A/N: This is my 'nineteen years later', so to speak. I held one hell of an internal debate over whether or not to include this epilogue in the story, or submit it as a oneshot. And then I decided that I had written it as part of Auror Commander, and that it belonged with the story that I wanted to tell.

Many of you hoped for more scenes with Harry and Ginny in this final chapter - I'm sorry to say, it hasn't quite panned out that way. For those of you who did, I assure you that some of the upcoming oneshots will rectify this in part.

Now, a shameless plug: I have just published the first Auror Commander oneshot - Echo Alpha - and will shortly release the first chapter of Phoenix Rising. I hope you join me on those - the next journey.

Once more, thank you.

XXIII. Legend

"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

– Dylan Thomas

"Commander."

He greets me warmly, and I reply in kind:

"Commander."

It has been a long time since Harry Potter sat behind a desk in the Auror Office, but the title of Auror Commander is one bestowed upon you for life.

One hundred and seven years have passed since Harry Potter defeated Voldemort. After his self-imposed retirement at the age of seventy, Harry spent time guiding reforms in Magical Law Enforcement agencies around the world, when not carrying out the duties of a Senior Warlock on the Wizengamot. Despite calls for him to run for Minister on several occasions, Harry declined, preferring to represent Wizarding Britain in the International Confederation.

He walks steadily still. His brisk pace does not betray his advanced age.

Still, thin round spectacles adorn his face, and although his hair has long turned to white, his eyes are still bright with a fire that will not diminish.

Of course, in recent years, things have changed.

Even in a world with magic, people do not live forever.

Time is the one enemy from which Harry cannot save his friends.

Ron Weasley was the first, six years ago.

Hermione Granger followed a few months later.

It was four years ago that Harry buried the love of his life, Ginny.

And just last year, Professor Neville Longbottom, after a storied tenure as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, bade his farewell.

The old Commander is the last of them.

He makes his way up a flight of stairs to stand atop the first set of battlements and surveys the open plain before us.

How would he take this fortress if he stood on the other side of the wall? What constitutes the best angle of attack? Where is the weakest point?

These are the questions I know he must be asking himself - for they are the same questions I am asking now.

He runs his hand along the granite, worn smooth over centuries. Even now, there is a loaded, restrained intensity about him.

Then, he smiles slightly, recalling a memory, and turns to me.

"Did I ever tell you about the Hellion Gate?"

I know the story, of course. Everyone does - how Harry held a mountain fortress singlehandedly - outnumbered one hundred to one - whilst waiting on reinforcements to arrive.

But I have never heard the story from him. And so I listen.

And I learn that Harry didn't hold it for three hours, he held it for three days. I learn that he killed every single person who attempted to take him on.

"Of course, I was stronger then."

I wish we had that strength now.

For we face the largest magical army ever assembled.

And it is here, at the Cold Keep, where we will make our stand.

What was once a haven for dark sorcery has become our last hope. The Keep houses a small magical community. Any witch or wizard of age will join us on the battlements. With us are Aurors and Hitwizards from across the nations of Europe.

We number some twelve hundred in all.

The foe we face number some twelve thousand.

It is our own failing, our own fault. The politics of isolationism and fear have wrought this great insurgency into being, and now the Horde threatens all of magical Europe.

But we have one thing they do not.

We have Harry Potter.

Three days ago, he came, his greatcloak billowing in the wind of the mountain pass that leads to the Keep.

I could scarcely believe it at first.

But there is no mistaking that thousand-mile stare.

The men speak of him in reverent tones.

He is the Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. The Legend.

And with him comes hope - the slightest, faintest chance, that despite the odds, despite being outnumbered ten to one, they might just survive this.

"There will always be enemies," he laments. And he should know.

He's faced them all.

A group of Aurors, no more than fifteen, approach us.

"Sir. Sir," they greet in chorus.

Each is a consummate professional solider; each a battle-hardened combat veteran who has fought in the guerrilla campaign against the Horde.

"This is Wolf Unit," I say. "They are your personal command."

He nods, but the tightening of his eyes is enough to know he isn't happy about it. He knows as well as I do that the Aurors in Wolf Unit are his bodyguards, each under order to take a Killing Curse for a man thrice their age.

