The Cold on my Cheek

For Harry, what was supposed to have been a reprieve from the war on the continent had been little but. From attending the gathering with the Wizengamot to the impending meeting with the muggle Prime Minister, resting had been far from his mind.

Of course, he'd spent as much time with Minerva as they were afforded with her own work schedule, but Harry had found that being idle and left alone with his thoughts was not what he wanted.

Instead, he had busied himself with contacting those seeking investment, and trying to learn more about his shadowy companion.

The snake had yet to show itself, likely choosing to grow stronger before doing so, but Harry was acutely aware of its presence.

It wasn't invasive as he had expected when Scamander had explained what he needed to do, but it was there, always on the edge of his consciousness as he went about his day.

Oddly, it seemed to react to his emotions, and right now, it was quite restless, squirming around irritably as Harry flared his nostrils at the headline in The Daily Prophet.

Spain Burns as Grindelwald Invades!

Harry had expected this to come, had even warned Charlus of the likelihood, but even having anticipated the move, it did nothing to soften the blow. This would appear to be nothing more than another defeat that the ICW had suffered.

With a shake of his head, he pushed the paper away, followed by his plate of eggs and bacon, his appetite having vanished.

Theseus helped himself to a few rashers, barking approvingly, and Harry absentmindedly ran his fingers through the owl's feathers, a deep frown marring his features.

He knew that when he returned to the trenches in only a couple of days, he would need to proceed with his plan to move east and relieve some of the other countries near to Belgium that had been suffering under Grindelwald's regime.

He would likely take Holland next, but he would not bother with either Germany or Austria for the time being.

Evidently, they were quite unanimous in their support of the man who had seized control of their lands, so much so that many had volunteered to fight for him.

Harry had known of Germany's loyalties long ago, but he had received his first report from Summerbee on this morning, and as informative as it was, it was not the news he'd wanted.

G. has a prison in the north of Austrian Alps. Unable to enter but it seems unguarded. Seen him enter, but no luck finding any trace of Weber here. Will go to Germany next.

E.

The woman had been gone for some time now, and though Harry was not expecting miracles, he could certainly use one.

Grindelwald was winning this war, and if things didn't begin to change soon, he might well become unstoppable.

Releasing a deep breath, he cleaned his plate with a wave of his wand and stood.

He had two meetings to attend today for his investments, and then this evening, he had been invited to have dinner with his former classmates, something he was looking forward to, even if he doubted he would be good company.

It had been months since he had seen Tiberius, Poppy, Augusta, and Frank and he hoped that doing so would lift his spirits.

It seemed that even being away from the war, there was no escaping it, not when he was so eager for it to end, something that would not happen soon.

Harry had grown weary of fighting, and yet, he knew that there was still much of it left. Grindelwald and Tom still yet breathed, and until he had dealt with them both, there was no life outside of war, and Harry wouldn't rest until both were dead so that he may finally be free to experience some semblance of normality.

(Break)

Although the fires had mostly burned out, the buildings still smoked from where Hans and his men had taken to the streets of Madrid to bring Spain under Gellert's control.

It was a beautiful city, or had been before the fighting, and one that Gellert was pleased to find himself in.

Despite the lateness of the year, the weather was still mild enough to enjoy, even if the smell of burnt flesh and wood was prevalent now instead of the wonderful scent of street vendors cooking.

Gellert would see the city rebuilt, and the people allowed to continue as they had. He wanted to win them over, to show them that living within his own vision was best for them, that they could thrive under his leadership.

"How many were killed?" he asked the hulking German walking next to him.

"We lost around two-hundred men," he explained. "The natives fought hard but were overwhelmed."

Gellert nodded.

"See that they are treated with respect, Hans. Make sure each man is granted a proper burial."

Gaultier frowned at Gellert who offered him a pointed look in return.

"We need to win their support, my friend," he sighed. "We need them to want us here, and then when Commander Evans and the ICW arrive, they will not aide them."

Hans nodded his understanding.

"Why did we not do that with the other countries?"

"We will," Gellert assured him. "I would like the same done in France immediately."

"Does that mean we are to split our forces."

"No," Gellert denied. "It means that we will allow the citizens to repair their home, with our assistance. See that it is done."

Gaulitier merely nodded and began barking orders at his men who seemed to be confused for a moment before carrying out their tasks.

Gellert had learned that violence and instilling fear would only get him so far, something that Albus had pointed out so many years ago now when they had begun planning this campaign.

