nancy whispered, her grip on Reg's arm squeezing uncomfortably tight.

For more than an hour, Harry and Grindelwald had been trading blows, not merely spells, but magic that very few could hope to command as they attempted to slaughter one another.

There had been several near misses on both sides, but just when it appeared that the duel would be brought to an end, somehow each managed to nullify or manipulate what had been sent towards them to work in their favour.

It was an incredible sight to behold, a fight for the ages between two men who possessed such an uncanny affinity for magic and such terrifying talent with their wands.

Reg could think of very few others who could perform in such a way, who could hope to endure the position of either combatant with so much calm or intent and who would not have succumbed to death already.

"Me either," he murmured in reply, his own along with thousands of other pairs of eyes transfixed by what was unfolding before him.

(Break)

A trio of chains shot from the tip of Grindelwald's wand, each tipped with a hook that wouldn't be out of place in an abattoir. With a circular motion, Harry entwined them before tearing them from Grindelwald's grip.

With a hiss, he banished them back towards his foe with a couple of cutting curses for good measure.

The chains screeched as they caught ablaze and transformed into a striking serpent.

Grindelwald managed to sidestep the creation and caught it with the end of his wand, not the elder wand, before unleashing a guttural roar of pain and anger as one of the curses clipped his leg.

Without delay, and despite his latest wound, he brandished the captured snake like a whip and snapped it towards Harry who redirected it with an upwards flick of his wand, the searing heat he had created warming the skin on his cheek uncomfortably so.

Still, he avoided being immolated, and the chains exploded in a fiery shower that Harry diverted towards Grindelwald who conjured a shield.

The small scraps of glowing shrapnel rained down upon the man, clanging loudly against the shield, and those that missed buried themselves into the ground around him.

Grindelwald shot Harry a baleful glare, a gesture that was returned before the duel continued in vain.

With a sharp, stabbing motion of his wand, the debris around Grindelwald was propelled towards him, and instead of risking an attempt to intercept so many projectiles, Harry vanished in a cloud of smoke, something his foe was evidently prepared for.

He reappeared a safe distance away as the mixture of rocks, dirt, and even bodies smashed into the ground where he had just been standing, he found himself on the defensive, spinning to avoid a spine-snapping curse and needing to bat away a clotting hex that came so close to striking him.

Instinctively, he ducked below another offering as he readied his own attack.

An unbroken bolt of lightning careened towards Grindelwald who managed to encapsulate himself within a golden dome in the nick of time, the resulting crackle loud enough to hurt Harry's own eardrums.

The earth between him and the shielded Dark Lord was scorched, and as the lightning continued to lash against golden conjuration, Harry wiped some blood from a minor cut he had sustained on his neck and flicked the droplets into the stream.

With a hiss, it flared, turning from a yellow hue to a smouldering red, and instead of sporadic bolts clashing with Grindelwald's magic, a duo of serpents formed, taking it in turns to hammer against the shield.

The addition of the blood magic proved to be too much for Grindelwald's protections, and the man was thrown a considerable distance backwards when the shield collapsed, the force dispelling Harry's own spell.

It took a moment for the resulting smoke to be dispelled, but when Harry managed it, Grindelwald was back on his feet once more, his glare no longer baleful but full of fury.

Still, Harry would not grant him the opportunity to seize any advantage, and as such, he struck again, forcing Grindelwald on the defensive, the fight having been taken up a notch once more.

(Break)

The duel had begun with a series of creative and impressive bouts of magic from both men, each testing the other's creativity and their ability to counter some incredible and obscure offerings.

From there, the two had switched to more powerful and destructive spells that had left the ground around them churned up and full of craters. The magic was wild, unrestrained, and violent.

The spectators had become concerned for their own safety, and on both sides had increased the distance between themselves and the ensuing fight.

Something of a lull in comparison had followed.

Both Harry and Grindelwald had switched to more localised spells that required precision to be effective, a display that had quickly become a contest of who could cast more accurately, quicker, and defend themselves at the same time.

Now, what those looking on were experiencing was a mixture of everything as neither man held anything back, the fight seemingly entering its final phase.

"Bloody hell, how long has it been now?" Charlus questioned.

The longer the duel went on, the more nervous and irritable he became.