There is a reverence in their eyes as they introduce themselves to him. They bond over stories of Harry's past - from the fabled Operation Wrath of Merlin: 'what a fucking clusterfuck that was' - to the Shinjuku Incident: 'we had to chase the fuckers across half of Asia, and I haven't even started on the bloody dragons.'

They will die to a man, if that is what it takes.

My slumber is broken by a sharp knock on my door. I check my watch, groaning internally. Four hours of sleep in the last three days.

"Sir, you're going to want to see this," my ExO says through the door.

I follow him up through the Keep, through the warren of corridors hewn into the mountain itself, and out onto the battlements.

I am rattled awake by the piercing noise of a brass horn, its discordant notes echoing across the plain before the fortress walls.

The Horde is here.

"Our scouts intercepted them several hours ago," adds my ExO. "Only good thing about an army that size, it's bloody difficult to hide.

I watch as the great dark mass of their soldiers slowly makes its way over the horizon towards us. A series of screeches fill the air.

"Fuck, they've got dragons!" exclaims one of my Aurors.

"And giants too," I add, squinting to see several large, meandering figures high above the masses.

"Well, it's nice to have company," Harry remarks dryly, joining us on the battlements.

"What are your thoughts?"

He glances at his watch.

"It'll take them the rest of the day to assemble. Put as many to sleep as you can. If they attack tonight, we want our forces well-rested."

I nod in agreement. His thoughts echo my own. I turn to my ExO.

"Send word to the captains and the squadron leaders. We meet in half an hour. Sound the skeleton watch. Put as many men as possible in the dorms until evening."

"Are the traps laid?" I ask.

"Not as many as we'd like, but they'll be in for a few nasty surprises."

I nod, and shift my focus to my next lieutenant. No facet of the Keep's defence is too insignificant to escape attention. Everyone in the room knows the price of even the smallest mistake.

"What about the gate?"

One of my Aurors clears her throat and speaks.

"Reinforced threefold. We anticipate that they'll try to use their giants to force through it."

"If they do?"

"Gate Command has two hundred wands on the ground," she replies. "They won't make it far."

"Infirmary?"

"Fully stocked, and we've got more potions brewing," advises one of the Healers. "Medical stations are on all three levels."

"Wards?"

"Likewise, reinforced. We should be able to sustain them against a prolonged attack. And there's no way to Apparate or use a Portkey to get in."

I stand, and the group of wizards and witches stand with me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's been an honour."

After the war meeting, I make my way to the battlements again.

Harry is waiting, his simple robes embellished with the Auror standard-issue dragon-hide armour. It glints in the afternoon sun.

"What do they make these from now?" he asks.

"Hungarian Horntail."

He grins.

"Figures."

Another brassy horn rings out, as the last stragglers from the Horde begin to arrive on the plain before the walls. Before long it will become as designed: a killing field.

"Should be a nice little fight," Harry remarks.

"Yeah."

He assesses me, with his piercing green eyes behind thin spectacles. It is impossible to tell what he is thinking.

"Are you ready?"

I nod.

They attack at dusk on the first day.

As the sun blinks out behind the horizon, a thousand jets of light burst from the black horde. The brilliant beams of light soar high into the sky, in an elegant arc, before streaking down upon the Keep with an eerie howl.

"Brace yourselves!" I shout, and the call is echoed down the line.

An almighty explosion rocks the mountainsides as the light crashes against the golden wards that protect the battlements.

The Cold Keep will not fall so easily.

But the jets of light come again and again, in a relentless wave, each sending a cataclysmic boom through the mountain pass as they crash against the golden wall.

Still, the wards hold.

I turn to one of my lieutenants.

"How long?"

"Twenty minutes, maybe half-an-hour."

"Fuck."

"We can start rebuilding and reinforcing them, but it'll only prolong the inevitable."

The wards are a matter of attrition, pure and simple.

"Focus the wards on the gate and Walls Two and Three," I order, to my officer's shock.

"It'll leave the first wall exposed! Commander, this is madness!"

Harry interjects.

"Let them come."

I watch with bated breath as the volley of jets from the Horde crash through the wards protecting the first wall.

"Shields!"

The soldiers manning Wall One cast a series of magical shields as the wave of magic crashes down amongst them. Soldiers fall from the battlements as magic explodes in the very air around them, gouging chunks of rock from the very walls. Dust and debris cloud the air, and through the haze and smoke I hear the screams of the wounded.

It is carnage.

"Fuck!" I exclaim, again.