The man had been right, and though Gellert would prefer that so much time wasn't wasted on pandering to those he had conquered, he knew he needed to win them over, to show why he should be followed.

For now, all Evans would need to do would be to enter any of the countries Gellert had worked so tirelessly to obtain, and the men and women would welcome him with open arms.

That wouldn't do.

No, Gellert needed the people's admiration as much as he wanted them to fear him.

It was the only way his efforts would end in success.

"I haven't been here for some time," Cassiopeia murmured as she fell into step with him.

Gellert was heading towards the Ministry, the building still standing, much to his relief.

"Nor I," Gellert replied. "It is as charming as I remember."

Cassiopeia nodded her agreement.

"My mother used to like it here and would bring us when we were young. My father was not so keen, but he came anyway."

"And here you are once more, older and wiser."

Cassiopeia smiled.

"I like to think so."

"But something is on your mind," Gellert said pointedly.

Cassiopeia huffed gently.

"I heard that Evans is currently in Britain. Would it not be best to deal with him whilst he is away from his men?"

Gellert shook his head.

He understood that the man was quite the sore point for her, but it seemed that she failed to consider anything logically where Commander Evans was concerned.

"Do you truly think there is an advantage to be had by doing so?"

Cassiopeia shrugged.

"Maybe not," she sighed. "Did you know that my brother is fighting for the ICW?"

Gellert nodded.

"I am very much aware and apologise for not being the one to inform you."

"He's a fool. I really thought that he would see sense."

"Perhaps he still will," Gellert replied with an easy smile, though he had no doubt that Arcturus had made his decision firmly before setting foot on the battlefield.

Besides, if there ever was a chance of him following in Cassiopeia's footsteps, Gellert had no doubt that had been blown the moment he crossed wands with the new Lord Black and came close to killing.

"Put those thoughts out of your mind, my dear," he urged. "We are celebrating a victory. We may not know what the future holds, but we can always hope that those we care for will see sense."

"And if they don't?"

"I choose not to think of that," Gellert answered honestly, "but we can take comfort knowing that we are right in what we are doing."

Cassiopeia smiled brightly at his words.

"I do try," she assured him.

"And that is all I ask of you," Gellert returned sincerely. "Now, why don't we take a tour of the Spanish Ministry and see what it has to offer?"

(Break)

The reception that Harry had received when he'd arrived at the home Frank and Augusta shared had been nothing short of heart-warming, and Minerva could only look on as the hosts, Poppy, and Tiberius greeted him.

Of course, Poppy's eyes had roamed over him to ensure he wasn't missing any limbs, and despite his protests that he was fine, the healer was not so easily convinced. She had hummed questioningly but hadn't insisted on looking him over herself.

Augusta had simply wrapped her arms around Harry in a rare show of affection, and all but squeezed the life out of him, much to the amusement of her husband who had to wait for several moments for the woman to let go so that he could greet Harry himself.

Tiberius had followed suit, clinging to the other man, and whispering of how much he wished he was with Harry and Charlus on the frontlines.

Harry had cuffed him around the back of the head good-naturedly for his comments, reminding him that he had a wife and a child on the way to think about.

His words did little to placate Tiberius, but he relaxed, nonetheless.

Minerva hadn't known how to welcome Harry and had been torn between kissing him and simply embracing him as she always had.

In her uncertainty, she opted for the latter and was very much aware of Augusta looking between the two of them almost expectantly.

What her friend was looking for, Minerva knew not, but Augusta seemed to be content after some time and offered her a warm, encouraging smile.

"How is Marianne?" Harry asked Tiberius who positively beamed at the mention of his wife.

"She is doing well and seems to be over the worst of the morning sickness," Tiberius replied. "Poppy has been an immense help to us."

"Marianna needs all the help she can get," Poppy broke in with a grin.

"Oi, I am doing everything I can," Tiberius protested.

"I know, and you're doing fantastic," Poppy praised. "I never would have guessed you would be the first of us to have a baby. I thought it would be Augusta."

"We are in no rush," Frank explained. "We are quite enjoying being able to travel at the moment and won't consider a child until we are both ready," he added, squeezing Augusta's hand gently.

"And not until there is no longer a war hanging over us," Augusta insisted.

Frank nodded his agreement.

"Speaking of which. My father is very much in support of your charity, Harry. He's asked that I inform you that you should receive his donation in the coming days."

