Loyalty

Arcturus's stomach had sunk as he read the headline of the morning edition featured on the front page of The Daily Prophet. Had he not been granted a week of leave to check in on Lord Parkinson and how he was running the family affairs, he would have been in the trenches when they'd been bombarded, and perhaps killed with some of the men he had fought alongside over the past weeks.

He shook his head.

He was relieved he hadn't been but also felt guilty for his absence.

These were men he shared meals with, shared stories with, and whom he had looked out for and they him when times on the front were difficult. He didn't know how many had been killed, but for the positions to be abandoned, he feared that it was many and the situation they had faced was insurmountable.

Having returned home, he was as lucky as he was unlucky, the former to be safe from what had occurred, the latter because he would never know if he could have been the difference.

He released a deep breath as stared at the images of the trenches he had been living in, the photographers capturing the full horror of destroyed tunnels, and even protruding limbs from men who had not died well.

"I'm glad you weren't there, Arcturus," Dorea said quietly.

The woman seemed rather concerned, but Arcturus did not question why.

"I should have been," he replied. "Some of those people…"

Dorea squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.

"I know," she soothed. "Anyway, I should be off. It looks as though it will be a busy day."

"Are you expecting men from there?"

Dorea shrugged.

"If the Russians can't cope with the injured, probably," she explained. "It doesn't look good, does it?"

"It doesn't," Arcturus agreed as she left the room.

In only a few days, he was due to return, but perhaps he would do so sooner.

Parkinson was overseeing the Black's businesses admirably and had given Arcturus no cause for concern.

What concerned the man now was the news that had been broken to him, and instead of remaining in Britain, he wished to be with the men, doing everything possible to help in any way he could.

(Break)

France Falls!

By Clive Dunn

Minerva's chest tightened as she read the headline, and even more so at the sight of the included photographs. The ICW positions had been devastated by Grindelwald's men, and the casualties were undoubtedly numerous.

Her own mood was reflected in the students as they too learned of what had transpired on the continent. For months, the news had been mostly positive regarding the war, but this was a major blow against those opposing the Dark Lord who had, according to the journalist, marched into Paris with his army without further hindrance.

Minerva swallowed deeply, her thoughts with Charlus and Harry who would have been in the trenches when the attack was launched.

Were they okay?

Losing either of them was something she couldn't even bear thinking about.

The sight of her breakfast made her feel sick, but she was distracted by Albus who was more sombre than she had seen him.

"I would ask you kindly to teach the students in my absence," he requested.

Minerva frowned questioningly.

"Just for today?" she asked.

"Until I return," the man replied grimly, standing, and taking his leave from the hall.

Minerva knew not what the man was doing, but his demeanour was tense, his expression a mixture of concern and acceptance.

"He will be fine," Armando assured her with a comforting smile.

Minerva nodded.

She wasn't concerned about Albus. Her thoughts were with Harry and Charlus, and whether they had made it to Russia during the hasty retreat.

It was difficult not to consider that the worst had happened to them, but as the post arrived and she spotted Theseus amongst the browns and greys of the other owls, she felt herself relax somewhat.

"Hello, boy," she whispered, stroking the owl's plumage before relieving him of the missive, her name written in Harry's familiar scrawl.

She broke the seal and unrolled the note, deflating as she did so.

Minerva,

Other than a few cuts and bruises, we are both fine.

I can't go into detail in writing of what happened, but we were taken by surprise with something we were not prepared for.

I expect there will be changes in the coming days, so keep a look out in the Prophet.

Harry

The letter was short but more than enough for Minerva to no longer be so worried, though she always would be until Harry was home.

When that would be seemed to be further away than ever now, but she would be here waiting, that seemingly being all she could do.

(Break)

The streets in the magical district of Paris were empty, the shops boarded up and abandoned, the French evidently having begun evacuating the moment the news of the offensive had broken.

It irked Gellert that he had only land as a deterrent from reprisals, the use of prisoners and civilian hostages an advantage he would have preferred.

"Where did they go?" Cassiopeia questioned.

This was not the walk through the streets of the French capital Gellert had envisioned, but nonetheless, he was here as he as he said he would be.

