The Pensieve.

It was not like Bellatrix's presence in the high command of the British Army could have been hidden from Harry, when they arrived in London late the next morning. The special train was spotted at the usual 9 and 3/4ths Platform at Kings Cross for Hogsmeade arriving trains, but there was no attempt at secrecy now, not in the sense of keeping the magical world hidden from muggles. There were men under arms, standing guard. In the end, an exhausted Hermione had managed to sleep, and had to be half dragged out of her compartment, to turn out for their departure at London.

He had not taken it well. In the end, Andromeda had given him some potions to help him sleep. Hermione knew that he was almost profoundly disassociated from the reality he was in, while dealing with the fact there was no going back to the reality he had come from. Time was the cruelest of all mistresses.

The very City of London itself had changed radically in ways one could not imagine from having seen it in media of the 1980s. Because London entailed meetings of importance and protocol, there were many officers bearing ceremonial swords who were coming and going from the trains amidst the crowd, in their dress uniforms. But their party attended a certain other kind of respect, because having come straight from Russia, and looking so rough, they had the air of experienced front veterans, who had not had any time to freshen up. There were knowing looks from those who had experienced the same, even if they had some gloss on at the moment. In the middle of that, as a civilian and a young man who was not in uniform, Harry was out of place, and he knew it. And worse, the world itself was taking a step back in time in its culture, under the pressure of the hardship of the war.

But looming above it all was a simple encounter with a newspaper stand. With rationing of electricity in effect in many areas due to the damaged power grid and the need to devote all possible electrical power to the needs of wartime industry above everything else, the only absolutely guaranteed way to get the news was a paper. And, The Times was reporting on the fall of Valladolid. Splashed across the front page in a massive full-body shot, riding propped up on the top of a command track, wand stuffed in her tousled hair and her uniform British but never regulation, the glint of metal from her exposed left wrist, there was Bellatrix.

Harry just stared. Took a breath, and another. He very slowly turned to Hermione. "How can you stand it, 'Mione? She tortured you. And the Prime Minister's house was where it happened, too. And they're just..." He shrugged and gestured around them.

Daphne had buckled her sword, since she was in London, and escorting an important visitor to the Prime Minister. She turned around, then—and rested her hand on the hilt. "Lord Potter, you can ask the Duchess of Lancaster yourself if you like, as to what she pleases to do with her family; that's where we're headed, now. The motorcade is waiting outside."

"Hermione … What did she just call me?"

"Dumbledore never explained to you a lot of things about your father," Hermione admitted.

And then Larissa arrived, her arm on Draco's, with the both of them in uniform. When Harry spied them, his face was shocked for a moment, as he clearly recognised the woman introduced as Hermione's friend in that terrible strange night before. And, of course, he recognised Draco, too.

"You!"

Draco and Larissa turned to face him. In his dress uniform, Draco had his medals on his chest. Twice Hero.

There were many men who saluted him for that, whether or not military protocol strictly called for a salute.

"Lord Potter, I do owe you an apology, but nor have I any right to detain you when you're due for a meeting with the Duchess of Lancaster. And, my fiancee is ill, and I'm taking her somewhere to rest." This was not the Draco of six years before. He had gained a confidence and a graciousness which he had never had at Hogwarts, and gained it by facing his fears in war.

"But, you served Him…"

For a pregnant moment, there was silence, before Larissa, in frustration, pointed to Draco's chest. "A man with these doesn't need to explain anything," she said, and tugged him away.

Poor Harry. He didn't understand the context. He was still trying to frantically understand what was going on around him. And Hermione was genuinely a bit upset, because she thought the entire encounter was staged by Daphne and Draco, and Larissa had gone right along with it! But a moment later, she had to admit it was clever. Harry needed to have his viewpoints, the viewpoints of the world of six years ago, challenged before they led him into making decisions in the world of 2004. And that had to happen quickly.

So Hermione stepped up to cover for him. "Harry," she began, and waved at Daphne, trying to get her to resume walking. "Draco was decorated twice, for extreme bravery in the face of the enemy—in the face of the Morsmordre. And, if he was ever captured, he would face a fate worse than death, but he has nonetheless been on the front this entire time."

"Eh." Ron interjected. "I've got them too, but I don't wear them. Come on, Hermione. Harry ..."

Andromeda gently cleared her throat. "We really do need to go."

Daphne escorted them out with a troop of guards to the street. There, a line of limousines and armoured cars was waiting, with little Union Jacks fixed to flutter on each side of the bonnet on the former.

