631Harry walked into the village unsure what to expect. He was immediately met with wary looks. It was immediately clear that this was no wizarding village. The townspeople were dirty, wore uncolored clothing, and generally smelled rather ripe. He wished he had his glasses; it was hard to appreciate the village when everything was blurry.
At least they spoke English.
He wandered for a bit, uncomfortable with all the eyes on him. The villagers had sensed his aimlessness. A man approached him, tall and burly with a black beard like steel wool.
"Can I help you, stranger? I'm Horst." He held out his hand to shake. Harry took it. His palm was callused.
"Er, I dunno." Harry wracked his brain for a purpose. "I'm Harry. Harry…Evans." Horst cast him a side-eyed look that told him his alias was not very slick. He wasn't sure why he approached the village. His stomach reminded him that it was lunchtime. That was as good a reason as any. "I suppose I'm here for food."
Horst cast his gaze up and down. "You've got no pack. Do you have coin."
Harry winced. He had not really considered money a factor ever in his life. It had just been…there. "No, but I can work for it."
The big man considered. "All right then. Come with me. I'll put you to work."
Harry got the feeling he was just offering to keep an eye on him, but that was fine by Harry. It was not like he had anything to hide, really.
Horst led him down the central thoroughfare and through the town square. Harry spotted stocks and a noose. He swallowed. Things like that were not in public at all back home. It seemed unsightly. Threatening. Horst caught his gaze. His expression darkened a bit, and his suspicion deepened. Did the man think he was on the run from the law?
In a way, Harry supposed he was. The Ministry still had a bounty on him, wherever they were, on some other planet or universe or whatever.
"So where are you from?" Horst asked. Harry paused. He contemplated lying, but if this really was a different place entirely, what was the point?
"Britain," he settled on. "Surrey."
"Never heard of 'em," Horst said. "Where's that?"
Harry sighed. "I've got no bloody clue." For the first time, Horst's expression turned sympathetic.
"I'm sure you can find your way back. Does everyone in Britain dress like you do?"
Harry glanced up, confused. "What? Oh. Er, mostly, yeah. Stuffy people dress nicer. Some dress worse." To them, he realized his clothing must look very unusual.
"I've never seen the like in Carvahall."
Horst stopped at a building off the main path. "Wait here. I've got an errand to drop off." Harry slouched against the opposite wall and traced the house with his eyes. It was reminiscent of Hogsmeade. Wooden beams and slats, rough masonry, windows with wooden shutters. Like most of the buildings in the village, it had a wide porch. It was missing something, though. Everyone was just…less happy.
"Thank you for waiting." Horst came back out the doorway. A man followed him out.
"I'll have the tools back to you in a couple days," the man promised.
"Thank you, Fisk."
"Who's this?" Fisk asked Harry.
"Harry Evans," Horst said wryly. "A most mysterious stranger. He's working for me today for a meal. Perhaps tomorrow you will be the one in need of an errand man."
Horst led them on. "Carpenters will never have enough nails. Sometimes I think at the end of time, all that will be left is a blacksmith and a carpenter, and the last words ever uttered will be; I need more nails."
"You make them by hand?" Harry asked. As soon as he said it, he wanted to kick himself. Of course they did. There were obviously no factories around to do it for him.
Horst gave him an odd look. "Of course. How else would they get made? Magic?"
Harry snorted. "No, I meant like factories. I assume they just make a huge long wire and cut it in lengths to be pointy on one end."
"Oh?" Horst challenged. "How would they cut metal?" Harry got the sense he was actually curious.
"A harder metal," Harry supposed. "Like a carbide or tungsten. Usually they have great big handles and tiny blades so you can get loads of leverage. Factories would probably automate it with a motor and crankshaft or something."
Horst stroked his beard. "Now I'm intrigued. Have you worked with metal before?"
Harry shook his head. "No. My uncle did, though. A drill firm called Grunnings."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Horst offered. Harry laughed.
"He was a tosser. And he didn't die, we just parted ways."
Horst's smithy was back towards the center square. Harry wasn't sure what to expect. Maybe a giant cavern deep underground, fed by lava fissures, where goblins pounded on glowing metals day and night beneath a great chimney. Something suitably dramatic for such an iconic profession. He was disappointed.