"Fled like the cowards they are," he muttered in reply. "Not that it matters. They will never truly escape us."

Cassiopeia smiled in response, a gesture that did not ease Gellert's mind.

He may not have lost many men taking the country, but without hostages, he was vulnerable to a counter-offensive which was why those loyal to him were strengthening the newly captured defences and ensuring they were sufficiently manned.

If the ICW were to respond, something that was not beyond the realm of possibility with the significance France held to the Supreme Mugwump in particular, his men would be ready.

"Weber, what brings you here?" Gellert asked as the German approached, his eyes full of concern.

"I have just been informed that Albus Dumbledore has arrived in Paris."

"Albus?" Gellert asked lightly, surprised and also oddly happy.

He had expected that his old friend would eventually come to see him, but not so soon.

It seemed the man could no longer ignore what Gellert had achieved, and now that the movement was all but on the doorstep of Britain, Albus felt compelled to intervene in some way.

Weber nodded.

"He is by the Eifel Tower at a small café."

Gellert frowned almost disappointedly as he waved the German off.

"I will have no issue finding him," he replied dismissively.

"Shall I come with you?" Cassiopeia asked.

Gellert shook his head.

"That will not be necessary."

"But…"

"My dear, if Albus wished for this meeting to become one of more substance than words, he would not be hiding amongst the muggles. No, he would be here."

Cassiopeia nodded reluctantly and Gellert offered her a comforting smile.

"There is nothing to be concerned about," he assured her. "Now, I would like you to check on Hans and on the men to make sure the defences are being re-established. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course," Cassiopeia complied.

"Thank you," Gellert said gratefully, squeezing her shoulder. "Worry not, Herr Weber, I know Albus better than anyone."

Weber nodded, though he was unable to hide his unease.

Gellert paid the man no heed.

Weber was paranoid by nature and there was nothing that could be said that would change that.

Albus would indeed be a threat if he was not steeped in his morals, a weakness Gellert had tried to draw out of his friend when they had been but boys, something he was now grateful he had failed to do.

Still, he was very much interested in seeing his old friend again, even if the meeting would be held on poor terms.

Gellert had not seen Albus since the day Ariana Dumbledore had been killed, and he was not expecting a warm reception now, even after all these years Albus had time to ponder what had happened.

Regardless of what anyone chose to believe, Aberforth was responsible for what happened.

Had he not been so jealous of the relationship Gellert and Albus shared, Ariana would not have met her end.

No, the blame was solely that of Aberforth, but Albus had refused to acknowledge it.

(Break)

The gravity of just how many had been lost during the attack was felt by all of the Commanders gathered around the table in the Russian ministry, the absences of even those that should be here quite numerous.

Harry and Sokolov had made it out, along with a wounded Irish commander, a pale, shaken Canadian, and those hailing from Albania and Poland, respectively.

The last of them was a subdued French Commander who had been noticeably less brash since the arrest and imprisonment of Fontaine, but there was no Spaniard, no Portuguese nor any other who would usually attend the meetings, all of them having been killed in action.

Abreo had arrived, tired, and more despondent than anyone else, his guard having been doubled as had the darkness of the circles around his eyes.

His expression was one of outright defeat, his homeland having fallen into the hands of the enemy in a matter of minutes and with nothing to show but the death of many who failed to fend off the all-out attack from Grindelwald's forces.

"I am pleased to see that you all made it out," he offered, his words sincere but little more than a token gesture to those that had been caught up in the swarm who had somehow come out of it still breathing. "How are the men?"

"Many are injured," the French Commander answered, "and those that aren't are in low spirits. They have lost friends, and even family members in some cases. Our morale has been depleted. To them, we have already lost this war."

Abreo nodded his understanding.

"How many were lost?"

"In all, a little over seven-hundred," the Irishman explained.

Abreo released a deep and sorrowful breath.

"So many lives," he said sadly. "Can anyone explain how this happened? How were we caught off guard so easily?"

"We weren't prepared or equipped to handle an attack of that magnitude," Harry broke in. "Our men were stretched too thin, and we were heavily outnumbered. They struck from distance before charging with superior numbers. I expect what we faced was most of Grindelwald's army."

