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Ginny Potter - A Harry Potter Fanfiction Archive and Community -- Fictioneer
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HP after Hogwarts >> A Fresh Start by Auchinleck

Simple Text - To view MORE chapters use the chapter jump box to the right.
An Alternate Epilogue

“Battle is the most magnificent competition in which a human being can indulge. It brings out all that is best; it removes all that is base.” - Patton

Red dust hung heavy in the air as an old Studebaker truck bounced its way down the winding dirt road. It had not rained in months and the dust caked everything, matting the hair and covering the clothes of its worn passengers. It was the end of another day and the sun was low in the sky, throwing a gold light across the rolling landscape, which had the figures in the truck been less fatigued, even they of all men would have been startled by its beauty ; however only one thought loomed in their weary heads, only another hour before Lisala.

Inside, there was silence barring the rumble of the engine, no-one was speaking today, not after the events that had transpired mere hours before their journey. There were seven of them in all; grizzled and unshaved faces that loomed out from beneath hoods and caps. Sitting at the far end of the truck was J.J. Stillwell, the leader of this motley band, his face carried the classic square jawed features of the all American boy, and indeed this image was further cultivated by the thick Alabama drawl he carried proudly from his homeland. A dirty t-shirt peeked round the edges of a khaki Kevlar vest which slowly rose and fell as he slept, his calloused hands clutching an automatic rifle. Across one forearm a faded tattoo bearing the letters USMC could faintly be seen against the bronzed skin. Seated to his left was the huddled form of John Donegal. A former member of the French Foreign Legion, John had fled his homeland in County Kerry at the height of the troubles. How he wound up as a legionnaire or for that matter how he had made his arrival into the benighted country the seven men found themselves in was anyone’s guess; but though his past remained in shadow his good humour and fearsome sharpshooting skills were much prized by all.

The others in the truck were DeGroot and Viljoen, the pair were both ex South African army but even the normally boisterous Afrikaners today were silent, their only action being to pass a hip flask to two other tired figures, a pair of Scots, Cullen and Macalister who like their the rest were sitting in silence. Looking out of the rear end of the truck was ‘Gryf’ who was a new but already esteemed member of the team. The sole unifying feature that this disparate group carried was a badge on their chest marking them members of the Chimera Security Group. Lying across the bottom of the truck lay a body bag, the existence of which was the reason for the uncommon silence. The dead man being one Marias Theron, yet another Afrikaner and until that afternoon, a member of Chimera until a bullet, and then a machete had cut his life short.
Gryf stared out at the scenery in front of him, a wide open expanse of bush that stretched before him as far as the eye could see.

Marais’ death had caused a spate of rare introspection into the mercenary company and as each man pondered both past and future; Gryf was no different. His face was swarthy and perhaps handsome, unlike the close cropped styles of the rest of the men; his black hair was wild and tangled. Much like the others he wore a bullet proof vest, underneath which lay a grubby maroon hoodie, the sleeves ripped off and through the dirt you could just make out the letters HPTR, GRYDR, the others being long since worn away. Brilliant green eyes looked out at the open expanse as his thoughts drifted to other times, other less happy times.

Harry ‘Gryf’ Potter cast his thoughts back, to all that had happened over the last eight years, so much had changed. In Harry’s opinion, much for the better, although there were events that had been hard to take like the divorce, the boredom and the strangulation that normal life had become those were behind him now, almost in another world. He hadn’t seen Ginny in years, although he still wore their wedding ring around his neck he was not sad to be apart. She like everyone else had simply been unable to understand, how she could know the desires that beat within his breast. Harry initially had sought solace with his old friends Ron and Hermione. But neither of them had been bitten by the same bug, the same infection that coursed through his veins. Though they had risked their lives to for each other and overcome the most suicidal odds, the events of the deathly hallows had left them drained. Both simply wanted to settle down, have kids and continue the wizarding cycle. Harry had tried. He tried for almost ten years before finally giving up, it was no use. Wizarding life was killing him slowly, after Voldemort the magical world was at peace; little was left for an Auror to do except catch the odd thief or minor underworld figure. Harry was restless, every year since the age of thirteen he had been tested, challenged, threatened and much as it had scared him it also thrilled him. He revelled in the danger, the chaos and the sheer pounding adrenaline of it all. Then just when he was getting a taste for it all, it had been snatched away. ‘Peace’. Harry thought ‘Peace was dull’ it was fine for those that wanted little else but tranquillity but Harry hungered for more. His compulsive desire to risk his neck had landed him in trouble with both the Ministry of Magic and his wife. Four years ago, he had grown so tired of the sheer drudgery of it all that he snapped. Harry Potter simply walked out of the door, with little more than a rucksack, a potion book and his wand.

If the fight would not come to him, he had decided. Then he would come to the fight. He would once again feel alive in a way that he had not felt since his days as a teenager. It had been a long road to Chimera and the Congo. So far Harry and seen Iraq, Afghanistan and Chechnya and found a pleasure in the madness that few men could understand. It was not a lack of morals that brought him to such places, but a simple love of the fight. He still counted himself as fighting for ‘good’ although sometimes the distinctions were hazy. The Muggle world was often far more complicated than the world of magic from which he had come. But it was was a land of glorious opportunity for those who possessed a warrior spirit. Harry’s magic lent him a natural edge in combat and his mind readily adapted to Muggle weapons. However though he sat with a Kalashnikov across his knees he did not neglect his roots for packed in the bottom of rucksack lay the invisibility cloak, the use of which had lent him a devastating edge in today’s round of fighting against the LRA. He sometimes missed the magical world, but seldom. For it was here, in the blood and thunder of this Muggle war that he was at home, he was alive and strangely amidst the carnage of the battlefield he was at peace. He rolled a diamond between thumb and forefinger and smiled.

‘Who knows what tomorrow may bring’ he thought as the truck bounced into Lisala.

This is my take on the epilogue. Fire away.



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