It was just a lean-to of sorts. Three walls, a roof, and a sloping awning made from wood. The smithy itself was a brick construction about as big as the hearth in the Gryffindor common room. Aside from that, there was an anvil on the dirt floor and a few wooden tables, some stools, a rack of tools, a couple barrels of water and oil, and a shelf with half-finished projects on it.
"What do you do most days?" Harry wondered. "Swords?"
Horst laughed, a booming sound that came from deep in his full chest. "We're not at war, are we? It's not as grand as the legends and stories, Harry. Mostly nails, hooks, hinges, buckles – boring stuff. I make and fix my fair share of tools, too. Rakes, plows, spades, axes, knives, and the like. Sometimes when the fancy strikes me, I make something a bit more interesting." Horst picked up a statuette from the shelf of unfinished projects and showed it to Harry. It was a rough yet recognizable stylized depiction of a bird with outstretched wings, made from wrought iron. It was pretty cool.
Horst put him to work on the bellows. It was barely past lunch when he started, and it seemed like the time until supper was only half as long as it ought to have been. He actually enjoyed the work, even if it was mindless, and he probably could have done it all with a couple incantations instead of his muscles all afternoon. He and Horst asked their share of questions during the work. When the steel was heating between hammers and he could hear himself think, Horst inquired about his past. Harry maintained his policy of answering with the truth unless he really couldn't.
"May I ask why you left your home?" Horst wiped his brow with the hem of his apron.
Harry grunted, forcing the wooden bellows down. The heat in the forge flared. "Dunno," he said. "I guess it felt like too much to stay. There was fighting. It killed my parents when I was a baby, and now it feels like it's killed everyone else who tried to step into that role for me. More recently-" he trailed off. How on earth could he describe Dumbledore to someone who had never met him? He wasn't sure himself who the man was to him. Only that he was dear to him. He settled on that. Horst waited patiently.
"Well, I guess everything just…reached its conclusion." Harry didn't know how to describe it all. There was a pressure in his chest, sitting over his heart and tightening his throat. Dumbledore had set him up to die.
"It all got to be too much, y'know? Then I ended up here." Horst drew out the thin strand and kept hammering it into the wire groove in the anvil. Turn, hammer, turn, hammer, over and over until the cherry hue was gone from the metal, the piece went back into the forge, and the smithy was quiet enough to speak again.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Horst said.
Harry laughed a bit. It came out haunted and wrong ", it's just…complicated. I dunno. I don't know my own feelings." Dumbledore had had very good reason. He'd set up contingencies and ways for Harry to survive his death. But at the end of the day, he couldn't have been certain. He couldn't have known. He still risked a life that wasn't his to give. But for all that, Harry missed him no less. The wound where Dumbledore had been in his heart was still open a year after his death. Seeing him again had just ripped off the scab.
While Horst hammered, Harry got his break from the bellows. The heat from the forge and the exertion of pumping got him sweating, too. He mopped his hair with his arm. It would be so easy to just use incendio to fix it, keep the fire as hot or cool as he wanted.
"This place is Carvahall, right?"
Horst nodded. "Aye. Its name for as long as anyone can remember. In the valley of Kings, believe it or not. King Palancar once lived here."
Harry glanced around. Horst huffed a laugh. "I'm sure it was more impressive in his day. We make do. I like the community here. Everybody knows each other, so we're a bit more wary of outsiders than most. Don't take it to heart."
He hammered another few inches of thick gauge wire. "Did you leave anybody behind? A woman, or…?"
Harry sighed. Ginny…didn't really qualify. He felt hot when he was with her, but their relationship was quick and passionate. Not like the long, steady companionship he felt from Ron and Hermione. "A couple of good friends." Horst nodded.
"I don't mean to pry, Harry, but I have to ask. Is your trouble going to follow you here? Carvahall doesn't want any trouble."
Harry laughed. "That, you don't have to worry about. Britain is far, far away." Then he sobered. "I'm not sure I'll ever get back."
When the sun began to sink on the horizon and the light turned orange, Horst invited Harry to his home for a meal. On the way back, Carvahall came alive. All the empty porches filled with townsfolk sitting around, laughing, chatting, conducting business. Horst was hailed more than a couple times, usually with requests for pots, hooks, and of course, nails.
It was a very different sort of look they gave Harry, too, now that he was accompanied.