"Thank you," Harry replied gratefully. "Nicholas and Perenelle are overseeing it for the time being your family's contribution will be most appreciated."

Frank smiled and raised his glass to Harry.

"How things have changed," Tiberius snorted. "You've only been out of school a few years and you've earned and Order of Merlin and have the purebloods eating out of the palm of your hand."

Harry shook his head.

"For now, and only because it benefits them to be seen to be doing the right thing. I didn't mean your father, Frank," he added quickly. "People like Malfoy and his lot don't care. They only donated to save face."

"True," Tiberius sighed, "but at least you got their gold. If you really want to piss them off, you should create a public dedication to the highest donors with their names engraved into it.

Harry snorted amusedly.

"I might well do that, even if it is only to annoy Malfoy."

Minerva huffed as she shook her head, a grin tugging at her lips.

She had missed this, and though Charlus was not here, it was like old times, before the war, before she spent her days worrying if she would receive the news that Harry had been killed.

Life had been much simpler then.

"So, you really have to go back in a couple of days?" Poppy asked.

Such a simple question tore through the small amount of bliss Minerva managed to take for herself since Harry returned.

At the back of her mind, she knew he would be leaving again soon, was aware that he could not stay, but as Poppy vocalised the thoughts she had tried to ignore, Minerva felt her heart sink into her stomach.

Harry nodded.

"I'm meeting with the muggle Prime Minister tomorrow, then I'll be heading to Hogwarts once more before Rosalina kills me, and then I'll be leaving the day after," he explained.

The mood around the table became sombre almost immediately.

"Is the war not close to being over?" Augusta asked hopefully.

Harry shook his head.

"No," he sighed. "I wish I could tell you it will be over soon, but I'd be lying. For every victory, we face defeat, and for every country Grindelwald gets a hold over, is another we have to claim back. Honestly, it feels as though the war has barely begun. It won't end until he is dead, and those loyal to him are dealt with. That could take years."

His words were met with silence for a moment before Tiberius chuckled darkly.

"Well, that's put quite a downer on my mood."

Harry offered the man an apologetic look.

"I won't lie to you. Things will get worse before they get better."

"But we will win?" Frank questioned.

"We will win," Harry murmured.

His words were quiet but not devoid of confidence.

Dark days were yet ahead, but Minerva believed him, and though her own mood had taken quite the turn, she would not allow it to ruin what precious moments she had left with Harry until he left again.

Soon, the meal ended, and as they bid farewell to Tiberius who would be returning home to his pregnant wife, and Poppy who would no doubt be going back to St Mungo's, Minerva took Harry purposely by the hand, squeezing it before apparating them back to his house.

She was growing used to sharing a bed with him now, and even if she knew she shouldn't because it would soon be taken away from her once more, she couldn't resist, couldn't deny herself the enjoyment nor the warmth it filled her with whilst it was to hand.

(Break)

With Grindelwald's latest acquisition of Spain, Charlus was experiencing his first bout of unrest amongst the men, the Spanish in particular, who, as he could understand, were keen to rush to their homeland to remove the invaders.

As yet, they hadn't left, but the Spanish Commander had requested a meeting with the rest of those in charge, and as Charlus entered the former bookshop the man was currently residing in, he found the Spaniard pacing back and forth in front of his fireplace.

The rest of the Commanders had arrived already, most wearing a grim expression as they leaned against the wall of what had been the main shopping area.

"We must go and fight!" the Spaniard demanded.

The Russian looked towards Charlus and rolled his eyes whilst the others murmured amongst themselves, some seemingly agreeing with their colleague, and others uncertain.

"And how do you plan on doing that?" Charlus questioned. "Between us and Spain, there is nowhere safe for us to arrive to mount an attack. We would be arriving into hostile land and have no advantage of which to speak. Our men would be slaughtered."

"Da, it would be foolish to attempt it," the Russian agreed. "I will not risk my men for this."

The Spaniard looked towards him and Charlus in disgust, spitting on the floor angrily.

"Cowards," he growled.

"No," Charlus countered, "we are just not stupid enough to allow our emotions to cloud our judgement. There is nothing to be gained from this."

"Is this you speaking, or your superior?" the Spaniard snarked.

Charlus snorted.

Harry had sent a brief message with his own thoughts, and they happened to coincide with Charlus's own.

As much as he wished they were in a position to help everyone that found themselves under Grindelwald's regime, they were in no position to do so.