"And the creatures?" Abreo pressed gently.

"Were lying in wait," Harry shrugged. "They were there to take our positions in the south at the same time. We couldn't have fought off the attack in the north let alone the second in the south. Combined, we were easily overwhelmed. The truth is we did not have enough men, and we have even less now."

The other Commanders nodded their agreement.

"An issue that should have been resolved sooner," Abreo grumbled, his eyes drifting disapprovingly towards the Canadian. "We have men finally arriving from India in the coming days, and another four-hundred from Canada who have been trained."

"Better late than never," the Irishman snorted derisively.

"My country will not just send men to their deaths," the Canadian replied heatedly.

"Enough," Abreo huffed tiredly. "It will do no good for us to argue amongst ourselves now. We must look forward to what we will do next."

"What can we do?" the French Commander asked. "We have lost many, and any advantage we had."

Abreo nodded grimly.

"We have," he agreed, "but we mustn't simply give up."

"No, we should strike back," Harry urged.

"Strike back?" Abreo questioned, a frown marring his features.

"Grindelwald threw just about everything he had at us in France which means he is vulnerable to attack and won't be expecting a swift reply."

"Commander Evans is correct," Sokolov offered supportively. "Grindelwald's focus will be on France for the time being. We cannot let him settle."

Abreo looked between Harry and Sokolov speculatively for a moment before a grin tugged at his lips.

"What do you have in mind, Commander Evans?" he asked curiously.

"We do exactly what he did," Harry answered simply. "We sweep across the continent like a plague taking everything he has worked for from him, and then we corner him. He will have nowhere to go, and the more countries we free, the more men we will have to fight for us."

"You make it sound so easy," Abreo chuckled darkly.

Harry shook his head.

"It won't be," he acknowledged, "but it is our best hope. We start with Belgium and strengthen everything else to the east and south of France. He will be penned in then and we can then take the rest of his eastern territories. He will have gained France but lost everything else."

Abreo consulted the map on the wall, taking in the lands marked in red whilst humming before shaking his head.

"No, it is too dangerous," he sighed. "Taking so much land with so few men to hold it all."

"We have enough," Harry assured him. "We will not need to take our entire force with us, and with the added Canadians and Indians, we can hold what we take."

Abreo released a deep breath, his expression one of uncertainty.

"Give me forty men, I can take any one of the countries he holds in the east," Harry assured him.

"Preposterous," the French Commander exclaimed. "You're mad, Evans."

Abreo stared at Harry thoughtfully for several moments.

"Do you believe you can do it?"

Harry nodded.

"If we take a footing in Belgium, and our men can hold it, I can take the rest. It may take time, but it will take longer if we continue fighting the way we have."

Abreo looked towards the other Commanders who said nothing. They were taken aback by the plan, but it seemed none had any better suggestions to offer.

"What if Grindelwald comes?" the Irishman asked. "Let us not pretend that any of us are a match for him other than Evans. We have all seen what he is capable of, and we know how dangerous Grindelwald is."

"If he comes, I will be there," Harry promised. "We have unfinished business."

The Irishman laughed heartily.

"It's not often I'll agree with the French Commander, but you really are mad, Evans."

"That he is," Sokolov chuckled, "but I think his plan is a good one. We take everything he has worked for, and we corner him as he did us. From there, it is only a matter of time before he has to face us, and when he does, we will be ready."

The other Commanders nodded, some more reluctantly than the rest, but it seemed they had finally reached an agreement on something.

"How long until you can be ready?" Abreo asked.

"Well, this plan hinges on us taking and securing Belgium," Harry sighed. "That could take a few weeks to bring under control. After that, I'll be ready. It will give me time to offer some additional training to those that will come with me. What will be useful is if as many people as possible can cast a patronus."

"A patronus?" Sokolov questioned.

Harry nodded as he drew his wand.

"Expecto Patronum," he whispered.

The large, ethereal dog filled the room with a bright white light and warmth, and Harry smiled as it rolled on its belly, the same way Sirius used to when he'd transformed.

"Then we will be able to communicate instantly like this," the dog spoke in Harry's voice.

