On leaving the battlefield he'd gone straight to Gringotts to make amends there – something that hadn't been necessary after all since he'd both attempted to *cough* return *cough* the Sword of Gryffindor to the goblins and been able to make it through their venerated security. Apparently the Goblin Nation appreciated that. They waved off his attempts to pay for repairs, telling him that since Bellatrix had violated the account-holder bylaws by storing a soul-leech in their vaults that they'd taken…reparations…from both her personal holdings and that of House LeStrange.
What didn't go to her and her husband and brother-in-law's victims went straight into the pockets of the goblins.
And all was well in the land of Gold.
They'd been the ones to reveal the entirety of his estates, holdings, and titles in the wake of his attempt to buy their forgiveness; before ushering him to Siri's personal vault upon hearing what he was after. One appropriated Hit-Wizard-Grade wand holster in Hungarian-Horntail Dragonhide later and he'd been set to conceal the Elder Wand for the rest of his life…no matter how short that time in the Wizarding World had turned out to be in the end.
The Elder wood and Thestral heart-string wand in his hand felt…warm…comforting…
It felt like coming home as his wand and magic reconnected after centuries beyond measure of being parted.
With a flick he diagnosed the bleeding man who had been lowered to the cold stone floor by his companion. Reading the parchment that popped into being after the spell was finished, he ignored the gasps and shocked glances – even the frightened stumbles back and away from him – his entire focus on the dying man he was now kneeling beside. Rocking back on his heels, he cast a glance over towards the bear-like older man who had that air of "in-charge" about him, seeking consent.
There was no way his erstwhile patient was capable of giving it, someone would have to in his stead.
"If I don't heal this man he will die." Harry said plainly, then at a sudden thought cast a wide-area diagnostic that made the gathered watchmen light up to signify various stages of health. He grimaced at the results.
Not one of them was in the green or "healthy" zone.
Gotta love the toll living in the equivalent of his former society's Dark-to-Middle Ages had on the human body.
Not.
"Those two as well." He said, pointing to the two that had lit up red, though a milder shade than the man he was beside. With a swish he had them unconscious and in stasis – the most he could do without some form of consent since these were men bound by Vows and Oaths, not the everyday man. Their bodies and lives were not their own.
The leader-ish older man turned to Harry's pretty purple-eyed (Targaryen his mind whispered) rescuer, the bear-like man speaking in a language that was familiar and complete gibberish all at the same time.
Teddy's translation spell wasn't working on the chamber anymore now that he was awake and aware.
That might be a problem.
Sword-teen snapped out of his semi-trance (shock, magical overload?) and spoke in a heavily but sexily accented voice:
"You have the Lord Commander's leave to treat his men."
Harry grinned, wand already moving in patterns familiar to his post-Hogwarts training he'd undertaken in the guise of country-hopping.
"Brilliant." He said absently, eyes focusing back on his work. "Then at least this time I landed around someone in authority that has half a brain."
Jon choked at the shear irreverence coming from the warrior-of-old when he wasn't busy healing the men, an act that had most of them semi-hypnotized due to never having seen magic performed before. The closest thing Westeros had anymore that even came close was when the Red Priest Thoros of Myr lit his sword on fire during the melee at tourneys.
To see a man who mere minutes before had been as if dead, rise and walk around and heal?
Even for these men of the Night's Watch who had seen the White Walkers it was a bit much to process.
…
While the Warrior of Old – who had yet to give his name – healed the watchmen; Mormont, Samwell, and Jon inspected the Tomb, searching for anything that might be of use.
There wasn't much of anything to be found. After all it was a tomb. Magical beings waking from an enchanted sleep or not, the Tomb of the First Men wasn't equipped to billet a squad of watchmen for however long it would take the White Walkers to get bored and wander off – or if Jon's suspicions were right to be ordered away.
They would have to make do with what they had – for as long as they could.
That was, unless the Warrior of Old had a better idea.
Jon meant to ask him…as soon as he wasn't wobbling on his feet.
Spying the nearly-exhausted and sweating form as the Warrior of Old climbed shakily to his feet after treating the last of the more-serious wounds – there were still a handful of men who had minor wounds that could use a cleansing if nothing else – Jon rushed to his side from where he was examining the diamond coffin and slipped his arm around the smaller man's waist, tucking him into his side for support.
"Thanks," the Warrior of Old breathed out still in High Valyrian. It had been moderately entertaining for Jon watching as the smaller man managed to communicate with the watchmen using mimes while Jon was occupied elsewhere and unable to translate for him. "Not quite used to being…alive…again yet I think." He smirked up at Jon and shrugged. "Overdid it as usual."
:::
Part 1 available to download.
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