To have any success in this war, they needed to be united, and Grindelwald was doing all he could to divide them.

"I have given my thoughts as I see the situation," Charlus replied. "No one will attempt to stop any that wish to leave, but you will not be taking my men."

"Nor mine," the Russian agreed.

"No, it would cost lives we will not give," the Canadian added, receiving nods of agreement from the Indian representative, and the majority of others.

The Spaniard looked at them all in disgust, his fists balled in anger.

"So, you will do nothing? You will not help my people?"

"We will help everyone," Charlus returned, "but when it is to our advantage to do so. It would be the same if he invaded Britain, or Portugal, or any other country. We are what stands between him and victory, and we cannot act rashly or foolishly, or we will lose. If that happens, no one will be helped, and the suffering will only continue."

The Spaniard snorted derisively when he realised that none were going to support him.

"I should have known better," he grumbled. "It is not your countries he has invaded."

Charlus's nostrils flared in irritation.

"No, but each of us have lost people we care for and will likely lose more before this war is over. As things are, we cannot split our forces or we will lose the hold we have here, and then we can help no one."

"Are they your words or those of Evans?"

"Those are mine," Charlus replied darkly, "but Harry would agree, and look what happens when you do the opposite of what he says. You got several men killed already, so forgive me if I'm not willing to follow your lead."

Only the French Commander remained silent as the rest echoed the sentiment, none having been pleased with the actions of the French and Spanish forces when Grindelwald had last attacked.

"It's like I said, no one is preventing you from leaving, but we will not follow. Your best chance to help your people is to wait instead of getting yourself killed in a rushed battle that you cannot win."

The Spaniard nodded grimly and swept from the room, and though Charlus felt for the man and what his fellow countrymen were facing, he had made the right choice, as difficult as it was.

Trying to take Spain would be a fool's errand, and deep down, even the man who hailed from the country knew it.

"It is the right choice," the Russian said firmly. "We must stick to our plan if we have any chance of winning."

The others murmured their agreement, though it did little to alleviate the guilt each of them undoubtedly felt.

Charlus followed the others as they left from the room knowing there was no other course of action for the time being.

He couldn't be certain what the Spanish would do, but he hoped the Commander would see sense and wait until they were in a better position to strike back.

If they didn't, all that would be achieved would be the loss of more men, men they couldn't afford to be without.

Despite their best efforts, the ICW were not winning this war, and Charlus couldn't help but think that defeat was inevitable unless something changed.

They could keep fighting as they were, but as he had seen thus far, it seemed to be for nought other than hindering Grindelwald's movement.

No, even whilst defending France, they did nothing other than wait for the fighting to come to them, and it couldn't be this way anymore.

Harry had plans that Charlus believed in, and he could only hope that when his friend returned, they would be put into motion, and he found himself anticipating Harry's arrival more than ever, if only to relieve him of dealing with the other, stubborn Commanders.

(Break)

For fifteen years, Hector Fawley had been in office, had dedicated his life to the betterment of wizarding Britain, and had given everything he had to his role.

Because of it, he had seen little of his wife, had missed anniversaries and birthdays to attend meetings, and had often slept in his office instead of joining her in their marital bed.

He had no regrets of his later career choice and doubted anyone could have dedicated themselves to it more than he had, but he had certainly neglected other aspects of his life.

As ever, his wife had been understanding, had supported him through the ups and downs of being the Minister of Magic, but neither could have envisioned that Britain would have found itself embroiled in a war on the continent, not so soon after the previous one.

"Come in," he called as a knock sounded at his door.

"Commander Evans has arrived, Minister," the auror on guard informed him.

"Ah, excellent, send him in, Jarvis," he instructed, smoothing down the front of his robes.

The young man that entered was one the Minister had only met briefly during the Wizengamot meeting a few days past.

With the fanfare of the event, Hector had been unable to personally get the measure of Harry Evans, but immediately, he could not deny the presence the man had.

He could be no older than twenty, his face youthful, even if his skin was blemished by a few visible scars, his eyes, however, spoke volumes of what he had seen.

They were an oddly bright shade of emerald, and though they seemed as though they should appear to be warm, there was little to be found. His gaze was a hardened one, and as it swept across the office, Hector knew there had been no exaggeration of what this man had done, no fabrication of his deeds.

"You asked to see me, Minister?" Evans asked, his tone cautious but not lacking confidence.

Hector nodded.

