Peace
Bellatrix at War, once more unto the breach. Her headquarters was at Saint-Nazaire at the coast, while thirty-one miles away as the Jackdaw flew, her troops were in heavy combat in the heart of the City of Nantes, trying to regain the city that, after hard fighting over almost two months, the Morsmordre had wrested from them in the wake of the Inferi assault on London.
Of course, the Morsmordre didn't really exist as such anymore. Tom Riddle was dead. Bellatrix looked at the picture, on her desk, of Hermione holding Delphini at Ancient House. It had just arrived a week ago, and it showed her fiancee with her daughter wrapped around her shoulders, chasing butterflies in the garden, Hermione in her uniform as a Major General, freshly back from London and some meeting of her commission.
Tom Riddle's biological daughter. The Heir of Slytherin. Happily being carried around by her second mother, a muggleborn. Bella smiled, thinking that her lover was a very special muggleborn indeed.
Unfortunately, for all that the great threat in the war was gone, the war wasn't over. Wars had a habit of not ending when you wanted them to, and that was very true for Bellatrix, Narcissa, all of Britain, Russia, everyone in their coalition. Desperate Warlords held sway over half of Europe, fighting with the Coalition and, fortunately, sometimes with each other.
The massive offensive that the CIS armed forces had launched one month before was promising much, however. The enemy had been expelled from all of the Russian lands within the first two weeks, where they had until then still held positions in Bryansk, Smolensk and Pskov oblasts. A week ago, after three years of occupation, Minsk had been liberated from the enemy.
Morsmordre resistance had crumbled at that point, and the Russian Armies were now converging on Brest, as they drove on toward the Vistula. In the south, Vinnytsia and other cities in the western Ukraine had already been liberated as well, and Lvov would surely fall to Coalition troops not long after Brest.
There was a light at the end of the tunnel. Bellatrix just had to duplicate that success, in miniature. She had been created warmly in Brittany, perhaps as warmly as anywhere; the small country, saved from reincorporation into France by Narcissa, regarded the Black family about as highly as anyone could. Turning goodwill into military success over the past six weeks, however, had been harder.
The real problem was that a mass mobilisation of troops that had not originally been Morsmordre troops and their sorcerous bonds undone, or else, simply had defected, was taking time. Narcissa had started recruiting and training en masse at the beginning of May. The surge of troops took ninety days to train; now, in late August, the very first of those units, more motivated by patriotic fervour, had arrived at the front in Brittany. Before that point, the fight to retake Nantes had been a slow grind.
The Flag of Brittany, now as it should be a fundamentally British flag, flew with the Union Jack over Bellatrix's headquarters. Bellatrix couldn't help but pleased at the whole affair. Her sister had not contented herself with small works. Cissy really is the finest of us.
It was a comfortable feeling, that she was no longer so testy about her status, so wounded, that she couldn't think like that. Now, she was going to retire from this life of War… And she was remarkably content with that.
One of her staff officers stepped in, up to her desk, and saluted. "Lady Black, compliments from General Pellan. The Third Breizh Division, 124th Infantry Regiment, has raised it standard over the Château des ducs de Bretagne. The enemy appears to be falling back quite precipitously. It may be no exaggeration, M'Lady, to say that we have regained Nantes."
Bellatrix bounded to her feet, her eyes alight. One more time, one more time… For a moment, she was torn between the image on her desk, and the lure of combat. One represented the future and one represented her ancient history. But, they hadn't run out of history quite yet. The officer turned away to warn her staff; she slipped her wand out, and with a crack, disapparated, and delivered herself unto the heart of Nantes, the visage of the palace-lined old stone fortress clear-set in her head.
The snap of arriving by apparation. The sounds around her of combat pressing in at once, the usual din—wait, no, it's desultory—her mind immediately classified it, long experience telling her the combat had already died down. That was unusual, for it would be most common for fierce fighting to continue even after a symbolic moment such as this.