The men seated around the table looked at him in disbelief, the display of magic something they had not witnessed before.

Why would they have when it was Dumbledore who had adapted the charm to work this way during Voldemort's first uprising.

It had taken Harry quite some time to figure out how it was done, but he'd managed it, and it would be a particularly useful tool to have at their disposal in the coming months and years if such amount of time was needed.

"As incredible as this is," the French Commander broke in, "I cannot cast a patronus."

"Neither can I," the Irishman sighed.

"Nor me," Sokolov shrugged.

"Then I will teach you how," Harry assured them.

"Do you think you can?" Abreo questioned.

Harry merely snorted.

He had taught a bunch of students how to cast a patronus when he was in his fifth year at Hogwarts when his own understanding of magic was rather lacking.

Teaching a group of quite accomplished wizards would take a little time but would be easy in comparison.

"I can," he confirmed resolutely.

(Break)

Albus had been little more than a boy the last time he'd visited Paris, a trip he and Gellert had taken together shortly after he had graduated from Hogwarts. The short stay here and been a gift from his friend for achieving such outstanding results in his NEWTs during a time that Albus's life had been blissful.

Only a few months later, tragedy would strike the Dumbledore home as Albus's mother was killed in a freak accident, and any plans the young man had would need to be put on hold.

The trip to Paris with Gellert had been one of the most wonderful experiences in his life, and Albus could not have fathomed that in only a matter of weeks later, everything he held dear would come undone.

He shook his head as he pondered his graduation year and the one that followed.

With the ensuing war, Paris was not the same city.

Gone were the men and women milling around, taking in the sights, and enjoying a stroll through the streets.

Under the German occupation, the atmosphere was tense as the armed men marched among the rubble of the buildings that had been destroyed and the citizens that remained dared not even look at them.

France was not what Albus remembered it to be, the city now very much resembling the crumbled relationships of his youth.

Still, as sombre as he felt and despite what the man had done, he could not ignore the stab of excitement at seeing his friend again as Gellert walked towards him, his expression almost as welcoming as it had always been.

"Albus," he greeted him warmly before he took the seat opposite at the bistro table. "I must say, I either expected you to arrive much sooner, or later, but not in this moment.

Gellert was curious, even hopeful that Albus may have changed his mind about following through with the foolish plans they'd concocted so many years ago now.

"Has this not gone far enough, Gellert?" Albus questioned quietly. "None of this was what we intended," he added, gesturing around them.

"It wasn't," Gellert agreed, "but the muggles presented the perfect opportunity. What better way to show the world that our vision is right for them when the threat cannot be ignored?"

Albus shook his head disappointedly.

"War was never what I envisioned," he denied.

"But you knew it was a possibility, and even then, you agreed that it may have been unavoidable."

"I did," Albus murmured unhappily, "but I never imagined for a moment that our youthful ambitions would lead to this."

Gellert snorted.

"Were you truly so naïve that you believed we could change the world with words alone?"

"No," Albus replied, "but I also didn't believe that slaughtering our own kind would be the correct course of action. You've lost your way, Gellert. What happened to you?"

"I could very well ask the same of you, Albus," Gellert returned evenly. "You have become what we once despised, a puppet of those that would see us continuing to hide when it should be us the world belongs to."

Albus shook his head.

"Your attitude and actions prove that the world should not be ours to do with what we wish," he countered. "You kill witches and wizards whom you claim to represent. What would you do to the muggles that you view as inferior?"

Gellert narrowed his eyes.

"They would be given the same choice to comply with the new way of the world, the very same opportunity I give to our kind."

"So, you will slaughter those that refuse and enslave the rest?"

Gellert shook his head irritably.

"I have no desire to slaughter them."

"But you will if you feel it necessary."

Gellert's jaw visibly tightened, but before he could respond, their conversation was interrupted by a man in a soldier's uniform, his expression stern, the gun he held pointed at the duo.

"Where are your papers?" he demanded in German.

Albus noticed Gellert reaching for his wand and knew he needed to intervene before the soldier became just another victim of this war.

"I have them," Albus replied, drawing his own wand, and pointed it at the man from beneath the table.