After an exchange of salutes, Hermione sank down into one of the limos with Harry and Ron. She leaned in close. "Harry, I have to ask—do you know how to address a Duchess?"

"Uhh… No?" His wide eyes looked like he was just dealing with one more shocking thing.

"His Majesty made Narcissa Duchess Narcissa, the Duchess of Lancaster," Hermione explained. "She should be addressed as 'Your Grace'."

Ron grimaced. "She's not wrong."

"So she's really in charge?" Harry looked thoughtful. "You said she betrayed Voldemort, the Malfoys did, to save Draco?"

"Yes."

Hermione felt like a stranger in a strange land. For six years her best friend had been dead. Then he was alive—he was speaking like he was still in 1998, like the past six years had not happened. But those six years had changed Hermione irrevocably. They had reordered all that she was. Ron might not like it, but he had internalised the idea that Narcissa Malfoy was leading the British resistance to Voldemort.

Harry could see the damage in the city. He changed the subject. "What happened? Was it like the Blitz?"

"Voldemort raised a horde of Inferi to punish the people of London for betraying him, among other things," Ron explained. Hermione felt too exhausted by the memories of that terrible day to actually speak about them.

"..In the city." Harry's jaw clenched, and his eyes wet with tears.

Hermione reached out and squeezed his shoulder hard. "We'll stop him. That's all that matters now. Don't fucking blame yourself for this. Tom Riddle chose to do this decades ago, it all flows from that, there's nobody else at fault."

Harry, grew silent and calmed again, looking at the ongoing repairs, surprised at the Goblins who were using magic to rebuild several bridges, and the profusion of patriotic banners which covered the city.

At last, they began to proceed through the security cordons. Hermione could still read Harry's face pretty well; when they arrived at No.10 Downing Street, it certainly looked like he still felt like he was about to face a Malfoy, a haughty pureblood.

And from one point of view, he was not wrong. Hermione knew what she was marrying into. They were screened through security, and the rest of the party was taken aside. Ron looked like he wanted to speak up, then and there, but there were two Aurors, now openly dressed in uniforms based on the Metropolitan Police, who refused. Harry was brought in to meet the Prime Minister, alone.

The Boy Who Lived. Narcissa had come to the conclusion that being the subject of a prophecy such as that was one of the most luckless fates imaginable. She still did not understand the precise working of the prophecy—it was brutally contradictory, as most prophecies were—but from her own point of view, had to assume that there was an element of predestination in it.

It was dangerous to fight the power of the Gods, and it usually brought you to where they wanted you to go, in the end. All of Voldemort's efforts had just brought him to this point.

"Your Grace," he offered with a slight bow.

"Please, sit," Narcissa addressed Harry in response to his presentation, from her place at the Cabinet room table, looking up from her papers of state. "Tea?"

"Uh, please." Harry took one more look and shuffled to the seat which a tap of Narcissa's wand had sent scooting back for him. Another wave of her wand in the air, and the teapot floated over and filled a cup for him.

"Lord Potter…"

There was a flash from his eyes. "Why do people keep calling me that ? Daphne Greengrass, Draco, and now You. Misses—Your Grace," he hastily corrected. "Did someone go and make me a Lord while I was… Dead?"

"No, you've been a Lord since the day your father died," Narcissa answered plainly, knowing very well that either she would manage this to create some measure of loyalty in Harry, or else the entire situation would become hopelessly problematic. "He was a Lord Magical, of the Wizengamot. Not all Pureblood families are, but the Potters were perfectly prestigious. Such seats are inherited whether or not you are Pureblood. His decision to take Lily Evans as his wife was exceptional, but it did not disinherit his children from the Wizengamot. You are, in fact, a Lord."

Harry rocked back and stared at her. He seemed very disquieted, disoriented, but he had been alive again for only a day now, and that was, Narcissa supposed, to be expected. She picked up her own cup of tea. "Lord Potter, it's my intent to make you a deal, to offer you something in exchange for your support. My intention is to help you to understand that this is in your best interest, by providing you with information. First, Dumbledore did not explain to you that you would have a right to take up a seat in the Wizengamot when you came of voting majority—which is not the same as legal adulthood in the Wizarding World, but twenty-five, as it was in Roman times for the Senate. He did not because, I believe, he disagreed with many of the ethics of our society."

"And he was right about that," Harry interjected. He was not unthoughtful, and not too shocked to answer her.