"A little over four hours," Gilbert answered, his gaze not shifting from the display. "How do they do it?"

Charlus shook his head, frowning as someone grabbed his wrist.

"Don't," Arcturus urged as though he had read his mind. "You'll only get yourself killed."

Charlus swallowed deeply and nodded.

Only a fool would want to find themselves in between Harry and Grindelwald.

"Come on, Harry," he growled.

Watching the duel was the most nerve-wracking thing Charlus had endured throughout the war, the feeling of helplessness something with which he was unfamiliar.

"Bastard," Arcturus grumbled as Grindelwald countered a throttling curse Harry had landed, the former having undoubtedly learned it from Cassiopeia.

The spell was directly from the Black Family grimoire, and his sister shot him a smug grin from across the way where she too was watching with unwavering interest.

Arcturus scowled at the woman.

When the war was done, he had no idea what he would do with her. As the head of his family, it would be his responsible to defend her if she was apprehended by the ICW, something he would be reluctant to do.

As far as he was concerned, she could rot in prison for the rest of her life.

Still, Harry had to win the fight first, and though Arcturus had every faith in him, neither he nor Grindelwald had remained unscathed, and anything could truly happen at this point.

(Break)

Gellert was beginning to regret waiting so long to confront Evans, and he could not help but reflect on when their paths had first crossed in such circumstances in the cave on the coast of Greece.

The younger man had been exceptionally good then, but he had gotten better, faster, and even more durable.

Back then, Gellert at least had experience on his side, but that was no longer the case.

For the most part, he had not involved himself in the fighting that had taken place on the continent, but Evans had, and it was showing in his conditioning, his ability to function so calmly under pressure, and his downright ruthlessness.

Whenever Gellert met his gaze in the briefest of reprieves in the action, he saw a measured hate, a controlled fury that was quite out of place on his foe's features.

The hate was not aimed at Gellert but was something that resided deeply within the young man.

What or who could cause such loathing?

Whatever it was, Evans had learned to harness it, to hone it into the magic he wielded, and had done so expertly.

Gellert knew that Evans parents had been murdered when he had been but a boy.

Was that what elicited such wrath in the man, or was there much more to him?

Even after all the years Gellert had known of him, Evans had remained quite the frustrating mystery.

With a flick of his wand, he reduced the conjured spear that had been sent his way to ash and turned to avoid a barbed arrow that followed. Centring himself once more, he sent a ball of fire into the air and split it into several smaller ones that he launched towards Evans only to grunt and stagger forward as something thudded into his shoulder from behind.

An error on his part he realised as he chanced a glance to see the shaft of the arrow he'd avoided protruding from his back.

Already the wound throbbed, but Gellert knew he had to ignore it for the time being.

Some of the cuts he had sustained he had managed to crudely heal by cauterizing them, but this one must wait.

By the light of another spell that Evans cast, Gellert caught a glimpse of Evans' expression. There was no jubilation to be seen, but only the same guarded determination that had been present throughout their fight.

It was a shameful thing to admit, but without the elder wand, Gellert was having much more difficulty than he would if he was using.

His own wand worked as it always had, even if it did feel sluggish in comparison.

It wasn't that Evans was the better wizard, far from it, but Gellert could not deny that he was the better fighter.

With a snort and knowing that it could prove to be detrimental, he placed his own wand in his left hand and drew the one of legend into his right, the very same one that had been somewhat fickle every time he had used it against his opponent.

It was not a decision he took lightly, but he had come to rely on it as a man with a limp would lean on a cane to walk a little easier.

Evans merely nodded in acknowledgement.

Did he know what it was Gellert possessed?

Were it anyone else, the thought would be dismissed out of hand, but after his most recent visit to Gregorovitch, it was almost inevitable that he had.

The wandmaker would have told him.

Gellert's nostrils flared, and he sent a flurry of spells towards the man who still somehow had the ability to avoid them nimbly.

He could not be certain how long they had been fighting, but Evans barely seemed fatigued, and the wounds Gellert had inflicted were not bothering him nearly as much as his own.

Still, Gellert would not concede anything to Evans.

If all was to be lost, then it would have to be torn away from him.

Ever since he had begun his journey, Gellert had been willing to die for his cause, though he hadn't anticipated he would be met by such a foe.

