Tentative Alliances

Tentative Alliances

TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Tentative Alliances

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Big thank you to my Beta-Readers, x102reddragon and NerdDragonVoid for beta-reading the chapter and saving it from my own terrible grammar.

Be sure to review, favourite and follow if you enjoy. Mostly the former, reviews help me grow as a writer and I appreciate them greatly.

Until next time, stay safe and enjoy!

Harry had awakened early, as he so often did.

The sun was yet to begin its ascent over the horizon, but it was nearing with every passing second, bathing the landscape with a purple-orange hued glow that could only be mustered twice a day.

He found if he slept only in short bursts, he could stave off a majority of the nocturnal terrors that haunted him. But that usually meant rising early in the morning and resting late at night, a sacrifice, but not one he couldn't handle.

He would've liked to return to sleep this very morning, if not for the symphony of snores that echoed from the bed adjacent to his own and the anguished wailing of the ghoul in the attic as it beat a clangorous cacophony of screeching sounds onto the pipes above. A hellish noise that the Weasleys had become accustomed to but one that dissuaded him from trying to pursue his lost slumber.

Usually, he'd awake and do little more but think.

The letters under his pillow had been relegated to under his bed in a darkened corner and their ranks only swelled as time went on. He could swear he'd read each one, although he was conscious of their effect on him. Reading their words both harsh and kind, tracing his finger across the indents the quill left, both shallow and deep. But no matter what the words were shrouded in, be it sickly sweet pleading or harsh vulgarity, he couldn't escape the hard truth.

It was him, or Voldemort. He knew it well and apparently, so did they.

He made to reach under the bed, there had been some new additions to the growing pile. He'd passed the daily flurry of owls off as well-wishers and thankful citizens. A lie that seemed to settle unnoticed by most, but not all. His hand stilled half-way as a particularly loud cry from the ghoul rang out.

Perhaps, he mused sadly, I've done enough wallowing in pity.

The new letters would have to wait.

He carefully shifted in his bed so as to not disturb the creaking springs that comprised the mattress. After all their years together, he knew little could wake Ron save the smell of bacon or an alarm charm. Seeing as neither of those eventualities seemed likely at this moment, he felt fairly confident he wouldn't break from his attempts to shake the foundations with his snoring.

Groping around aimlessly in the low-light, he secured his glasses from the worn nightstand and placed them onto his face. There was little else to do now but listen to the odd noises that rang through The Burrow. Seeing as that seemed rather dull, he decided to venture downstairs, perhaps either of the older Weasleys were awake, perhaps some conversation would take his mind off the maelstrom of detestable thoughts. He pushed his feet into a ratty pair of worn slippers that had once belonged to Ron, partially to dampen his footsteps on the wooden stairs.

He descended the winding steps of the Burrow to the landing carefully so as to not wake any of its sleeping inhabitants. He descended the stairs with present vigilance of the creaking steps and squeaking bannisters that befitted an act far more dangerous than simply descending the stairs, safely navigating the descent, he found an unexpected sight at the landing.

Fleur Delacour.

She was sat upon the Weasley's lounge, her feet curled up under her and a worn tome adorning her lap as she haphazardly flicked through its pages, on the worn coffee table was a saucer and cup, a spoon spinning in circular rotations at her direction. She lazily spun her wand like she was orchestrating a symphony, although one that didn't quite hold her interest.

An odd coexistence had slowly developed between the inhabitants of the Burrow and Fleur. She'd ignore Ron's staring and occasional drooling. She'd offer insight into Hermione's reading, though in a much more sedated and non-hostile manner. She helped Mrs Weasley in the kitchen and even offered to help Mr Weasley reconstruct a pen he had found. Though Ginny was reticent to accept any offer of comradery the French witch extended.

Both he and Fleur had found themselves amidst many discussions over the weeks that had passed since the day he'd arrived. If anything, he found her company refreshing. In many ways despite her disdain for the comparison, she reminded him a lot of Hermione, if only much more companionable. She'd grown considerably since they'd last met. She was still vain, bordering on egotistical, overconfident sometimes but it seemed to work for her. But she was also witty and cunning, he enjoyed his conversations with her greatly, even if most of the time she danced around him as he stumbled over his words and made a fool of himself.