"Where'd you find the help?" an older man asked. He looked middle-aged. Weathered, but still plenty of pepper left in his salt-and-pepper stubble. He walked with a gnarled staff beneath a ringed hand.
"Good Evening, Brom. He hails from the far off land of Britain," Horst said.
"Never heard of it," Brom grunted. Horst shrugged. Brom looked at Harry searchingly, as if waiting for a reaction. "Still, I'm always looking for new stories. Would you tell me yours?"
Harry shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me."
A glint shone in the man's eyes. "You wouldn't believe what I'd believe."
"I don't believe you'd believe what I'd tell you," Harry shot back.
"If it rings true," the man shrugged. "Why not?"
"Maybe," Harry prevaricated. "Ask me when it's not so fresh."
"Our village storyteller," Horst inserted after waiting for them to finish. "Brom knows the good ones."
Brom grunted again. Harry got the feeling he was trying to play crotchety old man while twenty years too young for the role. "If you change your mind, someone will know where to find me."
Horst's house was the nicest in Carvahall. It was two stories of cut firewood and masonry. It was made of the same stuff as the rest of them, but it was assembled with dignity that the others didn't feel like. The building sat on a hill just outside the main clump of buildings, not too large or high to be pretentious, but big enough to be a point of pride for the smith.
The smith rubbed his hands together. "Shall we see what my beautiful wife has prepared tonight?"
Harry shrugged. He followed Horst's lead once they entered the front door. The ground floor was mostly living room, hearth, kitchen, and entry hall. Harry kicked off his shoes at the front. Despite having no lights whatsoever, there were windows on all side of the ground floor and all of them had their shutters thrown wide open. A savory smell bubbled from the cookpot by the hearth. A woman in her late thirties, early forties stirred the pot with a wood-handled ladle.
"Who's this? Where are the boys?"
"Harry Evans," Horst introduced. "Meet my wife Elaine." Elaine smiled and waved. "Harry here has rendered me a good day of work. I hope you made enough to feed one more mouth today."
She waved him off. "Of course. You eat like a horse. It'll be good for you to have a single man's serving."
Horst grinned. "You've never complained about my physique before," he murmured, crossing to her and hugging her from behind, putting his head in her shoulder. Elaine blushed and shrugged him off.
"Thank you. It'll be ready in five minutes, which just so happens to be long enough for you to tell me where the boys are."
Horst shrugged. "They didn't want to work in the smithy today. They probably went to run around with the other boys. There. That didn't take five minutes."
Elaine rolled her eyes. "Where does Harry hail from?"
"Britain," Horst answered, taking it upon himself to begin setting the table with ceramics from a cupboard over the kitchen counter.
"Never heard of it," Elaine mused."
"Neither has anyone else," Horst said cheerfully.
"What did you do there?" Elaine asked.
"Oh. Er, I was a student." Harry thanked Horst and took the offered seat at the table.
"What of?"
"Loads of stuff." Harry wracked his brain. "Astronomy, bit of fighting, gardening, animal husbandry, a bit of medicine." There. Still not lying, just- creatively interpreting the truth.
"An interesting spread," Horst commented.
"Are you looking to stay in Carvahall?" Elaine asked. "You might find work as a farmhand for Glenn or Ibrin. Or you could work with Gertrude. See what you can learn from each other."
Harry thought about it. That wasn't such a terrible idea. As much as he disliked the prospect of brewing potions for a living, it wasn't like the MHRA was going to be checking his potions and finding out they weren't pharmaceuticals. If he could find the ingredients. It was a good way to help people without outing himself as a wizard.
He felt a rush of vertigo as he contemplated what that would entail. It was suddenly very obvious why witches and wizards had the reputation they had among muggles. Just to keep everything ready to brew Pepper-up, he'd need to-
Manage bicorns, have an octopus tank, manage an apiary, grow valerian root, mandrake root, ginger root, and lemongrass. Oh, and also find a source of dragon blood. And that was one of the simplest potions. Merlin forbid he'd have to brew something actually complicated like polyjuice. He had no idea if bicorns or mandrakes or dragons even existed here. They were certainly hidden from muggles back home.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I'd like that."
"I'll introduce you to her," Elaine promised, smiling.
Just then, a pair of footsteps tromped up the front porch. Elaine cast a dirty look at the door. Horst whistled. "Glad I'm not in their shoes."