The Château des ducs de Bretagne was a ruin. It had been heavily damaged by a nuclear bomb that had struck Nantes, years ago, and now it had served as a natural strongpoint in the midst of the hard urban fighting over the past months. Still it stood, shattered and pockmarked castle-walls and burnt out palace buildings standing above a flattened city, and now the black-and-white flag of Brittany flew above it.
Ahead and around, her troops had been pushing their way up to the River Loire, and in places east of the city, trying to get across. But, she could hear it and be sure, the fighting was definitely falling off.
Bellatrix had beaten the General's own staff to the Chateau, and set about quickly reviewing the defenders and supervising the act of getting some infantry companies flung out on the flanks in preparation for a push toward the Metropole, closer to the river.
General Pellan arrived a few minutes later, swinging out of his staff car to salute Bellatrix. She expected her commanding officers to lead from as close to the front as was practical (she always had), and he had delivered. "M'Lady! I should have expected to see you here, Ma'am."
Bellatrix waved the formality off with an idle gesture of a gloved hand. "I apparated in straightaway on getting the news. But the fighting is dying down, when I was expecting a hard slog for another four blocks at least."
"Well, Your Ladyship, I've gotten word that a party under truce is crossing the Pont Aristide Briand."
"So, down Avenue Carnot?"
"Yes, Your Ladyship."
Bellatrix slipped her wand out, and shrugged. "It won't hurt to see what they have to say," she remarked, and started off. Quickly, the better part of a platoon was made to fall in. Indeed, soon enough, she could see the truce party approaching down the broad avenue.
In front of the Metropole, they stood a hundred paces apart. Bellatrix had one of General Pellan's staff acknowledge the flag of truce with their own.
"Come closer! This is Field Marshal Lady Black, in person."
"General Gauthier, Your Ladyship," the man leading the party approached.
"Commander of the twenty-sixth Janissary Division, I understand?"
They looked across a strange gulf. Once he had been on the same side that she had been, after all. But it had scarcely mattered then, since he was a muggle and she was not. "It's so," he acknowledged. "M'lady, I will be plain with you. There has been a disturbance in Paris."
Bellatrix snorted laughter, and managed to control herself, somehow, she wasn't sure, without cackling. "I am supposed to be concerned for this? It seems in our respective positions, General, I should only say, 'Vive l'Resistance'."
He stiffened, held his hands behind his back at parade rest, and stared at her. "It is not a human uprising, M'lady. If it was, I assure you, that my division would join it immediately, as it has eliminated the remaining Council of Death Eaters in Paris. It is a Veela uprising."
"A Veela uprising." To Bella's old world, that was something of an apocalyptic nightmare. "You want a truce so you can pull your troops off the line and return to Paris to suppress the uprising, don't you?"
He nodded his head in acknowledgment, as they stood in a now silent portion of the ruined city. "You are correct, M'lady."
Hmm. She might well have agreed—once. The person who was here in command for the Coalition, however, was inherently not the person she had been 'once'. A thin smile was offered in return, nothing more. "General, I don't have the authority to grant that to you," she lied politely. "I can give you only a truce of two hours, so that I can consult with the Government of Britain, and return to you my answer."
"I cannot afford to wait long, Your Ladyship."
"Two hours," Bellatrix repeated. "I can offer no better, General."
With an expression that for the moment seemed distressed, he paused, and then nodded once. "Two hours. We will issue the order immediately." And the guns, for the moment, would fall silent at Nantes, waiting.
Hermione had settled down to a comfortable routine over the past few weeks. Meet in long hours with the Commission, reviewing the boundaries for South Africa (she had been there on a three week junket in person). On Tuesdays, have dinner in the evening with Narcissa at 10 Downing Street. Go home each night to Delphini, and in the mornings make sure that she was taken to Malfoy Manor for Draco and Larissa to care for her (with a tutor that Hermione had arranged, to try and catch up on her patchy education), before Flooing back to central London to resume her meetings. Thursdays, play hostess (really it was the House Elves) to Draco and Larissa for dinner at Ancient House. Saturdays, meet with the locals around Ancient House, to discuss the progress at putting the land back into cultivation. Sundays, hold a small ceremony to the Family Gods in the morning with Narcissa and Andromeda, when they could actually show up, then have brunch with them, while they all dotted on Delphini together. Then spend Sunday afternoon getting some alone-time with Delphini.