Since ending her time at Gringotts, she was relegated to sulking around the Burrow, quite bored for the most part. Bill worked most days, didn't even get back to the Burrow on some days - she was lonely. She spent most of her spare time perusing old tomes and books she'd bought from various vendors, plotting what he could only assume was useful information in a notebook she carried everywhere.

He stepped lightly on the balls of his feet so as to not catch undue attention or rouse her from her state of what he imagined was concentration. Either by virtue of his quietness or her lack of attention, he escaped her notice while he advanced.

"Fleur?" He whispered quietly as to not scare the platinum-haired witch, "You're up early."

She looked up at Harry, not disturbed by his presence in the slightest. Her ocean eyes had dulled considerably and her beautiful visage was marred by darkened bags under each eye.

"Fleur?" Harry asked gently, taken aback by the sudden change in her appearance, "Are you alright?"

She looked shocked for a moment, before schooling her features into a more passive look.

"Fine." She assured him with a smile that didn't quite meet her eyes.

That elicited a frown out of him, he continued forward and took a seat adjacent to her.

"Are you sure?" He prompted again, as she seemed to feign equal parts disinterest and nonchalance.

"I'm fine." She assured him again with a false politeness that would've deterred anyone else from pursuing their line of questioning.

Not Harry.

She was proud to a fault, but there was no mistaking her current state, she was worried about something, something she likely wasn't going to ask anyone for help over, nor talk to anyone. Reminded him of himself if he was candid.

"What is it?" He probed again, with equal vigour of her previous statement.

She paused for a brief moment but said nothing.

"What's that?" He queried, unsure of what she was reading.

"This!" She responded equally as vaguely though her voice was ripe with frustration as she tossed the book in her lap towards the coffee table, the leather-bound tome careening across the short distance and only narrowly missing out on the teacup and saucer.

"Alright," He said placatingly as he took notice of the book that had landed close to him. Defensionem Contra Omnes was inscribed on the front with fading golden leaf, it looked far too academic for the likes of him and far too expensive to be tossing around as she had. "Let's not take our frustration out on the scenery."

He took another glance It took him a moment to decipher the title with his shallow knowledge of Latin.

"Fleur," He began in a moment of realisation, "If this is about your jo-" He tried, but was cut off by a nigh irate French Veela.

"When isn't it about my job?" She spat, but seemed to realize he wasn't the rightful target of her ire. "I don't need to be coddled Harry, I was hired to be something, something I can't be."

"I'm sure you-" He began again, although a look from her silenced him.

"I've been told to unravel and enforce wards that were created over a millennia-old, created by those so proficient in the art that their names still fill our history books today. As talented as I am, they were far better." She said wistfully, looking more intently at her swirling teacup.

The insecurity of her statement endeared her to Harry in a way he hadn't experienced prior. She was always so confident and witty with only the rarest of missteps as an indication that she was not always in control. To see how she reacted to the adversity of her current duty was an insight into what she was like under her impenetrable facade. A person, like any else.

"Why don't you get Bill to help you then?" He said as if the answer was clear, "Or someone you used to work with? even Professor Dumbledore could help."

"Bill has been recalled to Cairo to help excavate some new tombs, Ragnok wanted them to ensure there was ample security of the pyramids but that concluded a while ago, now he's been forced to linger there." She said with a hostile undertone as she mentioned what he assumed was a Goblin name, "As for the Headmaster, if he actually had the time, he would've simply done it himself. No, this is a task I must do by myself."

"I thought the same thing too once, that I couldn't do what I'd been told to do." He reminisced, "When I was thrust into teaching Dumbledore's Army."

"Dumbledore's Army?" She queried, peering up from her tea.

"A Defense Against the Dark Arts group we formed last year to teach people when Umbridge wouldn't." He explained to the now attentive witch.

"I never pictured you as a teacher," She said with a half-smile, "That must've been interesting."

"It was," He confirmed with a full smile, "But that's my point exactly, I didn't picture myself as a teacher, I didn't ask for it or want it, but I adapted. Just like you will."

"That sounds oddly like some of my wisdom you're regurgitating," She commented dryly.

"Perhaps," Harry said slyly, "I might've heard it somewhere along the way."

"I don't really appreciate you preaching my own advice." She said with a little frown.