He'd imagined that it would be Albus that would stand in his way, but not as Evans did.

His old friend would never kill him, but Harry Evans was not Albus.

It was a rather grim truth he'd had to accept, but Gellert had, nonetheless, and now, it was time to end this, to be rid of the threat that had risen against him.

Bracing himself, his grip tightened around the elder wand and Gellert sprung into action, as prepared to die now as he had when he first envisioned what the world should be.

(Break)

Despite what Grindelwald had told himself, drawing the elder wand was nothing but a move born of desperation. It had taken time, but Harry had gotten the measure of the man.

He was an exceptional wizard, a creative one with power in spades, but Gellert Grindelwald lacked the same tenacity and viciousness that Voldemort possessed.

Grindelwald did not fight with rage or psychopathic unpredictability, nor did he often delve into the dark arts the same way Riddle had been wont to do.

Harry remembered it well, his time in the graveyard after the tri-wizard tournament something that still haunted him.

No, Grindelwald was not Tom Riddle, not as vindictive but no less talented either. He, however, was comfortable with combat, but he had not faced anyone like Harry who had learned ruthlessness, who knew how to draw on it when needed.

Perhaps it was all that had befallen him throughout his life, or maybe even something left within him by the piece of Voldemort's soul he had carried for so long, he couldn't be certain, but he felt it whenever he found himself in battle.

Grindelwald had spent his life fighting aurors attempting to capture him, and his other notable duel was against a young Dumbledore who did not possess the ability and desire to take a life.

Perhaps Grindelwald had faced those willing to kill him, but never anyone like Harry, not anyone willing to do whatever it took to survive and even punish those that had wronged him.

His mind drifted back to Bellatrix Lestrange and how he had tried and failed to punish her with the Cruciatus Curse.

Harry had merely been a boy then, but that was no longer the case.

He'd honed his skills, had taken the gifts the ritual had provided, and devoted himself to learning all that Tom Riddle had.

Day after day in the Room of Requirement during his remaining years at Hogwarts, he had practiced, had studied, and mastered all he could from the Slytherin and Flamel libraries in preparation for his eventual confrontation with the Dark Lord that had plagued him.

Many times, Harry had revisited the memory of Dumbledore and Voldemort's duel in the Ministry, had looked on as the former struggled to match the latter, and it wasn't because Dumbledore was lacking in ability, it was that he too was not ruthless enough to defeat him.

Harry did not suffer that shortcoming, and it was something that Grindelwald would learn the hard way.

A sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle had drawn comparisons between himself and Harry, and though at the time it had sickened him to even consider the truth in his words, Riddle had been right.

In so many ways they were similar, though their circumstances had been different.

Tom was cruel for the sake of cruelty, for the enjoyment he experienced from it. Whereas Harry had needed to become ruthless to survive, to overcome everything that he had and would come to face.

With that in mind, he parried away Grindelwald's latest attack, and delved into his learnings that a man like the one he faced now could never understand, who had never had the same experiences that had shaped Harry into what he had grown to become.

Spell after spell left his wand, and though Grindelwald did what he could to shield or avoid them, it quickly became clear that he was uncomfortable when facing such magic.

Rupturing curses, organ-liquefying curses, bone-splintering curses, and all manner of lethal spells designed only to maim and destroy were sent forth, and Grindelwald was taken aback by the speed and fluidity with which Harry cast them.

In his pursuit of becoming the best he could in defending himself from this magic, Harry had become an expert in it in his own right, and now, it was paying dividends.

Grindelwald stumbled backwards under the onslaught, depleted from his lack of preparation for a drawn-out fight, his faith in his ability to end any conflict quickly being to his own detriment.

He was not ready for this, nor had he been prepared to face what confronted him now.

This wasn't Harry Evans the Hit-Wizard, or Commander in Chief Evans that led the campaign against him, this was Harry Potter, the man who had lost almost everything to a monster and had needed to become just as ruthless as the one he was fated to fight to ensure he lost nothing else.

The memories of a life he had left behind, yet still carried the burden of, played in front of his eyes as his attack continued, only increasing in intensity as each one passed.

The scorn he had endured throughout his fifth year when he had only spoken the truth about Voldemort's return.

The articles published in The Daily Prophet.