I turn to Harry, but the old man is nowhere to be seen.

"Where did Potter go?"

One of my command points to the first wall.

"Down there."

A great shout arises from the masses of the Horde, and they begin their advance. Then suddenly, an brilliant bolt of white lightning launches from our walls, blowing a crater amidst their frontmost ranks. Another bolt quickly follows, as our soldiers let out a shout of defiance.

And for the very first time, I dare to hope.

He goes where the fighting is fiercest, is thickest.

He is a maelstrom wrapped around a hurricane.

The invaders are repelled without hesitation, without mercy.

His attacks are precise and always lethal. In many cases, he simply overwhelms his opponents with sheer magical energy, carving through their defences before following his attack with a pinpoint jet of green light.

Late into the night, the Horde attempt an airborne assault on the Keep, with hundreds of their number taking to the sky on brooms.

Harry launches himself into the sky to take them on, magical energy crackling in the air around him.

They don't realise until it is too late.

Lightning is faster than a broomstick.

The most powerful of our number join him, and the night sky is lit bright by the flashes of deadly white lightning as we strike down our foe.

They fall like flies.

Around midnight, a series of horns sound out across the plain, and the Horde falls back. We have survived the first night.

Two of the Aurors from Wolf Unit support Harry as he lands. His face is drenched with sweat and covered in the grime of battle. The total exhaustion on his face is plain to see, but it is joined by a grim resolve.

He meets my eye, and although his voice is hoarse, he declares for all around us to hear:

"They will pay for every inch with blood."

The second night comes with another assault. A great roar comes from the Horde as a contingent of giants storm the walls, followed by a heaving black mass of soldiers.

Our volleys of curses slow the wizards and witches of the Horde, but do little to stop the giants, as jets of light glance off their hides. Sensing an opening, the Horde press their advantage, and before long, they have several footholds on the first wall.

Harry leaps into the air, using magic to propel himself, and lands on a giant's shoulder, before jumping again to land atop of its head. He grabs a handhold of scraggly hair, and points his wand downwards, directly at the giant's skull. With a crack that echoes across the plain, Harry splits the giant's head apart, then leaps from it as it crashes to the ground, writhing in its death throes.

I am convinced that Harry Potter cannot die.

The Aurors of Wolf Unit shield him from a flurry of curses as he draws a deep breath, then makes a gesture with his wand, one recognised the world over.

Swish and flick.

One of the giants battering at the gate finds itself being levitated into the air, twisting and turning as it thrashes about, unable to comprehend how it has unexpectedly gained the ability to fly. There is a lull in the fighting as many on both sides watch the fight, incredulous at Harry's display of magical prowess.

Harry's outstretched hand suddenly clenches into a fist, and the giant's neck snaps with a grotesque movement. Harry unclenches his fist, and the giant plummets to the ground with a thud.

It is the spark my forces need. Another two giants crash to the ground, brought down by a blizzard of spellfire, and a third, pummelling against the iron gates of the Keep, suddenly finds both hands shorn off at the wrist with a wicked tongue of dark magic unleashed from Harry's wand. Inches at a time, we repel the assault.

Two hours past midnight, the horns sound, and once again, the Horde retreats, leaving scores of their dead behind. Not one of their giants has survived. Their bodies lie strewn in great heaps before the walls.

Wolf Unit return to the Keep, their expressions cold and somber even in victory. Two of their number are dead, one crushed beneath a giant, another taking a Killing Curse in Harry's stead. Again, slowly, they help him make his way to the infirmary.

There is a frailty in him that I have not seen before. The looks I receive from the Healers speak volumes. This battle is taking an irreversible toll on a man who is over a century old.

I am convinced that Harry Potter cannot die.

But perhaps he has come here to try.

On the third day, they pull out their hostages, our men and women, taken from the battlefield. Each is nailed to a tall stake, far enough from spell range, but on display for all to see.

The poor bastards are subjected to the Cruciatus Curse, again and again, and their screams of agony ring loud before the fortress walls.

With Wolf Unit gathered around him, Harry watches the spectacle, his mouth drawn in a grim line. An anger that I have never seen before burns behind the old man's eyes.

He draws his wand, and closes both eyes, letting the magic guide him.

"Avada Kedavra," he intones.

The brilliant green bolt of light bursts from his wand, like a bullet from a sniper, and screams of the first hostage are silenced.