"I don't appreciate you wallowing in pity," He challenged with a victorious smirk shining across his features.

She continued frowning, before it suddenly morphed into a small grin, then a bigger one, then finally, a laugh. The chuckle evolved into a full-bellied laugh that was as intoxicating as it was infectious and soon, Harry joined into the cacophonous laughing that rang through the lower levels of the Burrow. Then silence, but not an uncomfortable one, born of contemplation rather than awkwardness.

"Perhaps you just need a second set of eyes."

"Why don't you help me properly then?" She offered, her face lighting up like she just had a great epiphany.

"Pardon me?" Harry responded, confused by her request.

"The way you tell it, you seem to know a lot about the castle. I won't have time to learn everything that you've learned over six years." She explained simply. "I could really use that, it'd take some weight off of my shoulders."

He knew he'd regret explaining some of his more egregious adventures at Hogwarts. Although he never referred to the details in specific, it looks like she gleaned enough from him.

"I don't think that's stri-" He tried in an attempt to halt the tirade, though clearly failed.

"So you were lying?" She countered with a half-smirk.

"No, but -" He tried again, but she soon took the reins of conversation in hand.

"Think about it," She explained, all vestiges of tiredness had been long since forgotten in the face of the answer she'd been searching for. "We've got enough knowledge between the two of us, you claim to know the castle inside and out and I've got the knowledge to work on the wards, we're going to need intimate knowledge of both if we're going to protect Hogwarts."

"I'm not so sure," Harry said, trying to recuse himself from the situation.

"So you don't want to help me?" She said, arching an elegant eyebrow. "It'd be about more than just helping me, Harry."

"I didn't say that." He refuted.

"So you will help?" She pushed.

"I didn't say that either." He said, shaking his head.

"Please." She pleaded, her ocean eyes suddenly regaining their colour in her attempts to bargain.

He was glad the light was low, having a Veela plead for something wasn't exactly an implication that was lost on any teenage boy. Even though the situation was devoid of any seduction, he couldn't stop the reaction it elicited.

"I'll do it." Harry acquiesced, "But I don't know that much about wards," He offered meekly, not exactly counting Dumbledore's haphazard lesson as an all-encompassing introduction into the art.

Fleur's eyes brightened up. " Magnifique! " she said, briefly breaking into French in her excitement.

"Then I," She said with a flourish of her wand, "Shall give you a lesson."

The leatherbound book came flying to her hands and she moved over so Harry could see some of the things she had pointed out as she delved into the esoterica that was protective enchantments. Speeding through axiom to axiom, how to raise wards, how to drain them. How each wand core interacted with protective enchantments and so on and so forth. It certainly wasn't page-turning excitement, though he listened to her explanations with all the fervour of a passionate student as her grip on consciousness dwindled.

"So, a Ward Stone is like a battery?" Harry asked tiredly. "So does that mean-"

He looked up when instead of a response, he heard a strange noise.

Fleur had fallen asleep during the process, they'd been working for well over an hour and the sun had finally risen, replacing the purple and orange hue with yellow. She snored softly against the lounge. Harry put the book she was reading on the table before fetching a blanket from the other lounge and placing it over Fleur. With little else to do, he headed back upstairs to see if he could finally capture the sleep that had done it's best to evade him.

Harry woke up not long after, an owl tapping at the window. Ron managed to maintain his symphony of loud snores throughout, he doubted an explosion would rouse him, let alone an owl. He lifted the latch on the window and the owl flew in, offering it's leg to take the letter attached. Harry untied the simple knot and retrieved the letter. Fetching some of Hedwig's owl treats from his trunk, he gave the owl a few before it flew off.

He turned the letter over in his hands, it had his name simply on the front. He desperately hoped it wasn't another of those letters.

When he flipped it over, he saw that it had the wax seal of Hogwarts. Breaking the seal he fished the letter out and began to read it out.

Dear Harry,

There remains a few unpleasant details about the execution of Sirius' Will. As the neutral party, the Goblins of Gringotts now act as executors. I shall arrive at the Burrow at noon to retrieve you for the reading of his final will and testament.

Regards,

A.P.W.B.D

He sat down on his bed. He'd seldom thought of Sirius lately, that hurt as much as losing him. He'd been so busy lately with everything on his mind he'd forgotten entirely. He was shifted from the dimension around him into his own mind. He declared he would no longer wallow, but the reaction seemed almost second nature.