"Perhaps he was, but he participated in those organisations himself." In fact, Narcissa believed Dumbledore's intent was more malicious than that. But pushing hard against Harry's memory of Dumbledore was unlikely to be productive. "I would ask you to do the same, so that you can speak to your interests in our society. I value a multiplicity of voices, I…"

"Have you made yourself a dictator?" He asked, bluntly. It was clear he was looking for something to focus on, something to believe about the situation. It would be Narcissa's chance to reach him, and she wouldn't have another.

"Certainly not. I command a majority in Parliament. I will be the Prime Minister until the day I no longer do so. Not a day longer." There was certainly no need for Potter to understand the full details of the plan. Narcissa wasn't lying to him, oh no, but she was omitting the fact that she planned to engineer Britain's equivalent to the Liberal Democratic Party in post-war Japan."I have no interest in upsetting the fundamental constitutional order of the Realm, and my government is extremely popular, which I do advise you to take some time to think about. However, I have committed to making a government which works for all Britons, and that includes yourself."

"What's government without justice?" Harry's eyes blazed. "You say you uphold the customs of Parliament and the laws of the Realm, but I understand you pardoned Bellatrix Lestrange. What kind of leader puts her sister before the law? Certainly not Dumbledore, certainly not one I'd follow."

Narcissa stared at him for a moment, and smiled very faintly. "I'd counter that, Lord Potter, and ask who can trust a leader who does first look after her family? What Briton, liberated from Voldemort's rule and wondering if the future will be worse than the future their grandparents enjoyed, would trust me to look after their families if I do not look after my own? Bellatrix, it is true, committed crimes—and she acknowledged that by accepting the Royal Pardon. She has not once protested her innocence. My sister takes full responsibility for what she did, and her pardon is justified by the acts of great personal danger that she willingly undertook to turn the tide of the war against Voldemort, upon her defection. Even now she every day exposes herself to fire, and leads from the front in the Spanish campaign. The entire concept of a pardon is part of the heritage of our laws precisely for someone whose conduct is like her's."

"And nobody will ever be held accountable for Sirius' death!" He looked so flustered. "He's your cousin. Doesn't that matter for anything?"

"Nobody will ever be held account, Lord Potter, for the fourteen years in which my sister was tortured into madness and right up to the edge of death," Narcissa let her own voice rise, but then set her tea down, pushed her chair back, and rose before the fireplace. "She was a lunatic when she killed Sirius. The Dementors had consumed everything good and healthy in her mind. Of course it took years for her to be able to approach sanity again. And Sirius hated her, bitterly; it was not an unexpected outcome. Two people of diminished capacity, carrying on a petty grudge against each other to savage ends. Come. Let's try to understand each other. I have something to share with you, and it's not something I'd just share with anyone. And, in return, I will let you show something to me."

"I don't understand…"

Narcissa took three steps, and tossed a cover off what had looked like a giant globe, but was revealed to be a Pensieve. "Harry, if I may, it's a simple proposition. You can show me what you saw and felt when my cousin died. And I can show you what I saw, and felt, on the night that my sister returned to me after her escape from Azkaban. No claims, no assertions. The real memories, themselves."

She stepped forward to the Pensieve, and raised her wand. Swirled out the silver strands of memory into the waiting pool, her eyes gleaming with dark, intense emotion. She had made a calculated decision, to win Potter over with truth. But it would hurt, and only her iron discipline held that in. It hurt, to remember that wonderful and horrible night.

And Harry stepped forward, and Saw.

He saw the tiny, waif-like figure, frozen, her muscles in a rictus, huddled like a child against Voldemort, with the masses of her tangled and ratted black hair cascading down, with streaks of white from the brutal stress of the years, long before her time as a witch. He could feel the confidence in Narcissa's memory, that she had everything ready in the Manor to receive and heal the guests, the escapees from Azkaban, turning into horror as she stared at her sister's condition, at a woman whose bones seemed to be coming out of her pallid, sallow skin.

"Bella," Narcissa whispered in that memory, her heart aching in horror. The Dark Lord was giving orders, commanding that she be given food and medicine and rest, and announcing that he was going for the others. She had done so much to prepare herself for this, to prepare herself for 'bad', but she had no idea of what this horror would be. Her sister, familiar, and yet forever different.

Taking her from the Dark Lord's arms, she was as cold as ice to the touch. Only the evil magic of the Dementors and of Azkaban, feeding on her for so long, had kept her life. The smell upon her was unimaginable. Her eyes bulged from her skull, like she were some monstrous raised corpse rather than her living sister.