Elaine jabbed her hands on her hips. "I told them to be back by sunset. It's almost full dark. I swear those two mustn't ever look up at the sun." A pair of boys burst through the front door, breathing heavily.
"Evening, mother," the first said. He had brown hair and a stocky build that looked like it would grow into a mirror of his father's. "Lovely day, wasn't it?" His eyes fell on Harry. "Who's this?"
"Where have you been, Baldor?" Elaine demanded. "This is our guest for this evening. Harry Evans."
"Baldor," the boy introduced himself, shaking Harry's hand. "This clown's Albreich." he poked Albreich with a finger. Albreich was the opposite of his brother. His hair was darker, his build was slimmer, and he had a mischievous gleam in his eye. "Where're you from, anyways?"
"Don't bother him with questions," Horst scolded.
"And don't think you can wriggle out of the question. Where have you been?" Elaine insisted.
"With Roran and Eragon," Albreich said. "On Garrow's farm. Quimby said he didn't want troublemakers underfoot in Carvahall all day."
Horst grumbled. "Quimby could stand to keep to himself more."
Elaine served dinner. It was a thick stew with bread and butter. Harry finished his serving and spent the rest of the meal answering questions from mostly Baldor.
"Are you planning on sticking around?" he asked.
Harry nodded. "I don't have any plans right now. Might as well."
"Got a place to stay?" Baldor quizzed. Harry shrugged.
"I'll figure it out."
"We have a guest room you can stay in tonight," Elaine offered. Harry shook his head.
"I don't want to impose." In truth, he just wanted to get away from scrutiny long enough to magic up a shelter.
"Even for the night? The only other place is Morn's Inn, but you haven't any coin." Horst mopped up the last of his stew with the crust of his last slice of bread.
Harry waved him off. "I was thinking of putting something up by the top of that waterfall."
Baldor's eyes widened. "You want to live in the Spine? I mean, it's far away, too."
"I like my space." Harry silently hoped they would not push further. "And you only just met me. I wouldn't want to invite a total stranger to live in my home. I won't ask you to do the same."
Horst shook his head. "You gave me a good day of honest work. Scoundrels don't do that."
Harry snorted. "You think a bad actor couldn't possibly pump bellows for six hours and then get on to bad behavior?"
"You've been open and good natured," Elaine insisted.
Harry scowled. "Anyone can pretend to be your friend. I insist." He stood from his place. "Thanks, Horst, Elaine. Dinner was excellent."
Horst held up a hand. "At least let us pay for a night at Morn's Inn." Harry hesitated. "It needn't be charity. I'd say one dinner isn't quite worth the day of labor." he fetched a purse and counted out a silver coin and seven coppers. "For a week and as many meals," the smith offered.
Grudgingly, Harry accepted the coins. He'd need a couple to start duplicating them, anyways.
"Thanks, both of you." Harry headed towards the entrance and began pulling his trainers on.
"Wait," Elaine hurried after him. "How will you find Gertrude?"
"Can you describe her to me?" Harry asked. Elaine provided a fair list of traits. Middling height, grey-auburn hair, a bit older than herself, and lived in a smallish single-story house off to the south of the village.
Harry headed out into the night.
He checked to make sure no one was watching and drew the Elder Wand, conjuring himself a jacket. Again, without firm direction, the wand gave him an ostentatious article with gold trim, gold thread fastenings, and a trailing tail of black leather. Harry sighed, vanished the article, and tried with stricter instructions. Maybe leather wasn't so bad. He visualized the duster Sirius liked to wear and flicked the legendary wand.
He decided he liked it.
Since he'd have to stick around at least until tomorrow to meet Gertrude, Harry grudgingly headed just to the edge of the village instead of apparating back to the top of the falls. He wished he still had the tent Hermione had packed for them. Instead, he conjured a normal one. Or at least, what he thought was a normal one. He didn't want to find out what the Elder Wand thought was a suitable tent, so he gave it strict (and probably wrong) instructions. It came out as a box frame wrapped in canvas, but that suited him well enough.
He added a squishy purple sleeping bag and turned in for the night.
The next morning Harry rose as soon as he woke to vanish the tent and sleeping bag. He had no way to explain how he had them without a pack.
He hunted for Gertrude as early as he could manage, before the village truly woke up. He found the building that best matched the description he'd gotten from Elaine.
"Morning," Gertrude yawned, pulling her front door open. "How can I help you? I'm afraid I don't know your name."
