The first Hogsmeade trip fell on a blustery weekend at the end of October, and scores of students streamed into the little village with hats jammed on their heads and hands crammed in toasty coat pockets. Loping among them, his own hands snug in a pair of chic black gloves, Francis strolled at an easy pace next to a rather troubled-looking Draco Malfoy.
"You did not invite those two friends of yours to join us?" Francis asked lightly.
"Who, Crabbe and Goyle? I don't know where they've gone," Draco said, trying and failing to sound disinterested.
Francis tilted his head up to the drab, cloudy sky. "Monsieur Crabbe is not very happy with you."
"He thinks I should have helped him, does he?" Draco snapped. "Well, he needs to learn to do something useful for once, I'm not always going to be there to wipe his arse."
Francis raised his eyebrows in mild annoyance, but he charitably decided not to retort. Unlike a certain Arthur Kirkland, he could certainly take a single snippety remark with grace.
Besides, Draco's pale face was tight and drawn as they entered the heart of the village, and his eyes kept darting around restlessly as though afraid they were going to be ambushed at any moment. Francis guessed that this was a bad time to rile him. Though he didn't know exactly what Draco was looking for, Francis, too, cast a brief, watchful glance around them as they nudged their way through the crowd towards the very end of the high street. As they passed a small knot of Slytherins, who were gathered around a display at the window of Spintwitches Sporting Needs, someone shouted: "Mr Bonnefoy!"
Francis turned; Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis had broken off from their circle of friends and hurried to catch up with them.
"Hello, Draco," Daphne greeted her classmate a bit more coolly. She turned to Francis and gave him a prim smile. "Mr Bonnefoy, would you like us to show you around Hogsmeade? I expect you've never been here before."
"We've been trying to find Mr Beilschmidt too," Tracey said. "Haven't seen him anywhere though, we thought he'd be with you."
"Gilbert, I assume?" Francis said with a knowing smirk. "Alas, as lovingly as we share our lives, I am not in the habit of keeping him on a lead. Not unless, of course, he begs me to," he added, eliciting a look of scandalised delight from the girls.
Meanwhile, Draco had already stalked off, not the least bit interested in sticking around for this conversation. Francis gave the girls an apologetic little curtsy.
"Excuse-moi, mes filles, but I have already promised somebody my company today. Do come for a visit in the common room later tonight though, I fully intend to bring back some of the fantastic whiskeys your wizarding world has to offer." If there was one thing that Arthur could actually do right, it was his hard liquors. And the Brit claimed he didn't have a drinking problem...
By the time Francis had rejoined Draco, they were crossing by Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, where a small flock of students were milling about outside, many with hot drinks in hand. He briefly caught the sight of two Gryffindor girls glaring at him; they watched him and Draco for a few seconds before leaning in to whisper to Feliks, who had been distracted by the glittering pink steam wafting up from his mug. Francis couldn't hear what the girls were saying, but Feliks' voice rang out loud and obnoxious behind them as they walked away: "Oh my god, Parvati, you can't just ask people why they're Death Eaters!"
Draco drew his cloak tighter around himself and he hurried his pace, elbowing people out of the way in his haste to get past the crowd. Francis apologised in response to someone's annoyed shout as they passed a dark, boarded-up shop, and he sidestepped several damaged signs that looked like they had been struck with ricocheting spells. His eyes followed Draco's startled gaze when a small commotion came from their left: Natalya had spotted Ivan lingering in a nearby alleyway, and she had pushed through the crowd and latched onto her brother's cloak like it was a lifeline.
"Brother," she said, staring up at him with wide, watery eyes. "That wretched hat has separated us, but we have finally found each other again. It must be fate that draws us together once more. Now let us get married, married, married..."
Ivan looked absolutely terrified.
"Ah, the little blonde boy!" he said a bit too cheerfully as he caught sight of Malfoy and Francis, and his huge strides caught up with them easily. To his fellow nation, he added, "Hello, comrade. It is nice to see you ignoring your other friend's warnings, isn't it?"