Monday morning, wake up and head straight back to the Commission. She even had a Secretary now, who probably deeply appreciated Hermione's highly organised and structured routine. Or so Hermione wanted to convince herself, anyway. She might be in uniform for all of her work, but it was in an office now, and with the war against Voldemort won, this was starting to feel strangely normal, just a hint like the career she had actually imagined for herself, before the war.
This routine was rather violently jarred by the arrival of her secretary in the middle of a meeting, telling her that she had received a call, instructing Hermione to report to 10 Downing Street immediately. Hermione called the meeting short, a feeling of dread clutching at her heart. She was worried about Bellatrix, of course; the woman could not be prevented from leading close to the front. Not now, not now, not after all this…
Hermione apparated straightaway to the entrance to 10 Downing Street, and there was checked and passed through security to enter the compound that had been established around the Prime Minister's residence, considering the threats and exigencies of wartime. But, Hermione was one of those people who kept their wand, when meeting with the Duchess of Lancaster.
"General," Narcissa observed when Hermione arrived. "I was initially going to convene COBRA to deal with this, but I wanted to hear your thoughts, first. Please, sit."
Hermione, hat under her left arm, did so, managing not to ask immediately about Bellatrix. Narcissa allowed the indulgence of pouring Hermione tea on her own.
"How much do you know about Veela politics?"
"They tend to be inherently communal, and don't have a clear concept of private property like humans do… ...I had thought this had something to do with Bellatrix," she acknowledged sheepishly. "But it's with… Veela, instead?"
"We have received confirmation, Hermione," Narcissa answered, oh-so-matter-of-factly switching to a more informal tone (they were mostly alone), "that they have seized control of Paris. Indeed, Bellatrix received a deputation from the Janissary forces she has been fighting, saying the Death Eater Council in Paris was overthrown, and that they wanted a truce, to pull off of the line and march on the city to fight the Veela. She referred it to me for a decision on whether or not to agree to such a truce. And I wish your knowledge and input in the matter, because of your interest in the affairs and regulation of Magical Creatures."
Hermione rocked back. It was obvious why she had been brought in. What was happening was unprecedented. "The Veela haven't interacted with human polities in thousands of years. They keep to their communities in the Pyrenees. Of course, Voldemort's pogroms against them created a situation where they must have felt differently. Most had to move east, into hiding in the Midi and the Alps. They probably struck from that direction. And while he's our ally, I doubt they feel comfortable about General Diaz's regime, either. It's the kind of compromise that you have to make in war, but…" She brushed over the fact, of course, that she considered General Diaz a friend. Still did, even saying that. Sometimes, in War, you ended up with friends you would not bother to have in peace, and they might be faster and tighter than any friends in peace, even how different that they were; after all, they had suffered and risked life with you. But this was a matter of statecraft and she had to set that aside, regardless.
"It's not ideal from a certain standpoint," Narcissa agreed.
Hermione raised her tea. She felt a certain thrill. Right now, she was being counted as a trusted adviser for the geopolitical decisions that would influence the future of the world. And her position was clear. "Give them terms of surrender, where we agree not to hand them over, except on certain guarantees from the Veela government. But, refuse their request. In fact, let's show the Goblins we're following a consistent policy, not an ad-hoc improvisation in the middle of the War. Let's show all the Magical Creatures in the world that we're serious about this. If we're going to recognise General Diaz's Junta in Spain, we should recognise a French state ruled by the Veela. They've been French for longer than the French have, Your Grace. They don't think exactly the same way humans do, and that's a good thing. But, we can certainly come to a fair agreement with them. And, if anything, I doubt the Veela care if Brittany is British."
"Mmn, indeed, you are likely right. I had been preparing to propose a partition of Belgium—the region is in a state of anarchy with Brussels destroyed, now—between the Netherlands and France, as a way of compensating the French government. But while a gift of Wallonia and French weakness may avoid the problem for a few generations, there would be a historical resentment that would linger that we took advantage of their weakness. That would certainly be less with a Veela government. Do you feel there are any corresponding problems elsewhere?"