The smell of bacon wafted through the house slowly, signalling the start of a new day, one that seemed to wake Ron with all the efficiency of a hound smelling a kill. He propped himself up in bed before groggily rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes.

"Wuzzthat?" The ginger-haired boy mumbled tiredly, desperate to keep the glaring sunlight peeking from the curtains from his eyes.

"Just some information about Sirius, his will is being read today." Harry sighed somberly, flashing the envelope at the groggy Weasley.

This seemed to sober Ron up, if he was going to say anything further he kept it to himself and merely relegated himself to looking anywhere but Harry, apparently the roof looked particularly interesting.

Harry shrugged off the awkward silence that reigned and walked to his already opened trunk, he fished out more presentable clothes for breakfast and beyond. Ron did so too and when Harry chose to turn around, Ron had donned a jersey. It was resplendently orange, matching hair with two black 'Cs' intertwining, the name HORTON and the number 1 adorning the back.

"Come on mate, surely it's time to give up on the Cannons." Harry laughed upon seeing the jersey.

"Oi! Sod off, it's our year I'm telling you!" Ron said indignantly, spinning around to defend his team in earnest.

"Now you're dreaming," Harry laughed again, "Did you see the Tornado's defence against Falmouth?"

"Yeah they're alright, so what?" Ron said half-heartedly.

"Yeah, they're alright and the Cannons aren't, that's what." The raven-haired boy explained like he was talking to a toddler

"Prick." Ron insulted before tossing a pair of socks at Harry. Luckily with his reflexes as a seeker he quickly returned the sock with equal force, but Ron had made a conscious effort to practice his skills to become Keeper and the sock was caught again, but this time held.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Are you two dressed?" Asked Hermione's muffled voice

"Yep." Called Ron back as Harry finished putting his shirt on.

"You two weren't arguing, were you? I could hear it from down the hall." She said, crossing her arms in a way that reminded Harry of that same bossy girl he'd befriended all those years ago.

"Not arguing, I was just trying my yearly attempt to convince Ron the cannons are shite." He said in faux-ignorance.

"Language!" Hermione scolded.

"Yeah, this tosser thinks the Tutshill Tornados are better than the Chudley Cannons."

"When was the last time you won the league?" Harry shot back.

"1892," Ron said, but followed with a quick defence."But it doesn't matter, we have our secret weapon!"

"Yeah, Who?" Harry scoffed in disbelief.

"Bailey," Ron said confidently.

Harry let out a forced laugh, "Bailey? He could barely throw the game let alone a quaffle!"

"Hermione, back me up here, the Cannons are the best." The ginger boy pleaded.

"Ron, I barely know anything about quidditch and I know the Cannons are terrible," Hermione said with a shake of her head.

"Merlin, what's a bloke got to do to get some help around here."

"If everyone helped you, there'd be no one left to help the Cannons would there?." Harry shot back.

Ron threw the pair of socks he'd been holding on to, but Harry merely dodged this one like he had last.

"Come on Git, let's go get some breakfast before the Cannons lose the league again."

"Wanker." Ron swore under his breath.

Hermione rolled her eyes but chose not to chastise him as they headed down the stairwell to the kitchen.

They passed through the lounge room, Fleur had moved from her position on the settee from earlier that morning, he would wager she was asleep in her room rather than try and sleep amongst the noise down here.

The three of them entered the Kitchen together, it was occupied only by Mr and Mrs Weasley, the former was eating his breakfast quietly and the latter was waving her wand around the kitchen so the pans would wash themselves.

"Morning." Mr Weasley said brightly after swallowing a mouthful of eggs. Mrs Weasley flicked her wand again and plates began to set themselves on the table.

The trio began to fill their plates, within moments Ron had already returned for seconds.

"Like a bloody wrecking ball, he is." Harry whispered to Hermione, who gave a little giggle Harry had little choice in the matter. Much like his appearance, his words carried a predatory growl that made argument seem useless. Dumbledore merely stared at the man with a look he couldn't decipher.

"I guess that'd be alright," Harry said hesitantly, a look to the Headmaster yielded no indication on what he should do.