"I decide for myself who I choose to call a friend," Francis replied, while behind them Natalya silently crept up and clamped onto Ivan's cloak again. Draco glanced over at Francis in surprise and, if he wasn't quite mistaken, something tugged at the boy's expression like the tiniest hint of a smile. Before he could respond, however, a rough voice called out from the end of the street, and Francis felt the young Slytherin instantly stiffen beside him.
"Finally decided to show your face, eh, Draco?"
A tall, hooded man with a rather twisted face strode up to them. The few students that happened to be lingering around took one look at him, their faces alight with fear, and instantly hurried away. Draco pressed his thin lips together and straightened up, in an effort, perhaps, to appear unaffected by the man's presence.
"Why are you here, Macnair?" he snapped, and Macnair halted in his tracks, his eyes narrowing.
"Careful," he said, leering. "Daddy can't protect you anymore." He paused to scrutinise the three nations as if inspecting something that had gotten stuck on the bottom of his shoe. "And what's this?"
"Foreigners," Draco said shortly. "They're here to see the Dark Lord's regime. Snape should have told you about them."
Macnair shook his head and then spat on the ground. Francis wrinkled his nose in disgust, but Macnair seemed to have decided that the nations were beyond his consideration and didn't notice. "I don't envy Snape's job, I'll tell you that, having to deal with all this shite. Kids are bad enough."
He started strolling towards a dingy building at the end of the street, a place that the students appeared to be steering clear of—for good reason, Francis thought with distaste, as the unsettling, lifeless eyes of the decapitated boar on the sign above its entrance seemed to watch every person who drew near. Macnair beckoned to Draco over his shoulder. "Come on. Avery's already waiting and he's getting antsy."
Draco's eyes fixed resolutely on the dingy inn, and his hands were clenched into fists so tight that the knuckles were white even against his pale skin. "You can't come with me," he said to Francis, without looking at him. "I—I've got to go on my own."
"Mon ami—"
But Draco ignored him; he was already following Macnair, his slender shoulders set and his chin held up much like a stubborn child. Francis tapped a finger to his pursed lips as he watched his retreating back.
From behind him, Ivan's pleasant, singsong voice came floating in Francis' ear: "Shall we go make some friends, comrade?"
Which is how—against all odds and sense, Francis thought with a rueful shake of his head—the three nations found themselves stooped against the wall just behind the Hog's Head Inn, hidden just out of sight amid the shadows, but close enough to catch snippets of muffled conversation through the grubby, cracked window. Ivan, with his back leaning against the side of the building and his knees drawn up to his body, looked as stiff as a board, his smile growing slightly brittle as Natalya nuzzled ever closer to him.
"... not going to tell Mummy and Daddy you're hanging round that sort?" A new voice was speaking, its timbre thin and reedy, and the nations had to lean in to make out his words. "How d'you know they're not Mudblood filth? Not like we know anything about them foreigners—"
"I've checked," Draco snapped. "I wouldn't waste my energy if they were Mudbloods. Who do you think I am?"
"Heh!" Macnair let out an amused scoff. "Well? Tell us what you've got, then."
There was a brief shuffling of robes. "I had a look at what Snape found," Draco said, somewhat reluctantly. "The most comprehensive records were Bonnefoy's—he's pureblood. It says he sponsored Beauxbatons at the Triwizard Tournament... I thought I recognised him, he must have come for a visit in fourth year."
"Mon dieu, I'm a celebrity!" Francis whispered in delight, feigning a rather dramatic swoon. It was at that point Natalya idly considered taking out the knife she had hidden in her pocket.
"Hmph." The reedy-voiced man didn't sound convinced. "So you don't think this is one of the Order's schemes?"
"If it was, Snape would've known about it," Macnair said dismissively.
"The Order don't trust Snape anymore, you know that."
"You're getting your head in a twist, Avery. I'm not worried about these stupid delegates or whatever they are. Bet half of 'em can't even speak English."
"These people are so charming!" Ivan murmured, muffling a manic little giggle behind his scarf. Beside him, Natalya's eyes flashed at Macnair's words, and Francis wondered if it was too late to extract his arm from Ivan's steely grip and get away from these two.