"Veela prefer mountain settlements. From my last intelligence briefing on the subject, some of them have settled across the border, in the French zones of Switzerland. They may draw the borders to incorporate those cantons, though without an extant Swiss central government I'm not sure there would be substantial resistance. Assuming, of course, they even see it that way. Veela do not organise governments like humans. They may negotiate a zone of protection for themselves and allow it to function mostly autonomously, with separate governments in different places, and just intervene to prevent civil violence."
"Well, you have me convinced. Thank you." Narcissa smiled, a small, but contented smile. "Since I have already ruined your course of meetings for the day, please take the international portkey to Brest and get to Bella's headquarters as quickly as possible. You can tell her yourself."
Hermione finished her tea, rose, and saluted. She couldn't help a little bit of a glint of a grin. "Of course, Your Grace."
Ruined buildings, radiation detectors making their angry noises (but not angry enough to worry about), fire on the skyline. Once more, a reminder of the utter ruination of most of the world. Hermione saw wagons being hauled by Percherons bringing up supplies of food for the troops—Brittany had been hit rather harder than Britain. They mingled with the Army trucks, and Hermione was distracted for a minute, by the old weathered draymen, who spoke Brezhoneg.
She shook her head, for once able to stop and appreciate all of the world in which she now lived. Then she pressed on, apparating twice and following directions, mindful of the time limit her mission was set on, shaking off the effects of the Floo and Portkey being taken at the rush, and presented herself at the ruined fortress in the heart of Nantes, with the Kroaz Du floating over the remains, side by side with the Union Jack.
Bellatrix had established her temporary command post in the mostly-intact Gatehouse. She looked up, heatedly, from a map on a rudimentary desk, and her expression abruptly softened. A grin touched her lips. "Cissy sent you from London?"
"She did."
"Gods. I thought we were going to run out of time without an answer. What is it?"
"We won't support them. Narcissa is already reaching out to Paris, to support the Veela government. We are going to grant them recognition." Hermione was a little darkly curious about how Bellatrix would respond to this, to the reality of this world where the old assumptions of British pureblood society no longer mattered.
"We continue the war, then."
"Hopefully not," Hermione replied. "Though, to be honest, at this point, mercy is a tough sale; we will be extending terms, including that they will not be handed over to the Veela government without guarantees on conduct. I think they don't really appreciate how the Veela will conduct themselves, but…"
"It's hard to believe that we're going to just… Let the Veela run France," Bellatrix admitted. "But, if Cissy believes that's what's best for Britain, it is."
"I also believe it's what's best for Britain," Hermione shook her head and laughed. "What does that make it?"
"Interesting," Bellatrix answered, and laughing, rose. "Come on, though I feel somewhat bad for General Gauthier."
They met at the same place for the second round of truce talks. The guns had fallen silent, now, in the entire area. It was a hopeful sound, and Hermione hoped that they would stay that way. She wondered if Bellatrix did, considering this would, if the Gods were kind, be the last time she fought, and Hermione knew her fiancee was the sort of person for whom that was not necessarily a blessing.
Flags of truce, and small parties of twelve each, standing in the boulevard on the north bank of the Loire, while cinders from burning ruins of buildings fluttered down with a false gentleness from the sky above. Hermione, with a ceremonial sword (it felt so ridiculous) still at her side, was marked as a rear-echelon officer now, who had just arrived, rather than Bella's prototypical dragonskin armoured corset and lackadaisical approach to uniform regulation.
But that meant someone really had come from London.
"General Gauthier," Bellatrix greeted him. "I have an answer to your request."
"By all means, M'lady."
"We refuse. It is the decision of His Majesty's Government to recognise the Veela commission now in power in Paris."
Gauthier looked to them. Shook his head slowly. "You condemn France to subordination below an alien race, unless I can somehow fight both you and the Veela at once. And I promise, Lady Black, that I will try, unto my last dying breath."