"Harry Evans," Harry introduced. The name came more easily to his tongue. He stuck his hand in his pocket and drew out six of the coppers Horst had given him. "Elaine directed me to you. You're the village healer. Reckon I could buy some herbs and seeds?"
Gertrude rubbed her eyes. It was still chilly with morning dew. "Aye. Aye, that's me. You can have a look at what I've got." She beckoned Harry back inside. "I don't know how much I can spare, but I can surely tell you where I gather what I've got when I run out. The rest, you'll have to wait for the traders to come 'round, or make do with what I don't need."
Her house was much smaller than Horst's, little more than a living room with a hearth and a pair of bedrooms. Wooden boxes, bowls, and glass jars filled a wooden shelf by the rear window, next to a table, mortar and pestle, and the hearth.
"Take a look and see if there's something you need," Gertrude yawned. "Unless you have names for me? I'm not sure we'll call the same plants the same names, though."
Harry's eyes skated over each of the ingredients. He had to squint to make out the finer, identifying details without his glasses. He cursed himself for not conjuring a pair during the night, or better yet before he ever came to Carvahall. Nobody else wore them, so their presence would be noted, and Horst would know he hadn't had them to begin with. He could lie about contact lenses, but those would seem even less believable.
Nevertheless, he managed to identify valerian root, lemongrass, ginger root, and peppermint oil, which were about half the ingredients of the Pepper-up potion. He touched each one in turn. Gertrude nodded along. "Good for sore throats, ginger root is. Peppermint for colds. The plant grows up by the southern riverbank that way a couple miles," she pointed. "But the oil comes from the traders, and I can't part with my only vial."
Harry frowned. It was hard to make out the details on all the shades of green leaves without his glasses. "D'you have dittany? Erm, pinkish little blossoms, square root, grows maybe this high?" he mimed with his hands. "Big green leaves with white down on them."
Gertrude smiled. "You didn't see what was growing in the planter boxes out on the porch?"
Harry put his hand to his forehead. "Sorry. I misplaced my glasses and my eyesight is awful."
"I'm afraid I don't know what that means, but you have my condolences anyways." Gertrude busied herself filling a series of little leather pouches with a handful of valerian and ginger root, lemongrass, and a bunch of peppermint sprigs. She handed him three more bags than he asked for, all strung together on a leather cord. "That's some dittany. I added wormwood bark and garlic. If nothing else," she shrugged. "Garlic is good enough for cooking."
Harry laughed. "Thank you, Gertrude. How much do I owe you?"
She waved her hand. "Nothing. I only gave you what I could part with, and more healers in the world always makes it a better place."
Harry accepted the pouches. "I'll see what I can make with these. I don't suppose you have any more exotic ingredients?" He winced and asked hesitantly. "Dragon's blood?"
The healer barked out a laugh. "Ha! The only dragon alive in Alagaesia today is the King's. Even a century ago, you'd be hard pressed to convince one to let you draw some."
Harry bid Gertrude goodbye and headed out. He only bothered to find an alleyway before apparating to the top of the falls. Gertrude had unknowingly given him excellent news. Regardless of the current state of dragons in Alagaesia, they existed. And if Harry had to bet, that meant magic did, too.
He headed back to the edge of the waterfall, moved a few paces to the right, and laid down on his belly. The river hurled itself off a stone shelf that made a good spot to sit and think.
Carvahall was visible below, a cluster of buildings at the heart of a bunch of patches of farmland. "Point-me, north," Harry whispered. The Elder Wand spun atop his hand, pointing back into the Spine. That made Carvahall south-southeast. If he guessed correctly, the farm Baldor and Albreich had been talking about was northeast of the town center, just a bit to his left and down the mountainside.
Harry thought about the future. His future. Was he here for a reason? Some fate or destiny's choice to place him at this point in space and time, on this world? Or was it true random chance? What was he going to do with his new life?
He rolled onto his back and looked into the endless azure sky. Anything. Everything. Why not? Voldemort no longer hung over his head. He could stay as long as he wanted. If what Dumbledore said was true, Harry was basically immortal. He could hang out doing nothing for a lifetime, choose to come right back, and do it all over again. Faced with that much time, that much freedom, Harry no longer felt so much pressure to make something amazing of himself right away. No one was expecting the Boy-who-lived to graduate straight into a legendary career. He could just be.