It is a statement that is lost on no one.

When they attack on the third night, he is the first to leap over the battlements. He brandishes black lightning like a whip, drawing upon his terrible mastery of the arcane. And with his dark magic, he does not kill. He eviscerates.

They fall before him like wheat before the scythe. Cold, unstoppable, deadly.

Wolf Unit protects his flanks, parrying and shielding the near-constant stream of curses meant for the old Commander.

They understand the bleak reality. To lose Harry Potter would be a devastating blow to morale; so they will die in his place.

Five Aurors from the Unit die on that third night.

The number that fall before Harry's wand is far too many to count.

Only a few hours of night remain when the Horde finally halts their attack. Our own forces fall back behind the walls of the Keep.

Harry collapses as the remnants of Wolf Unit haul him over the battlements. Healers rush to him, casting a blue aura around his body, and tip several vials of coloured potion down his throat. They stretcher him to the infirmary, which is sickly with the scent of death.

We have suffered a heavy price.

A full third of our number are casualties - injured or dead. And whilst the enemy dead are far greater, so too are their remaining fighters. We estimate at least half are yet to even draw their wands.

But that is about to change.

In the cold light before dawn on the fourth day, the Horde renews the assault, and this time, they bring the entirety of their force to bear.

Anyone who can stand takes to the battlements, but Harry is not with us.

His absence speaks louder than words.

Again, the Horde press the attack, with fresh forces unburdened by the weariness of battle.

It is too much.

They swarm the first wall, and we fight for three hours in desperate combat before I call the retreat to Wall Two.

Here, we hold.

The Cold Keep was designed with three walls, each higher than the last, and between each, no easy escape. From our vantage point on the second wall, we turn the the first level into a slaughterhouse.

Yet even as the bodies pile up, the Horde keep up the attack.

The moon is high when they finally call off the assault, but few of us sleep. The rotting stench of the dead pervades the air.

I relay the news to Harry, who has awoken. The Healers have not cleared him for combat, but not one of them is going to stop him.

"How many?"

"Of theirs? It must be a thousand, maybe more. They just kept coming."

Harry frowns, and then alarm crosses his features.

"Destroy the bodies. Do it now."

I realise their strategy too late.

"Motherfucker…"

They mean to turn their dead into Inferi.

"Commander!"

A lieutenant, his arm wrapped in a sling, dashes into the ward, a haunted look in his eye.

"The dead, they're–"

"Fiendfyre," Harry interjects, voicing what I am thinking aloud.

"We risk losing the second wall," replies the lieutenant.

"Then fall back to Wall Three," I reply. "See it done. And get every able Auror to Wall Two."

Harry swings his legs out of the infirmary bed, and stands.

"Harry–" I begin.

"You said every able Auror," he replies, leaving no room for argument.

We drench their dead in livid fire, letting off a cloud of acrid smoke that piles high into the sky.

But for the second time, we have played unwittingly into their hands.

They unleash their dragons, drawn by the allure of our fire, and launch another wave of attacks on the Keep.

The screams of men fill the air as the dragons wreak havoc, clawing our forces from the battlements, and blasting the walls with torrid flames. Behind them, the Horde renew their assault with a withering storm of curses.

Harry watches.

And then his expression changes. Resignation becomes acceptance, and then steely resolve.

He speaks quietly.

"Then it is done."

He reaches out a hand, and cold, icy death reaches out with him. With a sound that I will never forget, one of the dragons crashes to earth, screeching in agony as Harry throttles its life away.

He does this three times before the rest of the great beasts flee.

With only a small group of Aurors around him, Harry leads an assault to retake Wall Two. The battlements become slick with blood as streaks of light sever hands from limbs, blast through flesh and bone, and wreak death and destruction upon the invaders. Using magic to fuel his assault, Harry unleashes spells nearly too fast for the eye to follow. His wand and hand movements are a blur.

And still they rush him, determined to defeat the greatest, determined to end the legend.

One breaks through the cascade of magic, and a jet of purple light slams into Harry's side. He grimaces, then looks up with a snarl. The old man reaches out, grabbing his assailant by the hair, and puts a blasting curse between his eyeballs.

Still, they come.

On the morning of the fifth day, it ends.

As dawn rises over the mountaintops, and early sunlight gleams off proud walls stained with fire and blood, it ends.