"I did, please, take a seat."

Evans was not an overly tall man, a little above average if Hector had to guess, but he was well-conditioned, his build similar to someone who played Quidditch and took care of themselves.

"I asked you to join me so that we may meet with the Prime Minister," Hector reminded him. "He is very keen for an update that I believe you would be the best to give."

"I can do that," Evans agreed.

Hector smiled gratefully.

"Excellent," he declared. "The man is…"

"Acerbic, I believe was the word you used to describe him" Evans cut in.

This Churchill was so very different from his predecessor and wasn't one to mince his words.

In truth, were it not a time of war, he would probably be a poor politician, his proclivity for speaking his mind something that would be quite inadvisable.

However, he seemed to be rather popular amongst the muggles, and was perhaps what Britain needed to see them through their own conflict.

"That is putting it mildly," Hector snorted as he stood. "I will speak with him first and send for you in just a moment, Commander," he explained.

Taking a deep breath, he threw a handful of floo powder into the fire and waited for it to turn its trademark green.

"Downing Street," he called before stepping into the flames and arriving in the smoke-filled office of his muggle counterpart.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" the large man seated behind the desk grumbled.

It was not even lunch, and the Prime Minister was already nursing a glass of whiskey in one hand whilst he held some documentation in the other. From his mouth hung a thick cigar, and as he spoke, a thick clump of ash fell into his lap.

"Well, what do you want?"

"You expressed an interest in meeting the Commander of our forces," Hector reminded the man diplomatically.

Churchill grunted and placed the papers he was poring over on the desk before sipping his whiskey and blowing out a large cloud of smoke.

"I did," he sighed. "Where is he then, I haven't got all day?"

With a subtle flick of his wand, Hector summoned Evans who stepped into the office after only a short delay.

Immediately, Churchill's piggish eyes roamed over the young man, and he snorted, evidently unimpressed.

"He's in charge of your army?" the Prime Minister asked.

"I can assure you, Prime Minister, Commander Evans is most qualified for the position. Evans, this is Winston Churchill."

Churchill released a deep breath as he leaned back in his chair and placed his cigar in the already full ashtray.

"I apologise if I seem hostile," he huffed. "You have your own war to deal with and ours is not going well. The bloody Germans are dropping bombs on us daily, and the damned yanks won't lift a damned finger to help anyone."

"I do not believe they are assisting us either," Hector sighed.

"They're not," Evans confirmed. "Funny how Grindelwald escaped their custody and they're happy to wash their hands of him."

"To useless allies," Churchill toasted, raising his glass, and draining it before refilling it once more. "Tell me, young man, how is the war going? Is there anything I need to concern myself with?"

Evans shook his head.

"It's probably going as well as yours," he grumbled, "but no, he hasn't made his way here, and we will do all we can to prevent it. Most of Europe is under his control, but we will soon begin an offensive to take it back."

Churchill nodded.

"Does he have France?"

"He does."

The Prime Minister chortled.

"Then there is some amusement to be had, but I'd sooner the French leader bugger off away from me. He seems to think we can swan in there and take it back. The bloody Jerrys won't have that, so I'm stuck with the sod here. Anyway, do you think you're going to win?"

Churchill had leaned forward in his chair now, looking speculatively at the considerably younger man.

"We will," Evans assured him.

"That's the spirit," Churchill said encouragingly. "Squash the locusts and bring the boys home. We're all in this together even if I don't understand your lot and your stick waving. What kind of man waves a stick around when you can have a gun?"

Evans snorted amusedly as he drew his wand.

"This is much more dangerous than a gun," he assured the Prime Minister. "With this, I can kill a man, and I can also torture him to within an inch of his life before healing him in only a matter of moments. I can destroy his mind so that he won't even remember his own name."

The cigar hanging limply from the Prime Minister's mouth had gone out, and he stared at Evans questioningly.

"Really?" he asked.

Evans nodded.

"The war we are fighting is to keep you safe from this, Prime Minister, to ensure that those that wish to cannot bring harm to you and the rest that do not possess magic."

Churchill swallowed deeply, seeming to finally understand the magnitude of the wizarding conflict.

Before, he didn't seem to have taken it seriously.

When Hector had arrived all those months ago when he first took office, Churchill had been dismissive of their existence, and didn't even seem to believe him.

"Show me," the Prime Minister requested.

"I do not think that is wise," Hector interjected, though Evans held his hand up to silence him.