Narcissa's eyes were filled with tears as she smoothed down Bella's hair in a fitful and futile effort, embracing her tightly, against a limp Bella who did nothing. "Prepare the bath, mildly hot only," she instructed to the house elves, who bustled around in horror and tried to prepare things for Mistress Bella as best as they could. She had to assume that Bellatrix had not experienced heat in fourteen years, and that anything other than the mildest touch of hot water would be excruciating to her.

Taking her to the bath, Narcissa vanished her prison garb, wishing nothing more than its utter destruction; and washed her sister, herself, with tears continuously falling from her eyes. The scourgifying and the untangling spells for the hair combined with the bath, the oil, the soap, the water. Again and again. Narcissa soiled her own clothes, but spared nothing, she cleaned Bellatrix everywhere, she made sure of everything, shifting her with the utmost delicacy. Healing potions were dropped in the water, and finally it brought Bella forth from the emotions that she had been feeling, the way she had been frozen in place.

"Cissy…" It was a hoarse whisper so awful it scarcely seemed like it could belong to the proud, brilliant, brave, impetuous eldest sister of the House of Black.

"You're in the Malfoy Manor now, Bella. Tonight is your night, I will be strong for you," Narcissa instructed firmly, and meant it with every fibre of her being. She was aghast and horrified at what she was seeing. She could not fathom the civilisation that she lived in, which had put her sister through this. It was the first moment where she regretted the course that her husband had launched her son down, and she would never stop regretting it subsequently. Narcissa answered her sister's questions, finished bathing her, then drained the tub, filled it again, and this time with soothing oils and calming potions. A very small cup of tea was brought for Bellatrix, and she helped her sister to sip it in the tub. Bellatrix expressed no happiness and no pleasure at it. Only thoughts of revenge brought forth a mad cackle. She expressed no happiness or pleasure. Those emotions had been stripped from her by the Dementors.

Warm and simple food would follow, and with it, potion after potion, spell after spell. Restoring Bellatrix to a desperate simulcra of her previous life, with horror and fear and love for her sister, the ghost-like figure who had lurched from Azkaban, with a blank madness in her soul.

She did everything she could, but was everything she could good enough? She saw the hollow, blank way that her sister spoke. Her mind flashed through memories of happy scenes of three girls playing in the old woods before Ancient House. Went back to staring at this rag-and-bones woman before her, who only partially healed no matter how much magic was applied. Who could not seem to muster happiness in response to anything.

Fourteen years, with every positive emotion destroyed by the Dementors, slowly starving and dying by inches, but never quite being allowed to go, between the magic and the indifferent slop shoved into the bars, never enough to sate, just enough to keep you alive, when the Dementors left you too listless and depressed to even kill yourself…

Who could call that justice?

As the memory faded away, Harry stared at her, with his own look one of blank horror. The very emotions of the moment had been brought into the Pensieve, and they had both felt them again. He swallowed. "How can you stay calm?"

"Because I have saved her from ever facing that again. I've saved my son. I've restored my family. Even if they die, they won't die alone, and forgotten, in the hands of Dementors. We destroyed Azkaban, with enchanted nuclear weapons. I have no regrets about that, and I never will."

"I haven't a wand for sharing my own memories," Harry at last observed, pointedly. "And Voldemort, I assume, has the Elder Wand." He moved to sit back down, silent, introspective, one could tell from his skin he was in a kind of shock. "I can't imagine how Hermione has dealt with her, after her torture. You witnessed that, and you did nothing."

"One can't stop my sister when she's like that," Narcissa answered. "But it was a failure, and I wouldn't blame Hermione if she hated me for it, but she doesn't."

"Then what will stop her from doing it again? Did Hermione tell you that she doesn't hate you? She's often too decent to admit such things. She tries to see the best in the world, and fight to make it better."

"Hermione will stop her, mostly," Narcissa said calmly. "In fact, Hermione has been Bella's Chief of Staff for nearly the past two years—her right hand woman, if you will."

Harry froze. "I don't believe you. Bring her in, I want to hear it from her herself, if it's true."

"Of course, Lord Potter." The room was sealed, so Narcissa went to get Hermione herself.

Hermione, with her skin a sharp and dark summer brown, darker freckles across a face made long and thin by the hardships of the years, eyes sallow and ringed brown, her hair a curled, frizzy mess that defiantly resisted every attempt at a bun. Sitting there looking awful, and like she might just curl up into a ball and sleep anyway.

"If you would come with me, Hermione?"

"And what about me?" Ron interjected, as Hermione blearily rose without even answering.