"Forget about them. What I want to figure out," Macnair continued, "is what we're gonna do with that old bat, Lovegood. Quibbler's been kicking up a riot out there, it's getting out of control."
Avery snorted. "Who would've thought the nutter's got guts like that. Reckon we should send someone?"
"Not up to me. Been trying to get ahold of Travers, but he's off bugger knows where. Got half a mind to go up to Hogwarts and have a chat with Snape about it."
"What the hell's Snape going to do?"
"Old Xeno's got a daughter, hasn't he? If this doesn't shut him up..."
Natalya tilted her head. She was no longer staring at her brother but rather at the grubby little window, apparently listening intently, but Francis couldn't see what she was so interested in. He certainly couldn't recognise any of these names, besides their delightful headmaster. Draco seemed to have fallen silent, and Francis wondered if he had somehow left without the nations realising. With Natalya distracted, Francis seized the opportunity to tiptoe away, and Ivan, who was still clutching onto the Frenchman's arm, immediately understood and followed suit. The two managed to slip back to the main road unnoticed, while Natalya stayed hidden in the shadow of the Hog's Head, suddenly deep in thought.
"May I ask," McGonagall said critically, eyeing the book in Arthur's hand, "why on earth you have that piece of drivel?"
"Morbid curiosity," Arthur grunted. He sidled into a seat next to her, slapped the paperback down onto the bar and waited to catch the barmaid's eye from across the counter. From the photo in the centre of the book's garish cover, Dumbledore's impassive face gazed up at him. "I should get a rebate for all the time and brainpower it wasted. 'The truth finally revealed', my arse..."
McGonagall made a faint derisive noise. "I do hope you haven't rewarded that Skeeter woman's nonsense with your gold."
"Oh, absolutely not. I found this copy in one of the jackalopes' pens—a student tried to chuck it, seems like. Suppose they thought it belonged with all the shit in there."
The door of the pub flung open, and Yong Soo bounded inside with a terrifyingly energetic shout. "What's up, Rosmerta!"
"Oh, hello again!" the lively blonde barmaid said, sashaying over to greet him. Arthur furrowed his brows. Again?
"Can I take a butterbeer to go? Feliks, Parvati, and Lavender wanna hang out at the tea shop down the street, but the menu at that place sucks. Oh, hey there, teacher!" Yong Soo waved wildly at McGonagall, accidentally knocking several empty glasses to the floor, where they shattered with a spectacular crash. The look on McGonagall's face reminded Arthur rather distinctly of the feeling he got whenever Hong Kong set off fireworks in his bedroom at three in the morning.
Arthur buried his face in his hands. "I am so sorry."
"Rest assured, Professor," she replied over Yong Soo's cheerful apologies as he tried to clean up his mess, "after forty years of witnessing every Transfiguration disaster imaginable, there is no amount of clumsiness that comes as a surprise anymore."
When Yong Soo had paid for his drink and left, slamming the door loudly behind him, the barmaid bustled over to where Arthur and McGonagall were sitting at the bar. "Small gillywater for you, Minerva," she said, sliding a glass filled with clear drink over to her, and then she turned her attention to Arthur. "Well now, you're a new face, aren't you?"
"This is Professor Arthur Kirkland," McGonagall said crisply. "He taught me while I was at school, and he has now returned to Hogwarts to take over the Care of Magical Creatures post."
"Oh, of course! The Prophet mentioned your name when they ran that article about staffing changes at the school. Call me Rosmerta," she said, smiling at him. She gave Arthur a slightly confused once-over, no doubt trying to calculate how a man of his apparent youth could have been a Hogwarts professor in McGonagall's time. He paid it no mind; it definitely wasn't the first time he'd gotten that look.
"Charmed," Arthur said. "I won't keep you for long—I daresay you've got quite a queue to attend to." Indeed, the pub was teeming with visiting students, not least because, among all the shops that still survived on the high street of Hogsmeade, the Three Broomsticks Inn seemed to be the one with the smallest Death Eater presence. "Have you got any rum?"
