Britannia

York Minster. Gained intact but now with tragic legacy after a short battle on the outskirts of YOrk—close enough to Marston Moor to matter as an anecdote of history—while the main column speed south. It was shaping up to be a fine spring day, though the snow still clung stubbornly in patches here and there to the heights to the north and west. And in York, it was time for a funeral. Narcissa Malfoy's thoughts flashed back to the night she had helped save Brest from nuclear attack. It had soon become clear, later on, that they had been dupes of Voldemort, protecting the cities he wanted saved as he executed his plan to preferentially cull the muggle population of the world in a way that suited his objectives. But, she had still saved the city. Without the participation of the wizards and witches, it would have certainly died. That was objective fact, and nothing could take it away from her, or anyone else. Now, today, she had arrived too late to do anything about the massacre here in York.

They had prepared graves in front of the Old Palace. She could see there an Orthodox Chaplain of the Russian Armed Forces, speaking with a Catholic and an Anglican Priest. While the men spoke, Narcissa quietly walked along the rows of body-bags. At each one, she tapped her wand with a very gentle motion, calling out a measuring spell. Once upon a time, in the most ancient days, magic and religion had been blurred together, and a witch and a priestess were something of the same mark. Walking through the rows of corpses, gassed by the Morsmordre, Narcissa felt very close to that legacy.

The coroners' services and other functions of statehood had broken down in the rapid advance. The usual need to bury people quickly was dictated by the need to avoid disease and rot, and here it was, too. When she reached the end of the row, the Anglican priest stepped over.

"Your Grace…"

"I'm just honouring them my own," she murmured, blue eyes flicking over the man. "As my family has followed the old Gods of these isles for as long as we have lived. But I harbour no disrespect for Jesus of Nazareth. Measuring them for their graves should not impose, but for any whose hearts were inclined to our old ways, might bring them a measure of peace."

He thought for a moment, and then quietly nodded. "You're right, Your Grace. They come from many different faiths and backgrounds, no doubt… Will you say a few words of your own?"

"Of course. I will, when I am needed." Narcissa wandered away, then, to the crowd of silent people, mostly dressed in black, residents of York, liberated, but now facing the cost of that liberation. Narcissa knew, too, that her design to exhort the people to rise had been the direct cause of this massacre, but that was the price of command. Now she went to face their grieving relatives, because that, too, was the price of command. She was not a warrior on the front line like her sister, but in a way her responsibility was far more terrible, and on that day, she drank it like a bitter drought, and forced herself, in a measured pace, and quiet calm composure, to be reminded of the consequences of her actions.

Remember thou art mortal.

There was an older woman with her white hair in a perm, held firmly under a black headscarf, the kind one would wear to Church on a sad day, or a funeral, and today was a funeral. Narcissa adjusted her own cloak and hood. The woman had two young children with her.

One of them brashly spoke to Narcissa. "Grandmum says Mum and Da aren't coming back, you were there, do you know?"

Narcissa stopped walking. She turned, and smiled sadly, and gently, as she dropped to her knees, without a thought, into the dew of the morning grass. Her wand tapped – created a magical forest of glowing trees, sketched a river through it, and brought some sweeping birds along the river into the air above the forest. "Not for a long time, my young friends. But when you hear the wind whistle in the oak and ash, and when you hear the water of a brook patter over the stones on the banks—when you see a bird dive in the sky, you will know they are not far away, even if they can't come back."

She watched with a small smile of relief at the children, eyes wide, naturally excited, and in wonder, at the magic which made others in the crowd press closer. This was the wonder of magic, simple, and really not much more sophisticated than some things that muggles could pull off, and yet so intensely part of the natural world, comfortable and approachable, for the sake of a child.

Then she rose, tears were threatening at her eyes and she didn't want the children to see them. Tears were threatening at their grandmum's eyes, too. "Thank you," she said, softly.

"I've known loss as well," Narcissa said, stepping away quietly, and leaving enough magic for her little diorama of a magical forest to linger for the funeral, as she turned back.

Of course there was a group of officers coming up. She could not leave command or leadership behind now, and even what she had just done was an act of it. As Regent (though she really did intend to arrange for the appointment of another after arranging for regular governance—but it would have to be someone she could control), they acknowledged her with salutes.

"Report," Narcissa said narrowly—feeling a bit like words were a waste of energy in that moment.

"The Irish Government has revolted from Voldemort's regime, Your Grace."