"One thing at a time, Colonel Weasley," Narcissa answered, keeping her voice level and calm, and ushered her someday-to-be (Gods blessing them) sister in law back into the Cabinet Room. Pulled out a chair for her, and insisted on putting tea in front of her. Narcissa herself felt fragile at the moment, living through the memories of that night again. Like she wanted to care for her relatives all the more.

Bellatrix had already keyed Hermione into the wards at Ancient House, so that meant Hermione.

"Hi, Harry. How … Uhm, what have you talked about?"

"Narcissa showed me the, uhm, night that Bellatrix came back from Azkaban. She said… She claimed that you worked with Bellatrix, as her Chief of Staff. Is it true? I could scarcely believe it."

Narcissa watched as Hermione closed her eyes, took a breath, and breathed in over the tea, probably trying to desperately steady her mind.

"Harry," Hermione began. "Bellatrix defected almost two years ago. At the time I was reading a book—Machiavelli's Art of War." She got a crack of a knowing grin out of Harry, making him remember his friend as the Essential Bookworm that she was. "Anyway, it contained advice that… Basically say that even though they will always be hated by both their former allies and by your own side, that it was still best practice to always encourage defections from the enemy, because defections strengthened your side at the same time it weakened their's, whereas just inflicting defeats on the enemy only weakened them. And we were very weak. The Morsmordre was close to overrunning all of European Russia, and in most sectors of the front had penetrated further than Hitler did. So I followed the advice. There was historical precedent for it, too. I argued, very hard, that we needed to pardon Bellatrix and wholeheartedly permit her to retain command of her forces to counterattack the Morsmordre. We arranged a safe place for her daughter. And… I participated in the infiltration operation where she engineered the Army in the Crimea also defecting. I've fought at her side ever since, in two dozen battles, across thousands of kilometres. And I love her, and she loves me." Hermione hastily held up her hand. "Please, please, don't fight with me on this. I'm a lesbian, I left Ron for that reason, you could probably tell how far apart we've grown. Bellatrix – I can't explain it, Harry. But I've forgiven her. I've fallen for her. I've made a mess of any kind of respect you could have for me, I guess," she wiped at her eyes. "But please understand—she doesn't hurt me. She has healed so much from what she experienced in Azkaban, from what she experienced when Voldemort controlled and used her. And she makes no excuses and attempts nothing to mitigate how people think of her, except for real deeds, on the front, liberating people, fighting to defeat the forces of the Morsmordre. Hate her, fuck, hate me, but work with her. We can do so much this way. Narcissa and Bellatrix and Andromeda, they liberated Britain, they've freed tens of millions of people from slavery under the Morsmordre now."

Harry groaned softly, and sank down in his chair. "I… What is this world?"

"The one we're in, Lord Potter," Narcissa offered, rising, and stepping to his side, feeling real sympathy for him, like she might have for Draco in the same place. "And sometimes, and I think this is Hermione's real lesson and she's very wise for it, you cannot make sense of it, and you cannot understand what has happened. You have just got to pick yourself up, say: 'I am here, let's make the best of it,' and then carry on. And Bellatrix has done that, and Hermione has done that, and I have done that. And it's what open to you. I expect nothing of you. You live in a country where the government will speak of this war as a collective national accomplishment. It will not be laid on you, to live with the burden of solitary heroism for the rest of your life. You have the opportunity, now and forever, to simply live and make your own life. But we still need to defeat Voldemort." She put her hands on his shoulders. "Can you hold yourself together for me?"

There was a knocking on the door. Narcissa stiffened. She had instructed that she was not to be disturbed under any circumstance whatsoever. That meant it was very serious indeed.

Hermione nodded to her, wordlessly, and got up on her own, forcing herself up to the door, and exchanging a salute with whomever was on the other side, then turning back, she held a piece of paper, a dispatch. Her expression was as cold as hell. "Narcissa, we've run out of time. Voldemort has launched his attack on Lake Van, and he's augmenting the front-line troops with a horde of Inferi." Then she looked to Harry. "Harry, we've run out of time. We need to finish explaining what needs to happen, and we need to get ready to fight. Please stand with me, despite everything, despite how much like a fever dream this may seem. You can do whatever you want when it's done. But now-now, we've got to finally stop Voldemort."