"Follow me." The man said gruffly, clearly foregoing pleasantries now that he'd caught the prey in his jaws. His detachment formed around him again, although this time encompassing Harry and Professor Dumbledore in its formation before they set down the length of the street.

It quickly became apparent to Harry the excessive amount of force on display was not luck. At the same time as their appearance, the Daily Prophet and wireless spewed waves of Ministry propaganda.

' Your Ministry remains strong!' He remembered reading one of the issues of the Daily Prophet. They spoke of a bold Minister, one who stepped up to defeat the Dark Lord once and for all.

But the people had a choice way of saying it.

' Not bold - old.' They said, ' A lion without teeth.'

He recalled reading another tabloid, this time one Mrs Weasley was subscribed to. One side painted him a hero, the other a man long past his prime, with no skill in administration only waning skills in combat.

This was to prove to the people their Ministry still held the strength it once had, to instil the common witch and wizard with the confidence to stand with the Administration.

Their confidence was an illusion. Even Harry wasn't naive enough to believe otherwise. A fantasy that would fade indefinitely with time. What came after, he couldn't say. Though he felt like they'd have been far more successful if they'd shown them the memories of Dumbledore in the atrium, he was far more awe-inspiring than any amount of Aurors that could be mustered.

After a short march, they made it to their destination - the Leaky Cauldron. A few Aurors went in first to ensure it was clear, then the rest filed in.

" Wand and spell guard me well!" A group of drunkards sung good-naturedly in the corner, the only sign of life in the pub outside of quiet patrons, " Or else I'm fucked and doomed to hell!" They finished in raucous laughter, knocking together sloshing tankards.

One got up to sing the next verse, but another caught sight of the Aurors and stopped his friend. The view of the Auror contingent and the Minister himself seemed sobering enough to force them into silence.

Tom seemed to be idly cleaning a glass behind the bar as Aurors began to close doors and windows around his inn.

"What can I do for you, Minister?" The barkeep asked politely. He couldn't afford much else but acquiescence in this instance.

"We'll be making use of one of your rooms." The Minister said succinctly.

"Very well," Tom relented, "Can I get you a-"

A hand from the Minister cut him off from any further questions. It appeared the Minister wasn't exactly personable. They found themselves in a fairly shallow room, the Headmaster accompanied both himself and the Minister into the compartment, although the Minister seemed quite angry at the uninvited guest.

The man sat down and sighed in relief. It was clear his leg pained him greatly. He sat his cane down next to his seat and leaned forward, so his elbows sat on the table.

"I'll be candid with you Mister Potter, I've never been one for pretty words and half-truths," The man said, shooting the same predatory gaze, "We're losing this war, we've been losing it since before it truly had begun."

"It's almost like someone was trying to tell you." Harry snarked, aside from a look of annoyance, the man ignored it.

"To put it in the simplest of terms, you need the Ministry and we need you." He admitted, though he seemed to loathe doing so.

"I fail to see why I need you, the same people that spent the last year slandering me about the same Dark Lord you're trying to fight." Harry said, his anger running hot and scar twitching in anticipation.

Scrimgeour might've been content to let the first comment go, but the second set him alight.

"Grow up." The man said simply, "The previous administration was as much my fault as it was your own."

"I suppose it's changed now? Has it?" Harry shot back.

"No. It hasn't." The man regarded him with a harsh glare, "The rot has had the better part of two decades to infest in the Ministry and there's not a day I don't curse the hole Fudge dug for us. We've little but leaks and words - the ship is sinking, Potter, but we shall not drown while I live."

"Excuse me if I don't share your confidence." Whatever the man said, he was still reticent to trust the same government that tried to kill him.

"I'm not going to argue in circles Potter," The man growled menacingly, "Help or hinder, that's your choice. But how many will die because you were too prideful to work with the Ministry?"

"Pride has nothing to do with it." Harry retorted.

"Nothing?" The man scoffed, "Aye, nothing. I'm sure those pretty words seem believable, it's a shame the dead won't hear them. I wonder how many will have to die before you stop believing that farce. I've seen men fall, good men. You want to be apathetic to our cause? Be my guest." He rose up to his full height, his hands on the table. His wounded leg shook under him and he didn't allow Harry to retort, his scarred visage began to contort in a simmering rage that he'd been trying desperately to beat down.