Only a handful of us remain on Wall Two, surrounded on all sides by the dead, both friend and foe. From my position down the line, I watch as Harry looks out into a sea of black, of untold numbers of soldiers dotted against the plain, still waiting for the command to attack.

He closes his emerald eyes for a moment, and visibly exhales.

When he opens them, they are pitch black.

He points his wand to the sky, wielding it with two hands.

He incants no words. He mastered non-verbal spells long ago.

A beam of red light shoots into the sky, and disappears amongst the heady clouds.

There is another lull in the fighting, as every eye on the battlefield tracks the beam of light as it ascends.

But then nothing happens.

The jeers of the Horde come quickly.

They think he has failed. My heart sinks in bitter disappointment.

Harry Potter simply stands there.

Then, I realise.

He hasn't failed.

He is waiting.

For the old man still has one last trick up his sleeve.

And then, with a cataclysmic roar that threatens to overwhelm my senses, the sky itself is torn asunder.

Hellfire rains from the heavens.

The sky is burning.

It is the end of the world.

As far as the eye can see, livid, raging fire blots out the blue, as seething Fiendfyre pours down from the sky above.

The Auror Commander stands high on the battlements, with the dead strewn around him, as the impossible inferno surges through the Horde. Blood seeps from his wounds, running down his face from a deep cut across his head, a long gash on his arm, to a gaping hole in his side.

And now, I finally understand.

All this time, he has been holding back.

With limbs shaking from inconceivable effort, Harry brings his hands down, and pushes his wand out directly in front of him. He lets out a yell that echoes across mountains.

And turns the raging firestorm into a tsunami.

Incinerating everything in its wake, the tidal wave of magical fire blasts inexorably down the open plain before the Keep.

We watch, speechless, in fear and awe, as the black masses of the Horde are decimated by unyielding Fiendfyre.

It is devastation on an unimaginable scale.

And only once the fifty-foot flames have died to embers, and the acrid stench of death fills the air, does Harry let his wand fall with a clatter to the ground.

Then, he follows it, crumpling to a heap on the ramparts.

As thick ash floats through the air, a crowd gathers around him, and I push my way through.

"How the fuck did you do that?" I ask.

"I couldn't tell you."

His eyes close, then open - green once again.

Someone yells for a medic, but Harry raises a placating hand.

"It's time," he says, and there is a weariness that I have not heard before, paired with a sudden yearning, like someone is waiting for him, someone whom he hasn't seen for a long while.

I take his hand, but his grasp is feeble. What strength he had is gone, taken by a sacrifice beyond our comprehension.

"No…Commander…" I choke.

He manages a half-smile.

Tears stand in his eyes.

"Ginny…" his voice trails off with a whisper, and his eyes flutter shut. The reassuring presence of his magical energy suddenly disappears, and there, surrounded by corpses that litter broken battlements and scorched earth, Harry Potter breathes his last.

As if in a daze, we gather our survivors, and rout the scant remnants of the Horde, brought to its knees by magic the world will never see again.

Our celebrations are muted as we collect our dead, and send home word of our impossible victory.

For we have lost a titan.

We receive a heroes welcome on our return to London.

After the press have their photos and their stories I gratefully retreat behind the great iron doors of the Auror Office.

I take my seat - his seat - and rest my hands on the desk - his desk. His presence, his memory, is everywhere - even more now, that he has gone.

I hear a knock, and my ExO enters, holding an envelope which he hands to me.

"Sir, this is for you. It's from the Potter family."

I tap it with my wand and it magically unseals, revealing a letter.

Dear Commander, it begins.

If you are reading this, then my death has come to pass, and it is time to hand one of the Deathly Hallows into your care.

The power of the Elder Wand has died with me - as intended, and the wand itself remains sealed in the tomb of Albus Dumbledore on Hogwarts grounds. The Invisibility Cloak is in the worthy possession of my eldest son, James Sirius. It will remain the property of my household.

To the Auror Office, I bequeath the Resurrection Stone. There is no safer place for it. It has provided useful counsel over the years, but like all great power - be wary - and be wiser than I was. To access it, simply say the words written on the back of this letter.

Now, I have a train to catch.

Faithfully yours,

Harry J. Potter
Auror Commander

With a heavy feeling in my chest, I turn the letter over, and say the words written in Harry's unmistakable scrawl.

"I open at the close."

—

THE END