They had been under heavy attack for two hours now. The massed enemy artillery was cascading down along the front positions, which they had pulled back all except light pickets around machine-gun nests from, to avoid having their troops decimated in the barrage. Confusing messages travelled from unit to unit down the front, reporting horrifying and new developments presaged by those in London, of masses of Inferi advancing in front of the Morsmordre troops. A horrifying tidal-wave of the dead had flung themselves forward, pinning the defenders until picked teams of Morsmordre troops had stormed their positions. Massed artillery had inflicted shock damage on units at the front, and then the dead had swarmed over them before they could reestablish their forward positions. It was like they were fighting a surging horde of Hell.

And it was in this atmosphere of confusion, of uncertainty, and of outright fear that was spreading all along the front, that Alexandra Lukachenko reported to General Pronichev's headquarters, exactly as ordered. The artillery was hammering close to them, and she ducked down, threw herself into the dirt, while the wizard escorting her snapped a quick Protego to help cover the post, as a salvo of heavy rounds from one enemy battery fell amidst the dirt and rock of the slopes nearby, the concussions, the shockwaves in the air, hammering her into the dirt despite her shield. The mountain and the lake on their left flank, and hell on their right. Supporting units directly on the lake to the left, and higher up in the mountains to the right, both collapsing…

She pushed herself to her feet, already dusty and dirty, and dashed forward the last distance down into the partial dugout, covered with camouflage netting. A line of aeroplanes screamed over ahead at low altitude. Worried and urgent voices shouted:

"Are they our's!?"

"Are they our's!?"

"They're our's!"

She left the ragged cheer behind and descended to Pronichev's headquarters, saluting as she arrived. "Sir."

"Alexandra Rostislavna," he answered, gesturing to a place by the map. General Osminin was leaning over it already, smoke curling from a cigarette clenched between two of his fingers, his face in a sharp mask of concentrating as he measured some distance on the map.

"Sir," she acknowledged, and stepped over.

"We are going to need your wizards ready for the counterattack, and soon. The front is collapsing. The enemy has raised half the dead in Anatolia against us, it's," Pronichev trailed off and shook his head. "It's the fucking apocalypse," he finished at last, and shook his head once.

She stared. "..And, we're attacking?"

"Yes." Osminin looked up, shaking his head. "We've still got the nukes at the ready. And we've got a large stockpile of gas, also."

"The front is broken on both flanks, but we have a plan. Our only objective is to defend Ararat, and the lake is close by to the east. If we can front the ridge at Gültepe east of the D959 highway, we can cut the enemy off at Altinova, and then fall back on the lake. The 16th Mongolian Division is holding Tatvan, and they won't try to retreat, if we counterattack. As long as they hold the port, and we link up to them with this attack, then, we can be resupplied, and we will keep the enemy off the coast of the lake around Ararat. Apparation, Floo network, aerial resupply, naval resupply over the lake—we'll have it all. We can hold on long enough for a major counter-offensive. And if we don't, well, my instructions are clear, we must die if it's to keep Voldemort away from Ararat. So, I'm going to need you to execute a breakthrough assault with wizards leading special assault platoons across the entire front, in a chemical and radiological environment, is this understood, Colonel? We will be pushing forward on a broad front to take Altinova, and establish our western defensive positions in the volcanic domes southeast of Budakli."

She saluted, informally, looking up from the map after tracing the towns he had indicated, seeing the sense of the attack across the topography, and offered him a wry smile. They were both students of history, and she knew he would appreciate the reference. "Mon centre cède, ma droite recule, situation excellente, j'attaque."

Pronichev laughed, and grinned broadly. "That's just it. You have thirty minutes, Colonel. Then we'll launch the nukes, and begin the counterattack. You can be have your wizards in position for that by then, can't you?"

"Of course, Sir. By your leave?"

"Granted." A pause. "Colonel. There has been a defining moment in each of the Great Wars that we have fought for our Motherland. Tell your soldiers, Borodino, Kursk-Van. They should fight accordingly."

So, if any one of us is alive in twenty-four hours, it will be God's own miracle. Alexandra didn't need any more information to know that the attack had a high chance of failure and was essentially a suicide mission for an entire corps. But that was what the situation called for, and so they were going to do it, God help them all. Last time, it was like a mock execution. Now it's the real thing. She saluted. There was nothing left to say. They were all veterans, and she knew her troops—the same. They would understand the stakes.

We attack.

Notes:

The quote:

Mon centre cède, ma droite recule, situation excellente, j'attaque.

Russian:

Мой центр сгибается под напором противника, мой правый фланг отступает, ситуация блестящая. Я атакую.

English:

My centre is giving way, my right is retreating, excellent situation, I am attacking.

A dispatch from Foch to Joffre, at the First Marne.