Narcissa closed her eyes for a moment. "Including magical elements? Successfully?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

It was not exactly what she wanted. However, while they were some disadvantages to it, in general, she could still see a path to what she wanted. And, it was a powerful blow, demonstrating an end of support generally for the enemy regime in the islands. "Well, well, Granger, who dares, wins," she murmured to herself softly. Nothing else, after all, made sense.

In her life, Larissa Sergeivna had never really expected to spend so much time in Britain; perhaps to visit it, though the Ministry of Magic and its administration had an unpleasant reputation, and so she had never thought much of it. But now she had lived here for weeks, and fought here, alongside the British and her countrymen alike.

And Draco Malfoy. He was with her still, while they stood on the roof of the train station in Doncaster, looking down at the snarl of tracks to the south and the west as flames and flashes and columns of smoke rose to the southeast in the direction of Bessacarr.

The enemy was in retreat from Doncaster, and Draco was covering her, shielding them from attack—and protecting the station by extension—as two Morsmordre fighter-bombers attempted a fitful raid. By this point as a veteran, not even coming under direct air attack with eight cluster bomb dispensers aimed at her bothered Larissa that much, and, she had come to trust Draco.

Ahead, the enemy was attempting to fall back, and that made Larissa's duty here, standing all exposed, very clear. She was the one trusted to do this, with her skill in the black arts and the needs of the situation. And so she waited, and let the enemy attacks be dealt with by Draco, until she saw a significant force, screened by the tanks, their turrets pointing to the rear, passing into the large southern rail yard at Doncaster.

She raised her wand, and let loose with Fiendfyre. Controlling it, shaping it, directing it with her will across the open space down the broad way of the East Coast Main Line, she flung her power on a curving course that intercepted with the tracks on the curve, the massive curved yard, blasted through a train shed with a roar of explosive power in the distance, and based over the retreating elements of an already savaged brigade with the intensity of a firestorm.

Tanks flashed over into flames. The sudden rise in heat caused fuel tanks to detonate in BLEVEs, engines to catch on fire through the exhaust, crews baked alive inside through the air intakes, meant to filter gas and radiation but unable to filter heat. Rubber treads bursting into flames around them, leaving slagged tank bodies with seared paint slumped down across the yard, now set with smouldering sleepers and bent spaghetti of rails.

An engineering crew of wizards—such a thing to imagine as that, but it was so, the war had made it so!-would set the main line right by the next morning. She finished out the Fiendfyre with a shudder of intensity in her body, veins bulging and harrowed, haggard look of skin that hung on her.

The past year of the war had not treated Larissa well, but she was a superb warrior, would settle for nothing less than to be here, and expected that Haldi still blessed her. That was enough. Their own vehicles rushed into the gap.

"There's nothing between us and London now," Draco declared, then looked to her with discomfort in his eyes, and worry, too. "But I think you're killing yourself, Lara. Let's get to cover." He reached out, took her by the hand, and apparated, frankly worried she'd just fall down the roof access ladder if they tried it, and wanting to get her back to a camp.

She was hardly the only person in this war destroying herself, though. Larissa felt sheepish at the way she had to lean into Draco while they reappeared at Pontefract Castle, and she had to steady herself and avoid from vomiting from the effect of sidealong apparation, not like there would have been anything on her stomach after eight hours of hard combat, anyway.

"We'll have London tomorrow, Lara," Draco said with firm gentleness. "Get some food, get some tea, sit down." He eased her onto a camp chair, and fetched it himself. The days when he thought that was beneath him were long gone. At the same time, he summoned a mediwitch, and distracted Lara with the food and tea while the mediwitch quickly looked her over.

"Councillor Naryshkina," the woman said. "Your magical core is essentially depleted. I understand you volunteered to be one of the fiendfyre attackers at Doncaster. That spell is one of the most exhausting in the world. You must not repeat it, for some time."

Larissa sank down, feeling far too comfortable for how bad off they were telling her that she was. It was a kind of enervated moment at the end, the edge of one's limits, where there was no energy to go on. Comfortably numb. She laughed, at the reference to the song lyrics.

"Lara?"

"Oh, Draco, just… Something your aunt would probably get," she yawned. "I won't ask to be taken off the line. Not yet. We'll be to London by tomorrow. A union of the western and eastern thrusts. We've broken through the last organised opposition. General Black is already to Birmingham. The sooner we take the country, the sooner it's over, your nation will be intact, your people free, when we have London, I can rest. We won't have defeated Voldemort, but we'll have crushed his power to take on the entire world, put the world's most intact industry into our hands, instead. We will win. This is the beginning of the end. And I must be there, I must. Fuck, I've got nothing but this war—I have to see it through."