His expression immediately went blank, and he looked to be confused for a moment before he simply shrugged and walked away.

Albus breathed a sigh of relief.

"Up to your same old mind tricks, Albus?" Gellert questioned proudly. "I must say, you have become very adept."

Albus ignored the comment.

His practice in the mind arts was something he had begun in his youth and something that proved to be useful for him on many occasions throughout his life.

He hadn't used them as Gellert would have encouraged, but he would not let the skill he had developed wane and be wasted.

"Why did you come here, Albus?" Gellert asked. "Did you hope that you could convince me to abandon my plans?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Albus murmured sadly, "but I can see that you are beyond listening to reason now, Gellert. Even if it comes from me."

Gellert chuckled as he shook his head.

"You always were the sentimental one."

"Perhaps," Albus acknowledged, "or maybe it is that I do not wish to see you killed in the pursuit of a foolish dream we once had."

"That almost sounded like a threat," Gellert replied amusedly. "Are you going to kill me, Albus?"

There had been a time that Albus believed such a thing may become unavoidable, but he was no longer under such an illusion.

"No, I will not kill you, Gellert," he answered honestly. "Even though I possess the magical ability to, I do not believe I could bring myself to follow through."

Gellert laughed heartily.

"Then I have already won," he declared.

"You will not win, Gellert," Albus sighed. "You call me sentimental, but you still cannot acknowledge your own sense of self-superiority. I once believed you to be only confident, but I fear I was mistaken. Your arrogance will be your downfall, as it has with many others that came before you, and as it will for many others to come."

Gellert narrowed his eyes.

"Do not attempt to confound me with your riddles, Albus!"

"I am attempting only to save your life," Albus countered.

"From whom?" Gellert questioned as he leaned back in his chair. "There is none that can hope to defeat me, not whilst I possess this."

Albus watched as Gellert drew his wand, though it was not the same one he'd carried when Albus met him.

"I have long-suspected that you would have acquired it," the transfiguration professor said disappointedly. "You must understand that the wand is not unbeatable."

"In my possession, it is," Gellert countered.

Albus shook his head, remembering just who the wand had originally been created by or gifted to if there was truth to the many versions of the story.

"If you truly believe that, then you have been corrupted by the power of the wand. It is not an infallible object."

For a fleeting moment, a look of realisation crossed Gellert's features, but he didn't speak his thoughts, instead, he smiled once more.

"There is none that can hope to defeat me whilst I possess it, especially as you are so unwilling to be my downfall."

Albus shook his head.

"It need not be me to defeat you, Gellert," he said sadly. "You have already made another enemy, one that will not hesitate to kill you."

Gellert frowned, before a smirk graced his lips.

"Evans," he acknowledged. "He is a foolish boy who has been lucky thus far. I don't suppose you are willing to share what you know of him?"

"No," Albus said firmly, "but Harry Evans is not a boy that relies on luck, Gellert. He has done things that you would not believe and has advantages that you will never know of. The elder wand will not help you when you meet. It can't."

"I think you overestimate the boy, old friend."

"It is you that underestimates him," Albus countered. "He is like no other I have met. He is perhaps as gifted as me but possesses the ruthlessness I lack."

"He will die as will any other who defies me!" Gellert growled, his grip tightening around the elder wand.

"Does that include me?" Albus asked.

"You will not like the answer to that question," Gellert muttered as his posture relaxed. "There was a time you would have agreed that no life was worth hindering our vision, that sacrifices would be made for the greater good."

"Not this!" Albus snapped angrily. "Not a war that will see thousands dead."

Gellert shook his head disappointedly.

"What happened to you, Albus?" he asked. "Where is that fire you had when we first met?"

Albus swallowed deeply as he met the gaze of the other man.

"That fire was snuffed the day Ariana died."

"Something caused by your foolish brother."

"No," Albus disagreed. "It was caused from my own selfishness. I cannot blame Abe for being angry with me."

"Self-pity doesn't suit you," Gellert snorted.

Albus met his gaze once more.