"Sure have, red currant or black cherry?"
"Black cherry's fine."
Rosmerta filled another glass with something dark red and rather strong-smelling, and she handed it to Arthur, who nodded his thanks. A pair of students then called for her attention from the other side of the room, and with a slightly impatient twitch, she was off again, leaving Arthur and McGonagall among the hubbub.
The rum burned as he washed it down, but the familiar hit of numbness on his lips was a welcome one. Living in a school full of children had forced Arthur to curb back some of his age old drinking habits, though one could pry his secret office stash from his cold, dead hands; nobody needed to know how much whiskey he'd hidden in his storage cupboard beneath piles of textbooks and various bags of pellets. A bit of indulgence once in a while didn't hurt! He just had to make sure he was still coherent enough to teach the next morning.
Today, however, was Saturday, there were no lessons tomorrow, and he absolutely needed booze to quell his anger about that goddamned book.
"It's absurd," Arthur fumed abruptly, and McGonagall glanced over from behind her gillywater, eyebrows raised. "Do you know what sort of crap she's written in this thing?"
"Unfortunately so," McGonagall said, pursing her lips.
"She knows exactly what she's doing, that roach of a woman, I've already heard talk about it at the post office—really, you'd think people would show just a modicum of critical thinking! All she wants is the attention—the thing was published not even a month after Albus' death, for christ's sake! Libel law can't touch her now and she absolutely knows it, and don't even get me started on the idea of Potter being involved in Albus' murder—"
"Oh yes, I do remember hearing about that particular bit of idiocy," McGonagall said disdainfully.
"I worry about the boy, you know," Arthur growled. "It's the last thing he needs, some sensationalist reporter trying to turn people against him and Albus both—and for what, her next fifteen minutes of fame? Fucking self-centred twit."
"I'm not the one whose mind you need to change, Professor," McGonagall said. She cast her gaze down at the paperback with candid dislike. "Take solace in the fact that many of our older students have expressed their distaste for Skeeter's work as well. Regardless of what wizarding society at large thinks, there are still those of us who know the truth."
Arthur scrutinised her for a second, seeing once more a fearless, sharp-tongued sixteen-year-old sitting in front of him in his Defence Against the Dark Arts class, and he took another deep swig of rum.
"You know," he commented, "I've always said that if I were ever to be lectured by one of my own students, it would be you."
"I'm going to assume that you mean that as a compliment," McGonagall said dryly.
"Oh, I do, Miss McGonagall." The corner of his mouth twitched briefly upwards. "You've really grown into your own since the last time I saw you."
Arthur took a moment to glance around; the students were all still absorbed in their own conversations and personal dramas.
"Any news on the sword?" he muttered, lowering his voice so that it blended with the chatter and the faint clinking of glasses. McGonagall didn't react, but instead stared straight ahead at the gleaming, amber-coloured Firewhiskey bottles lining the shelves behind the bar.
"It's in the hands of the Order now," she replied quietly. "I trust that Bill Weasley is more than capable of getting it to the right person."
"If he can even find him," Arthur said, disgruntled. "I've been trying to keep up with that Potterwatch broadcast, but the only useful thing I've gotten is the fact that the boy isn't dead."
"A remarkable feat, you must admit, seeing as half the country is out there looking for him."
"Of course, but it doesn't really help us if we're trying to—"
Suddenly, a series of bangs and a shriek from outside made everyone jump. Arthur and McGonagall instantly leapt from their chairs and burst out the front doors, wands already drawn.
"You think you can say that to me, blood traitor?! You're as filthy as any Mudblood—I'll teach you some respect!"
Fury blazed across Ginny's face as she pointed her wand, shouting "Stupefy!", but the hooded Death Eaters were too quick for her; there was a flash and with a grunt Ginny was knocked flat onto her back, her face suddenly swelling up with painful-looking blisters.
Arthur blasted one of the Death Eaters across the cobblestone street, and the other one whirled around, snarling the beginning of a curse; then out of nowhere, someone came barrelling through the crowd, yelling at the top of his lungs: "Get back here, I ain't finished with you fuckers!"