He could see himself living in Carvahall. But not as a muggle. Magic was too deeply ingrained in him to give it up now. Harry flicked the Elder Wand lazily. "Expecto Patronum," he intoned, summoning the requisite joy with practiced ease.
A radiant white animal emerged, but not the one he was expecting. The dopey looking creature circled in the air a few times before settling on his chest and gazing into his eyes.
"A koala?" Harry wondered. He dismissed the spirit guardian. Maybe I'm not so defined by my father anymore.
Harry decided right then that he would never hide who he was again. The Dursleys could stuff it, the Statute could stuff it. If he was going to live forever, he'd do it as Harry the wizard, not Just Harry. Maybe Carvahall would appreciate having a village wizard. What could he do for them? If he managed to find bicorns, an apiarist, a mandrake, and some dragon blood, he could cure the common cold. With a wand, he could use the herbivicus charm to grow nonmagical plants instantly. Maybe he could hire out his services?
Hey farmer, want to pay me to instantly grow your field to harvest? I'm all out of magic beans.
He snorted. Why not? He could help Horst, too. Help him renovate his smithy to use magic to heat the forge, so he didn't have to flag down strangers to work the bellows. Could magic work for mining? Harry wondered if he couldn't just accio iron ore straight from the ground. He could definitely use geminio to duplicate nails a million times over and free the smith from his repetitive task.
It felt like there was still so much he was missing about the wizarding world, stuff Hogwarts would never put in a class. Stuff he could only learn by living in it. If it was that easy, why didn't they do it? Did they do it that way? Just duplicate whatever they wanted? Harry knew transfigured stuff was considered worse than the real deal. Something about conflicting identities, messing up further magic, stuff like that. That was the kind of hyper-advanced theory he was supposed to have learned in his final NEWT year of transfig.
It was with some consternation that Harry realized he was a highschool dropout. The term didn't feel like it applied to him. Fred and George were the dropouts, leaving Hogwarts on account of their brilliance. Probably Crabbe and Goyle would've dropped out, too, from sheer stupidity if they didn't have Malfoy doing all their homework. He was starting to sympathize with Hermione's unquenchable thirst for learning. Now that those resources he'd taken for granted were gone, Harry suddenly wished he had the Hogwarts library at his disposal to research. What exactly did wizards do?
Not just in the modern day, in wizard society. Historically, what had wizards done before the Statute, when muggles and wizards coexisted? He imagined he might find some truly ancient old journal in the library from some seventh-century wizard that would talk all about how he invented a milking charm to get out of chores or something.
He wondered if muggle highschoolers felt the same way. They graduated and suddenly life wasn't just about letters on a report card. They had to find out how to actually use what they learned, and not just for exams.
It all left him with a general idea for how to proceed. Build a home in or near Carvahall, become part of the community. Harry thought it was best to break the magic to them early, rather than lying to them for as long as it took to get comfortable with them. If he was going to pursue magic end-to-end, without the benefit of a wizarding marketplace, he'd need his space, so he couldn't set up shop in some little hut in the village.
He had the Elder Wand, he was pretty skilled with transfiguration, and really, who didn't want to own a castle?
AN: Redid the conversation with Horst so that Harry isn't quite so loose-lipped. A commenter left a very rude comment about how stupid it was and how stupid I was for having written it, which made me want to leave it just out of spite, but Horst having that knowledge might cause problems later down the line, so I grudgingly rewrote it.
I maintain that that reviewer couldn't have done better and probably stinks, too. OP!Indy!Harry gets boring after the 3000th time.
I've gotten many comments saying that Harry seems soft (though usually not phrased so kindly) and that his behavior is not that of a grizzled war veteran. The angst in this fic will be minimal. If it was Moody in Harry's place, I'd say they had a point. But Harry is not a grizzled war veteran. He was a precocious teenager on the run for most of the 'war,' and never killed anybody. Nor did he see the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, where there actually were a bunch of casualties.
As far as grizzled veterans go, Harry probably hasn't graduated far past 'second day in the trenches' on an absolute scale. He has some experience in life-or-death situations, he's fought before, but he's never walked through a field of corpses or killed someone deliberately and really lived with the guilt. If you're looking for something more than that, my other story is probably more to your liking (though it's my first fic, and riddled with amateur mistakes.)