"You do not believe in what we can do?" he said to the Prime Minister.

Without waiting for a reply, Evans clicked his finger and the end of the cigar flared into life once more but was torn from Churchill's lips and slammed into the opposite wall that was immediately engulfed in fire.

The Prime Minister stood, his eyes wide as the flames spread, coating the walls and ceiling.

With a few movements of his hands, Evans manipulated them, and fiery creatures began to emerge, dissipating before they could cause any harm to any of the men or furniture.

It was an impressive display, even for the Minister of Magic who had seen his fair share of feats over the years, but nothing quite like this. Evans demonstrated incredible control over the power he possessed.

Much to his relief, the flames began to recede until the Commander of the British forces drew them towards him, cupping the flames in one before closing his fist and snuffing them.

The Prime Minister was certainly taken aback by what he had witnessed, collapsing into his chair once more and inspecting the undamaged walls and ceiling.

He nodded appreciatively as he retrieved another cigar and lit it.

"I like you," he said, pointing at Evans and grinning, though the gesture could not conceal his nervousness. "If you ever want a job away from your lot, you know where to find me. I could use a man like you."

Evans chuckled as he stood.

"For now, I have a war to fight, as do you. The Minister here will keep you updated with our progress."

"See that he does, Evans," Churchill said firmly. "I won't have a foreign bunch of your lot running amok in England. Do what needs to be done to make sure that doesn't happen, you hear me?"

Evans nodded and disappeared through the fireplace leaving Hector alone with the Prime Minister once more.

"Seems like a nice kid," Churchill commented.

"He is," Hector agreed, "and the best we have at what he does. Our kind sleeps soundly at night knowing we have Commander Evans looking out for us."

"As will I," Churchill agreed. "Stop by any time for a chat, and if there is anything I can do for you, just say the word."

Hector nodded appreciatively as he stood, followed by his counterpart who offered his hand.

"Be safe, Minister," he urged. "I suppose our jobs aren't so different at the moment."

"They aren't," Hector sighed as he accepted the proffered limb, pleased that some significant progress had seemingly been made in the relationship he shared with the muggle Prime Minister.

When he arrived back at his office, it was to find that Evans had already taken his leave, and though Hector would have liked to talk to him more, he wouldn't deprive the man of what leave he had remaining.

Something told him the wizarding world had many difficult months ahead, and they would need men like Harry Evans to see them through it.

(Break)

Seeing no reason to linger after he had spoken with the Prime Minister, Harry had taken his leave of the Ministry with the intent of having some time alone before heading to Hogwarts in a few hours' time.

Something had been plaguing his mind, something he'd had to ignore as best he could, but since he had met with Dumbledore in the cemetery in Godric's Hollow, it had become more pressing.

Though he was nervous, fearful even, he could no longer ignore it, and the moment had arrived where if he was going to make an attempt, it had to be now or face another lengthy delay before the opportunity would present itself once more.

With a deep breath, he apparated away from the partly destroyed streets of London surrounding the Ministry and arrived in his living room, already questioning his decision.

Still, for the first time since he had placed it there, he removed the ring he'd liberated from Morfin Gaunt from around his neck and eyed the stone housed in the centre.

Could this inane object truly do what the stories spoke of?

It could, of that, Harry had no doubt, and though the few attempts he had made thus far to speak with Sirius, his parents, and even Ron and Hermione had failed, he knew he would see success with this effort.

The magic of the stone was not something he fully understood and perhaps never would, but it had become clear that he couldn't summon those that had not yet lived where he found himself.

The person he wished to commune with now however, had lived and died here.

Bracing himself, and acting before he could question himself further, he began turning the ring in his hand, his lips silently repeating the name of the man he wished to see as he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he swallowed deeply, as lost for words as the oddly solid apparition that now stood in front of him, a look of confusion marring his features.

William Potter appeared as he had been before death, the robes he wore during his final fight torn, and his skin pale.

He was not pleasant to look upon, but it was something Harry chose to ignore in this moment.

The stone had worked. Not in a way he would have hoped for, but William Potter or something resembling him had come forth.

"Harry?" the man asked, his voice raspier than normal. "Where am I?"

"You're at my house," Harry answered, gesturing around the living room.

A look of recognition flitted across William's features as he nodded.

"I remember," he replied, his tone one of relief. "Why am I here?"

"I brought you here."

William frowned as he walked around and stilled as he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

"D-did I die?"