"What the hell—Beilschmidt!" Arthur bellowed, but Gilbert had already tackled the man to the ground with a heavy thud. The students closest to them scuttled away in terror. In their fight to gain the upper hand, Gilbert and his opponent rolled uncontrollably across the pavement until they bumped into the side of a nearby building, which was when the Death Eater managed to fire another Stinging Hex into the Prussian's eye. Gilbert yowled as his eye exploded in boils and blindly threw the other man off of him.
"Outta the way!"
Macnair and Avery shoved a group of third-years aside as they hurtled down the street, only to be blocked by a furious McGonagall, who unleashed a torrent of white flames onto the newcomers. Avery managed to dodge it, but Macnair howled as the flames caught him across the shoulder, searing off a large chunk of his robes.
"Don't try to stop us, woman!" Avery roared. "Crucio!"
"NO!"
Rage like no other exploded in Arthur; he bolted forward, McGonagall's scream mingling with the blood thundering in his ears, and then with a violent slash the Death Eater stumbled back, yelling, blood spurting from the laceration that had nearly taken his right hand off. For a split second Avery clutched his crimson-slicked forearm, staring down at it in shock, and then Arthur's fist smashed into his face and he fell flat on his back onto the cobblestone street. His eyes widened as a boot stamped on his windpipe, but he only scrabbled for a few seconds before his whole body went limp; only then did Arthur lift his foot in disgust, giving only a cursory glance to the bruise he left on the Death Eater's neck.
Macnair spun around to avenge his fallen ally, but at that moment someone else came running up behind him: Draco Malfoy, who skidded to a halt, his eyes widening as he took in the scene in front of him.
Then Draco stumbled to the side as Francis pushed past him. He found Gilbert staggering to his feet, one hand clutching his eye and the other holding onto a nearby signpost to steady himself, and he immediately rushed to his friend's side. Several metres away, the Death Eater Gilbert had been fighting shook himself off, pointed his wand, but with an affronted glare Francis swiftly threw out a Shield Charm before the curse could hit them.
Ginny had also clambered back to her feet. Her face was still contorted from the Stinging Hex, but through her swollen lips she managed to get out a muffled "Volatilis Lutum!"; the next moment, bats started ravaging the yowling Death Eater's face. His companion, disoriented from being blasted across the street earlier, stumbled over and sent a flying jet of light that completely missed its target, instead hitting a wooden sign which splintered and came crashing down onto the pavement. Then McGonagall's well-aimed Stunner struck him in the back, and he collapsed.
Gilbert wrestled himself out of Francis' grasp, hurtled towards the remaining Death Eater and caught the man's wrist; with a sharp crack, he twisted his whole arm backwards. The Death Eater shrieked and tried to yank his freshly broken arm away, but Gilbert's grip was vice-like on his foe; half-blind, he swung the man around and threw him violently into a building, where the Death Eater buckled and finally slumped unconscious.
Several steps away, spells shot in every direction as Arthur and Macnair duelled, the former spitting out expletives while the latter jeered. A thrill lurched in Arthur's chest as a jet of green light missed him by an inch—
There was a bang, a screech, and suddenly Macnair was flung into the air like a ragdoll. He crashed halfway down the road, and Draco stumbled back in panic as his fellow Death Eater rolled to a stop near his feet, unmoving. Francis and McGonagall glanced at each other; they had both tried to Stun him at the exact same time.
And just like that, the entire street fell silent. The tension was punctuated only by heavy breathing and quiet, intermittent whimpers from students who had taken shelter in the alleyways during the chaos. Every eye was fixed on the group in the centre, the unconscious Death Eaters and the two professors, and hovering near the back of the crowd, Feliks and Yong Soo stared, wide-eyed, both lost for words.
Fighting to quell the anger and adrenaline that was still surging through his veins, Arthur exhaled harshly, straightened up, and shot an icy glare at Ginny, Gilbert, and Francis in turn.
"Back to the castle, all of you," he commanded. "Now."