"It is you that I pity, Gellert," he replied sadly. "Your arrogance knows no bounds. That wand has made you feel invincible, and were it not for Harry, perhaps we would not be meeting as we are now, but here we are, and I can only appeal to the boy I once knew to stop what you are doing. This will end in disaster, and I fear that I will be unable to save you."

"I do not need saving," Gellert said with certainty. "It is me that is saving our kind from a continued life of having to hide what we are from the rest of the world."

"Your actions speak differently," Albus sighed. "You have lost your way, Gellert. It is not freedom for us you seek, but power for yourself and those loyal to you. I have clung to a foolish thread of hope that what is said about you wasn't true, but that thread has broken. I do not wish you to suffer, but you cannot be left unchecked. I hope that Harry is merciful to you, Gellert, but I would not bet on it."

With his parting words given, Albus stood to take his leave.

"Do not walk away from me!" Gellert demanded as Albus turned his back on him.

"Are you going to kill me, old friend?" Albus asked not even reaching for his wand to defend himself.

Gellert seemed to ponder the question for some time before he shook his head.

"This once I will allow you to leave. Think of it as a favour to the man I once considered to be my only friend."

"And you consider my warning given with the same kindness," Albus returned. "Abandon your path, Gellert, it only leads to your demise."

With a final look of pleading at the man, Albus gave Gellert a sad smile before vanishing, leaving a displeased and rather maudlin former friend in his wake.

(Break)

The stack of letters Harry needed to sign and have forwarded to the families of the men who had been killed during the latest attack was smaller than he had expected, but no less sobering to look upon.

From the British, twenty-two had been killed, a small number in comparison to the Russian's who had lost ten times that, and the French and Spanish whose own losses were numerous.

"Such a waste," he murmured to himself.

Charlus said nothing but nodded his agreement from where he stood next to the desk Harry had been loaned in the Russian ministry.

"How many of these men had wives and children waiting for them to return home?" Harry asked.

"Eight of them," Charlus explained, moving the corresponding letters of these men into a separate pile.

Harry shook his head.

"What will they do? How will they feed themselves?"

Charlus shrugged.

"I don't know, Harry," he replied honestly. "They may get some help from the Ministry."

Harry chuckled darkly.

"I wouldn't bet on it. The Ministry is full of self-serving prats who don't care about anything except themselves."

"My father wasn't like that," Charlus pointed out.

"No," Harry agreed, "but how many others are like him?"

Charlus smiled sadly as he squeezed Harry's shoulder.

"I don't suppose they are, but I am. I will see what can be done."

"What about a charity?" Harry asked thoughtfully. "A fund for the families of fallen men. I'd put in my fair share."

Charlus nodded.

"Me too, and if it is pitched in the right way to the wizengamot, the other purebloods won't be able to refuse."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there are lots of families that haven't sent anyone to fight," Charlus explained. "If such a charity existed, and prominent members of society were to contribute, the rest would be compelled to, and there are those that will not wish to be outdone. Pride is rife amongst the purebloods," he finished pointedly.

"If they knew you were contributing, they would do it too," Harry mused aloud.

Charlus snorted as he shook his head.

"If they knew you were, they would," he countered.

"Me?" Harry questioned with a frown.

"Bloody hell," Charlus huffed. "With everything you have done here, the name Evans will be as influential as any other in Britain. When this is over with, Harry, even the most traditional purebloods will be queuing up to kiss your arse. Dragon-killer, Commander of the British forces, the man willing to fight Grindelwald, and when it inevitably comes out, The Serpent. They'll give you an Order of Merlin, and even your own Chocolate Frog Card. I'd bet every Knut of the Potter fortune on it."

"I don't want any of that," Harry sighed. "When this is over and done with, I just want to be left alone."

Charlus laughed heartily.

"Sorry, Harry, but that isn't going to happen."

"Of course it bloody won't," Harry grumbled, his memories of being accosted by witches and wizards during his first trip to Diagon Alley with Hagrid coming to the forefront of his mind.

"You should see it as a good thing," Charlus urged. "You could do so much good with the influence you will have. You'd get my vote to be Minister of Magic."

"You can piss off," Harry huffed, narrowing his eyes at the smirking man. "I'd rather take Pringle's job."