All abruptly, not caring for the bit of tea that sloshed, Draco reached out and gave her a hug. Perhaps she did have more than just this war.

When they blew across the M25 and roared inwards toward London, Bellatrix felt almost entranced by the sprawl around her. What hath muggles wrought? There was smoke from the city centre—the Goblin rebellion, no doubt—but with no nuclear weapons having fallen, no sustained combat, the immense urban sprawl of London was perfectly intact. At Northolt down the A40, the only sign of the enemy was a single flight of Typhoons, abandoned on the tarmac. Perhaps their pilots had defected, or fled.

Ahead, by Park Royal, she observed idly as surrendered troops were being rounded up by her Black Guards. They had given in—capitulated. Their limits of resistance were gone. The enemy Armies in Britain had been broken. And finally, at London Paddington, they came up to the forward element of their own troops, with a detachment of Goblin rebels drawn up across from them.

She leapt down from her command track. The city around was intensely silent, almost disquietingly so. One of the Goblins stepped forward, and flipped a casual salute, in imitation of the human style. "General Black, of the Lancashire Blacks. The commander of the London garrison is at Little Venice, but refuses to surrender to us. Come?"

"I will," Bellatrix agreed, and started off on the short walk, as her troops fanned out, roughly approximating a line of delineation along London Street and the Paddington basin. They cut through the station, and it seemed odd to see one of these bustling muggle places so absolutely silent and abandoned, but still pristine and looking untouched by war, or the rebellion.

They crossed to Warwick avenue just before Little Venice. A pathetic, exhausted knot of men who knew that they were beaten stood there, in the park beside the basin that served as a junction between three canals, with its picturesque little island within it. A few canal boats floated above water, there was no sign of fighting here. The Goblins had not gotten this far before resistance had collapsed, and neither had the Black Guards.

It was over.

What was the name of this place, what is the name of this place? It will be famous, someday.

Rembrandt Gardens. Bellatrix wondered if it had anything to do with Rembrandt, actually, or if it was just some stupid muggle name. Lucas Nott was standing there, with Pius Thicknesse in hand. He stared at Bellatrix with a blank, apoplectic fury, made all the worse for the fact that it was totally helpless, that Bellatrix had him in her power, that the traitor had triumphed.

"I would have terms, Black!"

"Why didn't you ask the Goblins for them?"

"What kind of wizard surrenders to a Goblin!?"

She laughed and shook her head. "Well, you'll just surrender to me instead, and that doesn't seem to make you any happier!" Bellatrix took some pleasure in the situation, in the look of blank and bitter despair that was on Nott's face. Then she shook her head. "Here are your terms: Surrender at discretion, for all forces in the Great London area."

"I've released Thicknesse from the Imperious curse," he answered, as if that mattered for anything.

"So? He's a wanted man," Bellatrix shrugged. There was a rather large and growing contingent of Goblins behind her. They had wands. She wasn't afraid in the slightest, at least, for herself. Nott and his command staff who had arrived to negotiate their surrenders, might as well all go hang for all that she cared. A grin slowly formed. "Would you rather fight, Nott? A little scared?"

"Traitor…"

"Oh no you don't!" They both ignored the shaking Thicknesse. Bella cackled again, laughing, and laughing again. "I am the loyal one, loyal to Crown and family! So have it your way."

Letting go of Thicknesse, his bluster fading into just how broken of a man he was, abandoned by His Lord, as he felt it, to take the fall for the loss of Britain—Nott stepped forward, and quietly presented his wand.

It was finished.

It turned out that they had been organising the battle against the Goblins and temporarily running the Government from inside of Kensington Palace nearby, so Bellatrix headed south with the Goblin commanders and her own, and called for Narcissa, as over the next several hours, the surrender was completed, and the guns and wands alike fell completely silent around London.

An hour later, well on into the evening, Narcissa arrived with a picked guard of Russian and British wizards and witches. Bellatrix was summoned out to the Orangery, where Narcissa was already speaking to Jezakard Gringott. "I should like the Tube running by tomorrow morning's commute. I just issued an order for a dawn-to-dusk curfew, but we are instructing all workers to go to work, even though gatherings of more than twelve persons shall be banned even outside of curfew," Narcissa was explaining to the Goblin commander. "I would hope you would turn your skill at magical metal-working to quickly repairing all the damage to the track and lineside infrastructure. Then, I would like the Overground running by the day after tomorrow. Then, on the second, I want the East Coast Mainline to resume working from King's Cross to Edinburgh Waverley, though I know there will have to be speed restrictions. Yes—I understand that it will have to be with diesels; we're making arrangements. Your people will be paid on the hour at craftsman's rates."