"What do you remember?" Harry asked.

William shook his head.

"I remember you," he confirmed, "this house, my wife and my son…"

He fell silent, still taking in his appearance for a moment.

"I remember fighting, and fire. You were there and held me when I died."

Harry could only nod, his words failing him.

"We were in France…Grindelwald!"

"We were."

William released a deep breath as he shook his head.

"How am I here if I'm dead?" he questioned. "Did you bring me back to life?"

"I don't think it works that way," Harry murmured in reply.

He didn't know what to expect from the stone, but the William Potter that had returned was not the man he remembered. It was him in looks and even memory, but he was devoid of anything else that made him who he was.

William was little more than a shell of the man he had been, perhaps merely only an essence being summoned.

"My family?" William asked almost pleadingly.

"Are safe," Harry assured him. "You'd be so proud of Charlus and Angelica."

William nodded.

"Why am I here? How did you bring me back?"

Harry didn't know where to begin answering the questions, but he knew only the truth would be the right thing to speak.

"Do you remember that you told me the tale of The Three Brothers?"

"The Peverells," William chuckled humourlessly.

"As you had the cloak, I found the stone."

William frowned confusedly before his eyes widened.

"How do you know about the cloak?"

Harry's mouth felt dry, but William wasn't accusing him as such. The man was merely curious how he knew of it.

"Because it belonged to me once, something I still have in my possession."

William shook his head, Harry's cryptic answer serving only to confuse the man more.

"I don't understand," he sighed. "The cloak has always been in my family, ever since it was passed to us from the Peverells centuries ago…"

"And it has never left the Potter line," Harry assured the man. "It was passed down to me by my own father, well, not him personally, but it belonged to him before it did me."

William stared at him for a moment.

"I think you need to explain, Harry. I'm lost."

Never in his life had Harry felt such a wave of turbulent emotions.

Stood before him was his kin, and though Harry had not explained who he was before William had died, it did not make this moment any less significant to him.

He'd never had a family, and for more than five years now, he'd hidden who he was.

"My name is Harry James Potter," he said, his own name sounding foreign on his tongue. "I somehow managed to get myself sent back in time from 1996 to 1935 when I was fifteen-years-old. It took me some time to figure it out, but you are my great-grandfather."

William's mouth fell agape as Harry explained who he was, a frown forming across the man's brow as he murmured to himself.

"Impossible," he whispered, pacing back and forth, and his eyes not leaving the younger man. "Sixty years…no, it can't be…"

After a moment, he stopped pacing, taking in Harry's features closely.

"I always said that you look like us. Even Angelica noted the similarities. Is it true?" he asked.

Harry nodded.

"Charlus is my grandfather, and his son my father."

"How?" William asked. "For months I tried to piece together who you were, where you had come from. I could almost feel that we shared blood, but I drew a blank wherever I looked."

"Because I shouldn't exist here," Harry pointed out. "I didn't lie to you. My father was a pureblood and my mother a muggleborn."

"Your father was a Potter," William snorted. "I thought that you were a Gaunt, or even from a line that none knew existed from Antioch Peverell, but you were one of us all along."

"Yes," Harry replied.

William's gaze softened as he looked upon Harry.

"I knew it," he whispered. "Deep down I knew it, but I couldn't fathom how."

"You believe me?"

William snorted.

"Were it anyone else saying this, I wouldn't, but I know you, Harry. You have nothing to gain from lying to a dead man, and you would not be so cruel to summon me for something unless you felt it was important."

"I wouldn't have," Harry agreed. "I wanted to tell you when you were alive, but I didn't know how to."

"I wish you would have," William said sincerely. "I would have welcomed you as my own son, as the Potter you are. I can see it now," he sighed as he cupped Harry's cheek, eliciting a shiver from the younger man at the coldness of the touch. "You look a lot like Charlus."

"More so my own father," Harry explained.

"The looks of a Potter," William confirmed. "I would hear your story, Harry, if you would tell me it. Life was not kind to you, and I would know what made you into the man you have become."

"How long do you have?" Harry snorted.

"As long as it takes," William replied, gesturing to himself.

It was not what Harry had expected when he'd summoned the man, but his words warmed him, and even as he took a seat on the sofa and waited for Harry to begin, he did so with patience, smiling brightly enough, even if the sadness he felt was still prevalent in his gaze.

Still, who was Harry to deny the man the truth when he wished to hear of it all?