"You would too," Charlus snorted. "In all seriousness, I think the charity is a promising idea. You should set it up. The coffers will be overflowing in a matter of days."

Harry nodded.

He didn't like the idea of using any sort of reputation he might have forged for himself, but this would be for a worthy cause and one that would have his unwavering approval.

"Alright," he agreed, "I'll do it, but you will pitch it to the Wizengamot."

"Done," Charlus declared, taking Harry's hand before it was even offered and shaking it vigorously. "The Harry Evans Fund for Families of the Fallen."

"It will not be called that!"

"Too late," Charlus quipped. "That's the name I will be putting forward to the Wizengamot."

Harry shook his head.

"You're intolerable."

"That he is," Yaxley agreed as he entered the room with Gilbert and several other men Harry had fought alongside with at the southern defences. "I heard the word charity being mentioned?"

"Our beloved Commander isn't as cold as you might have thought," Charlus chuckled. "He's going to set up a fund for the families of the men who die during war."

Yaxley nodded approvingly.

"That's not a bad idea," he mused aloud. "With you running it, all the bigwigs will cough up some galleons. If my family donates, Selwyn won't want to be outdone. If he donates, Parkinson will do it, and then the Blacks will throw a tonne of gold at you."

"And then Malfoy will try to match it, and then the Blacks will make his donation look like pocket change," Charlus added.

"Anything that will piss off Malfoy is a good idea," Yaxley snorted. "Not bad, Commander."

"I should have just kept my mouth shut," Harry grumbled, the look of amusement both Charlus and Yaxley wore meaning that trouble of sorts would likely follow.

"Well, until we can enjoy the rush to inundate you with pureblood gold, there's some things we wanted to discuss with you," the latter announced. "There's a rumour spreading around that we are going to take Belgium. Is it true?"

Harry nodded, though he was displeased that another Commander had evidently not been able to keep that to themselves before he could inform his own men.

"We are," he confirmed. "We can't stay here. Winter is coming and we need to establish a base we can work from."

Yaxley and the other men nodded their understanding.

"You'll be leading us?"

"Who else is going to put up with you lot?" Harry returned, eliciting a bout of laughter from the men.

"True," Gilbert sighed. "Not that we would follow anyone else."

"Nope," Yaxley agreed. "You're stuck with us, sir, and we wouldn't have it any other way. We will follow you wherever you need us to be."

Although the words were given light-heartedly, the sincerity behind them was unmissable as were the murmurs of agreement from the others.

It warmed Harry to know his men trusted him so much, something they would need to do in the coming months with what he had planned.

"Bugger off you bloody idiots," he huffed as they continued to look at him with the utmost respect.

"Not yet," Yaxley denied. "Gilbert, shut the door."

The other man complied, and when he returned, the men were looking at Harry expectantly until Yaxley spoke once more.

"We are loyal to you, sir," he said without any trace jest or mocking in his tone. "If it wasn't for you, we know we probably wouldn't have made it out of some of the shit we've been through, and not just in France."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

Yaxley snorted as he shook his head.

"Some of the others might be too dense to see it, but we're not. It didn't take much for us to piece it together between us."

"The week you were in Hospital, and he didn't show up," Gilbert broke in.

"Or whenever you were away," Yaxley added.

"In Poland, in Belgium, and in Paris, it was you, wasn't it?" Gilbert asked.

"I don't know what you are talking about," Harry replied defensively.

"The Serpent," Yaxley said bluntly. "It's you, isn't it? It can't be anyone else, not after what we have all seen."

"Not after that bloody snake that killed all those creatures," one of the other men interjected.

Harry leaned back in his chair and eyed them speculatively.

He knew he couldn't have kept it a secret forever, but he'd hoped to for a little longer at least.

Still, as he looked upon the men who stared at him expectantly in return, those that had so readily proclaimed their loyalty to him, even proved it on more than one occasion, he couldn't bring himself to lie to them.

"What if I am?" he asked cautiously.

"Then we owe you more than we first thought," Yaxley responded simply.

"Does that mean you're related to Slytherin?" Gilbert questioned.

Harry shook his head.