"I didn't get these scars by playing politics with Bureaucrats boy! " The man snarled, if he looked a lion before, now he was a beast now, unleashing its unbridled fury with its fangs bared. "I've seen what war is like, Merlin above boy! I've fought in one myself and I'm going to be amongst another, you want to cower behind Dumbledore? Do it. But the darkness is coming and mark my words boy. It'll be the ruin of us all."

He wanted to scream it was unfair, that it shouldn't be his responsibility. But anger wouldn't get him anywhere, wishing it wasn't so would not make it otherwise. Tearing the room apart would feel good, releasing his pent up rage was momentarily advantageous. But when he came tumbling back to earth, it was the same reality he'd tried to escape. Running would do him no good.

"So I'm supposed to save them all am I?" Harry returned, but his resolve was faltering, and Scrimgeour seemed to smell the weakness like blood in the water.

"No, but some are better than none," Scrimgeour said, his voice losing its edge as he pushed his advantage. His fury calmed and his face lost his anger, he knew he was close to his quarry. "I'm in this position - in this world a little while longer, to make sure others stay here too."

Harry went to speak, but the man seized the advantage again.

"For whatever reason, people look at that scar and however little or large it may be, they feel hope. The Ministry can't do that, Dumbledore can't do that - but you can. I'm not asking you to forget what the Ministry did to you. I'm not asking you to work for us. But that scar is a symbol, one this nation needs. Like I said, help or hinder. The former means we might be able to stand and fight; the latter makes you a coward. Apathy won't serve us well Potter. It'll just kill us all."

Harry seemed to sit in silence for what felt like an eternity, mulling over the importance of the man's words. He looked to Dumbledore, but he found no wisdom in the older man's eyes for him to follow.

"What do I do?"

The worlds were simple, and for the first time, he saw something in the old lion's yellow eyes that looked conspicuously like victory.

"Done," Scrimgeour said immediately, before limping out, his detachment forming around him as they apparated away.

"Not the most eloquent man, but a far more advantageous leader to have, a sight better than Cornelius was ever going to be during the war," Dumbledore commented on the retreating form of the Ministry workers. It was the first time the man had talked in a while; he remained mostly silent through the exchange.

"Did I do the right thing?" Harry asked, unsure of his actions.

"I believe you made the best out of an unfavourable situation. Rufus Scrimgeour is a warrior, he's no bureaucrat, but he is cunning. If you had too easily fallen into his pocket, you'd be forever jumping through hoops on his command." The older man said, straightening his robes as he stood up.

"You make him sound like a bad choice." Harry frowned.

"He's not a bad man, better than most. But no man can occupy that position with ease, the power takes its toll, and few can subvert its influence for long. Power and politics are a volatile mixture, sickly sweet, but corruptive even to the hardiest of men." His long beard twitched with his words, "It takes a particular sort of man to sit in that chair, one that Rufus Scrimgeour is not."

"Then why is he sitting there?"

"Because for all his faults, Rufus is better than most."

He nodded at the Headmaster's sage advice, unsure of what other action he could take.

"Do you think he was telling the truth? About the Ministry falling?"

"It's very likely he was," Dumbledore confessed. "Rufus is a proud man and wouldn't ask for help unless necessary. Cornelius spread rot within our government for years. We're ill-prepared for what will come."

It worried Harry even more that Dumbledore knew the price of failure as well. They left the small room and the Headmaster bid Tom goodbye, a far greater courtesy than the Minister afforded him.

Dumbledore watched as Harry left, barrelling through the Floo Network, back into the lively atmosphere of the Burrow.

Harry arrived home, once he was sure that the Weasley matriarch knew of his return, he brushed off questions from Hermione and conversation attempts from Fleur. Feigning tiredness, he retired to his room.

He took a seat on his bed before taking his glasses off. He rubbed at his face tiredly. It seemed like every step forward he took in figuring out where he stood in this war was soon tossed asunder from something coming from every direction.

The way everyone talked it was as if the world's weight sat upon his shoulders, teetering on a dangerous fulcrum that hovered over peace and destruction. Hundreds were dead or injured already and the war had barely begun. Britain looked to him for a saviour and he was unsure if he could amount to what they needed.

Things wouldn't get easier, he had to get stronger, for his sake.

For everyone's sake.