"That concerned about the railways, Cissy?" She was impressed at her baby sister, really, the leader of them all. She'd barely been at Kensington for fifteen minutes, not even long enough for Bellatrix to sort herself out and come down, and Narcissa had already turned it into her command post for organising the city.

Narcissa turned to face her. "It's about letting the people of Britain know that this is over, and the Government has full authority," she answered mildly, and calmly, but with iron in her voice. "Also, I want people out in the sun, able to travel about by rail, for May Day, as is their right."

"Oh Gods. It is the twenty-ninth today, isn't it? Tomorrow is the Ysbrydnos of Nos Galan Haf, isn't it?"

"Tomorrow night, yes. I'd say it's very auspicious, Bella. Speaking of which. The Chiefs of Staff can report directly to me, and handle the occupation of London. How about you return to Ancient House?"

Bellatrix grimaced. "You… Don't want me here, Cissy?"

"The government is mine, the responsibility is mine. It's not that I don't want you here; it's that I must be cognizant of publicising the relationship between us in a careful and thoughtful manner which very much emphasizes that you are no influence over my Government. Also, I want you to get Draco and Larissa Naryshkina out of the city; they have grown close, but she needs, urgently, to rest. I don't want them involved in the occupation. Get them back to Ancient House. You can, by all means, act in my stead in Lancashire. And, the situation in Ireland is under control. I will cable Dublin and have Hermione join you."

"And what about you, Cissy…?"

"I have secured my country and my family. I will celebrate Calan Haf with the whole British people," she answered, with a smile of pain and perseverance and genuine happiness. "Take care of Draco for me. Rest. You have earned it, sister-mine. This is what I chose. It's my time now."

Bellatrix led Draco and Larissa out of the Floo. Mardy the house-elf was already there. The interior was warm, and two other elves—Ascher and Nokky—appeared at Mardy's side to bow deeply, whilst Draco helped Larissa with her coat behind Bellatrix.

"Mistress Bellatrix, this elf is knowing that she must go to Mistress Narcissa," Mardy explained. "But all is in order. The other elflings is knowing that they is to be hospitable to all guests Mistress Bellatrix is entertaining."

Bellatrix never imagined before how polite and tactful a House Elf could be about the fact that her girlfriend/lover was a muggleborn. That a House Elf had thought to warn the other elves about it. "Thank you, Mardy. I believe Cissy will be at Kensington Palace for the forseeable future, though I suppose if another Regent is appointed, she will move to Grimmauld Palace or even take up residence at 10 Downing Street." It felt odd to say. "You may depart."

"Mardy is not hearing the call from Mistress Narcissa yet. Mardy will stay. Dinner is of waiting!"

After the elves bowed for the guests, Bellatrix gestured onwards. She saw how Draco took the absolutely exhausted Larissa, all of them still in uniform, by the arm, to lead her to the dining hall.

"We'll be expecting three more guests shortly," Bellatrix observed. "Adjust the wards to allow for travel from Dublin: Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Ginevra Weasley."

"They're coming tonight?"

"Oh, of course, but I don't when they'll get it in…"

"Mardy is preparing of food in service à la française, in case not all guests arrive at once. Mardy is knowing this is a war, and guests can't arrive on time."

Bellatrix grinned. "Very sensible. Wars are like that, madness, chaos, guests not showing up for dinner on time; they have it all." They arrived in the dining room, and Draco helped Larissa sit. The Russian aristocrat unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled back the sleeves on her uniform, which were still flecked with the mud and soot of campaign. But her intellect was still fully intact, as a cup of tea floated to her at the behest of the House Elves.

"Mardy is knowing Mistress Larissa is Russian, so the tea is having cherry preserves."

"Thank you," Larissa murmured, sincerely but absent-mindedly as she looked past Bellatrix. "Very impressive courtyard, M'lady," she observed.

"Oh well, Ancient House is…" Draco began, but Bellatrix grinned, waved her hand, and grabbed her wand. She pointed it at the carpet and commanded it to roll back, revealing the precious ancient mosaics beneath, showing forests and spell-casting in the woods, the hunt and other wild things.

"Oh my God, Ancient House is a Roman Villa," Larissa stared.

"Built inside of a Hillfort that my ancestresses held when they were priestesses, healers and wonder-workers for the Brigantine nation. As it happens, we were Britons through and through, but anyone can fall in love with baths, and hypocaust heating, and fine mosaics."