"No, not by blood, but I have his magic."

"How does that work?" Yaxley asked curiously. "You can't just have the magic and not the blood."

Even Charlus could not hide his interest at the direction the conversation was going, and Harry realised he hadn't told the man the story of how it had come to be.

Releasing a deep breath, he shook his head.

"When I was a year old, a dark wizard came to my home…"

"And murdered your parents," Charlus finished.

Harry nodded.

"After he'd killed them, he tried to do the same to me, but my mother had unintentionally invoked an ancient protective charm when she sacrificed herself to save me."

"Fucking hell," Yaxley said sadly. "She gave her life for yours."

"She did," Harry snorted, "but even with my dad and mum dead, he wasn't satisfied with that. He cast the killing curse at me."

"You bloody survived it?" Yaxley gasped.

"Only because of my mother's sacrifice," Harry pointed out. "I didn't do anything, and it isn't because I'm special in any way."

"Still, you survived it," Yaxley returned.

"And this gave you the Slytherin magic?" Charlus asked.

Harry nodded.

He wasn't going to even mention the concept of Horcruxes or anything else that contributed to him gaining the abilities he had.

That was a conversation he would never be ready for.

"The curse backfired and hurt him really badly. Whatever magic he possessed invaded my own," he explained with a shrug.

"So, you're not the heir of Slytherin?" Gilbert questioned.

"No," Harry chuckled, "I just possess the magic."

"But the man that killed your parents is related to him," Yaxley broke in once more. "Was it Marvolo Gaunt?"

"No," Harry said firmly. "I know who it was, and when the time is right, I'll catch up to him and put the bastard in the ground for what he did to my family."

"Good," Yaxley declared, "and we will be right there with you, sir."

Harry shook his head.

"That will be my fight."

"Any fight of yours is our fight," Charlus countered. "We will be there with you, like you have been for us."

"You got that right, Potter," Yaxley agreed.

Harry was certainly touched by the sentiment, but there would be little if nothing these men could do when it came to killing Voldemort.

"Anyway, you've had your bloody story, now the lot of you can bugger off," Harry instructed. "We've got this war to fight before we think of anything else. And not a word to anyone."

"Your secret is safe with us, sir," Yaxley assured him. "We won't breathe a word, but if we managed to piece it together, others will too."

"Then they can do it in their own time," Harry sighed. "Go on, get yourselves ready. We will be leaving for Belgium soon enough unless you fancy some additional training?"

The men shook their heads collectively.

"We're still working on that Patronus Charm," Gilbert grumbled. "If it was anyone else bossing us around, I'd have you smothered in your sleep."

"Well, you could always try," Harry offered with a grin.

"No thanks," Gilbert replied dryly. "I'm not tired of living yet."

Harry chuckled as the men left the room, but he was unsure about how he felt now that his secret was known to more.

"You can trust them, Harry," Charlus assured him. "They all owe you their lives and they know that. It's you they're loyal to, even Gilbert the mouthy prat."

Harry nodded before he turned his attention back to his stack of letters he needed to sign, only to be interrupted by the Potter lord once more.

"Your mother was a quite a woman," he offered sincerely, "and I'd bet my life your parents would be proud of you. I know I am."

Had the words come from any other, they wouldn't have resonated so much with him, but as he heard the door close to the room once more as Charlus followed the rest of the men, Harry wiped an errant tear from his cheek.

It saddened him to think about what happened to James and Lily Potter, but now, more than ever, he was proud of who they were and the sacrifice they both made so that he could live.

Still, that sacrifice would not have been made possible without Charlus, his father's father, and a man that Harry was proud to call his friend.

Perhaps one day he would come clean about his origins, and as he pondered doing just that, his hand unconsciously reached for the resurrection stone he wore at all times.

He'd not been able to summon his parents.

The magic evidently did not transcend the passing of time, but maybe he would be able to speak with William.

He shook his head.

Even if he could, now was not the time to do so.

He had an invasion to plan, and he couldn't afford to be distracted by anything else, not even this one selfish desire he had.

The time would come that he could explore the possibility, but for now, he needed to focus on Grindelwald and how his downfall would be brought about.