The whispered accusations of those that believed he had murdered Cedric.

Sirius falling through the veil of death and Bellatrix's resounding laughter.

Voldemort murdering Cedric before torturing Harry until he could barely stand.

Each task he had been forced to take part in during the tournament.

Being called a cheater and being shunned by his peers.

The Dementors in his third year and learning the truth of his parent's betrayal.

The Chamber of Secrets and once more being vilified for something he had no control of.

Quirrell, Voldemort, and the stone.

The anger he carried from all of them came forth, but the worst had, and always would be the pleading of his mother as she begged for his life to be spared and for Voldemort to take hers instead.

The man had laughed at her, murdered her before turning his wand on a boy that could not defend himself.

That laughter still featured in his nightmares with the pleading of a desperate woman willing to die for her son, and it was this that tipped Harry over the edge.

Feebly, Grindelwald raised the elder wand, only to gasp as his hand was cleaved in half at the knuckles and his fingers along with the wand thudded to the ground.

Harry was breathing heavily, the tears stinging his eyes as he unleashed a final spell that Grindelwald attempted to shield to no avail.

The man stood staring at him questioningly before his gaze drifted downwards to the hole that had been punched through his chest.

He opened his moth to speak, but no words were forthcoming, and Gellert Grindelwald collapsed forwards, perishing with nothing more than a look of reluctant acceptance as a final farewell.

Silence followed from both sides as Harry approached the fallen man and kicked him to his back to ensure he was indeed dead.

There was no life left in his still open eyes that Harry closed to preserve the man's dignity.

Discreetly, he slid the elder wand up his sleeve, the magic washing over him feeling as familiar as the cloak he possessed and the ring he wore around his neck.

Now was not the time to dwell on such things, however.

Grindelwald was dead, but the work to undo the damage he had caused would begin, and that undertaking could take months, years even.

Surveying the carnage that had been wrought between himself and his fallen foe, Harry released a deep breath, grateful that they had not met in a town or city.

The land here would never be the same, would remain as scarred as he was as a reminder of what had occurred.

"NOO!" a feminine voice screamed, but before Harry even needed to raise his wand to defend himself, the path between him and Cassiopeia Black was blocked by Arcturus who directed the spell she had sent off to the side.

"Drop your wand!" he demanded furiously. "Grindelwald is dead. It's over!"

Harry watched curiously to see what the woman would do, acutely aware that the rest of his men were approaching with their wands drawn.

What was left of Grindelwald's forces were outnumbered considerably, and they had nothing left to fight for, something they too realised as they held their hands up in defeat.

Cassiopeia, however, clung on to her wand as tears streamed down her cheeks and she trembled in her uncompromisable state.

"I will not!" she hissed.

"Don't be a fool, Cass," Arcturus implored. "You have nothing to gain from this. Everyone else has surrendered."

Cassiopeia stared at her brother defiantly, and Harry felt the fatigue of the fight begin to set in.

He was exhausted from his efforts, and wanted nothing more than to rest, but rest was something he would get little of.

"You've not seen the last of me, Evans," Cassiopeia spat before she activated a portkey and vanished.

"Stupid cow," Arcturus grumbled under his breath as he turned to Harry and shrugged.

"Leave her," Harry advised. "There are more important things we need to focus on. Retrieve all of their wands and bring them into custody. It will be up to the ICW what happens to them."

Arcturus nodded and began barking instructions at the others whilst Charlus wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders.

"Come on, let's get you out of here," he said worriedly. "You need to be checked over. Reg will help Petr, Adams, and the other commanders with everything here."

Harry could only nod tiredly as Charlus began leading him away.

"How are you?" the Potter lord asked.

Harry didn't know how he felt.

He was relieved, but somehow empty at the same time.

This was not how he had envisioned he would feel, but maybe after some rest, the reality would set in.

Gellert Grindelwald was dead, and for the most part, the war was over, but there was no elation, and no joy to be had in this moment.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I'm glad it is done, but the real work will begin now," he added with a sigh.

Charlus chuckled humourlessly.

"So, I suppose it is too early to ask when we can go home?"

"Home," Harry murmured, the thought of being with Minerva and Rosa reminding him of what exactly he had fought for. "We will get there, Charlus, some of us sooner than others," he promised.