There was a group of footsteps that abruptly halted. Bellatrix whipped around, she could never could not with the reflexes her life had given her, and saw Hermione standing, with Luna and Ginny at her side. One of the House Elves had unobtrusively slipped away, to lead them in for the dignity and respectability of the House.

Then she rose, pushed back her chair, got up, stepped quickly to Hermione's side, seeing how cold and pale and stiff she was. The only sign of life in her was the way that she looked with curiosity at the mosaics. "Dear Lord, a Roman Villa," Hermione muttered, repeating the declaration, before flashing a smile to Larissa. "Lara."

Bellatrix was pressed against her after that, enfolding her into a hug, she kissed her cheek, and tried not to care when Hermione did not really respond.

"She's had a long day," Luna said gently, and walked to sit. "Tomorrow night is a Ysbrydnos, and it will be very special here. Spring is upon us! Summer will come."

"It will be," Bellatrix agreed, ushering Hermione to a seat and waving her wand to send the carpet back down. "I will walk the land's quarters on Calan Haf, to re-strengthen the wards after so long of neglect. And we must find a May Pole."

Tea, wine, coffee; cottage loaf, soft goat's cheese, potted shrimps, black pudding. Simple and hearty, to return home to eat at the end of a campaign. Bellatrix poured her wine, and looked to Hermione. She wasn't at all used to this reticence from her.

Ginny looked uncomfortable.

"Ahh, Miss Weasley," Bellatrix began, looking for a weak spot to try and figure out what was going on. That was more than enough; it made Hermione snap immediately:

"Don't bring Ginny into this, Bella. It's about Azkaban. It's about the fact that I shot down Avery."

Bellatrix froze for a moment, wine-glass to her lips. A snort of laughter splashed some across her shrimps. "Avery was a revolting brute with tendencies toward being a paedophile which, I understand, got worse when he was released from Azkaban. Surely you shouldn't lose a wink of sleep over that. What about…"

"Azkaban. Azkaban," she repeated, looking down at her food. "Did you know that they were holding their own prisoners there, that we killed our own people?"

Bellatrix stared at her. "No, I rather did not."

"We were responsible for planning the nuclear attack. Did nobody really know?"

"It was attacked as a matter of military necessity. The magical wards and defences on Azkaban would have taken out the missiles attack the Chunnel, as you well know; then we would have faced eight fresh divisions in the Midlands, and instead of thousands of massacred civilians, there might be hundreds of thousands."

Hermione ignored her, and looked at Larissa.

"She's right, my friend," Larissa offered with a thin smile. "I love you like a sister, and I'd have still given the order if you had been there. It had to be done."

"Yes, you're quite right. It had to be done." A sigh left Hermione's body. She looked Bellatrix in the eyes. Bellatrix looked back—she wasn't lying to Hermione about it. She couldn't imagine lying to Hermione, not now. Not ever.

After a moment, Hermione smiled softly, exhausted but acknowledging her. "Bella," she repeated softly, and then picked up her knife and fork, and tucked in.


Notes:

Notes:

1. Service à la française - Dinner served with all the dishes on the table at once, and diners largely helping themselves.

2. The Orangery - it was both a greenhouse and a place of entertainment at Kensington Palace, built at the behest of Queen Anne I. They were a feature of aristocratic palaces of the 18th century; there is a very fine preserved at Kuskovo in Moscow.

3. Surrender at discretion - A term of art in the laws of war meaning that no guarantees to the treatment of the surrendered are provided by the party they are surrendering to. Their treatment is "at the discretion" of the victors.

4. Roman villa construction - penetrated into even Lancashire, and in this case would be very different from a typical aristocratic house of a wizarding family from later days, like the Malfoys. Larissa recognised instantly that the style was unusual.

5. Potted shrimps are quite common in Lancashire, because of the cockles and shrimp which can be harvested in Morecambe Bay.

6. As both Regent and Prime Minister, Narcissa has essentially dictatorial power, but has no intention of maintaining it longer than is required to settle the situation to her satisfaction, as outside of the total collapse of constitutional governance, it would be contrary to most recognised principles of Government in the British Isles.

7. The East Coast Mainline is the route that the Hogwarts Express takes from Kings Cross north to Scotland. It's probably the most familiar rail route to most wizarding families.

8. I invented the name Lucas for Theodore Nott's father.

9. A Ysbrydnos is a spirit night, where divination is powerful and the Gods are close to the Earth, in Brythonic custom. Nos Galan Haf/Calan Haf are essentially Beltane Eve and Beltane, to the Brythonic Celts instead of the Gaelic Celts.