"You don't need to," Hermione spoke up. "They are not alien to your country."
Bellatrix gently raised a gloved hand, and Hermione fell silent. "Speaking frankly, General, you don't deserve this, but we will extend to you terms of surrender that include protection from being handed over to the Veela government, unless they provide certain guarantees about their conduct to you, and which extend to your forces while under our custody, the courtesy of being held under the laws of War as they were in force in 1998."
"And give them a chance," Hermione couldn't help but make an appeal. "Negotiate with them. Perhaps you can reach an accommodation. And His Majesty's Government did not extend a time-limit, as long as the truce holds. The truce would hold then. If you cannot reach satisfactory terms with the Veela, your troops can approach our lines, and lay down arms. But if you turn toward Paris to overthrow them, we will fall upon your rear and destroy you, General."
Gauthier looked to Bellatrix, almost plaintively.
Bellatrix just shook her head. "She was there with the Prime Minister. She understands her thinking. I'm sorry, General. You must choose."
He closed his eyes, looking so, so tired. As tired as they were of this. War Without End. The muggle world had known six years of war, tension, uncertainty now. Hermione felt like she had known more like nine. She supposed that Bellatrix felt more like she had known thirty.
He sighed, and nodded once. "We will hold our positions."
The guns fell silent, on one more front.
A week later, Larissa and Draco had their wedding. There were two ceremonies. The first, to please the House of Naryshkin, was held at the Russian Orthodox Cathedral of the Dormition of the Mother of God and All Saints, a fine Lombard style Cathedral originally built for the Anglican faith, but reconsecrated in the 1950s when the Anglican parish was merged, and situated in Ennismore Gardens, Knightsbridge, London. As was befitting the wizarding upper classes of Russia, the wedding robes and dress were in the grand style of old Muscovy.
Unlike a wedding before the War, almost everyone there was in military uniform, full dress with swords at their sides, and finely gilt wand holsters for the witches and wizards. Bellatrix and Hermione both participated in forming the Sabre Arch for Draco and Larissa, with the mixed company of British and Russian officers. They exchanged grins as they held their swords high for Draco and Larissa to walk under—it was just such a lovely thing, that they had both come here, both come far enough to see it, and participate in such a deserved wedding.
Decamping from the Cathedral of the Dormition, they had proceeded to Ancient House. Here, the first reception was held. Fine wines freely flowed, and good cheese and fish on the plates. Narcissa was using Ancient House masterfully, for her own propaganda efforts. There was a certain power that a perfectly intact Romano-British country villa had-fully decorated as a magic family of the old Celtic ways would live, it was absolutely fascinating, a living marvel of a past age.
Bellatrix and Hermione slipped away from the others, and with a grin, Hermione helped Bellatrix change. "Are you looking forward to this?"
"Absolutely," Bellatrix declared in triumph, preparing all she needed, dressing in her brown and green robes and a nice bodice, a hood up over her wild hair, a staff, her wand. "Alright. Everything settled?"
"Everything is settled, Bella."
"Then let's marry Draco properly." She went downstairs, Ancient House feeling light and airy and full of life. It was late summer, and the weather was a bit cooler now, but the sun had come through for them on this fine day, when Bellatrix led the wedding party out to the Standing Stones up on the old hill above Ancient House, and with a glint in her eye and a happy grin on her face, she wedded Draco and Larissa the second time in the centre of the Old Standing Stones.
In the magical ceremony, with energy passing between them, and Bella and her new wand, sealing the oaths, under the midafternoon sun. Narcissa actually cried in public at that point, at the culmination of a decade of desperate struggle to keep Draco safe, to guide him into manhood despite the awful decisions and ultimate horrible death of his father, and finally to actually give him happiness despite all the ruination in the world. If she was ever going to cry in public, at all, it was on this day, and she did, in happiness, exhaustion, triumph, delight, and relief for her Little Dragon.
And then, their wedding and marriage truly complete, Larissa had a little grin, playing and leaning close to Draco, whispering things in his hear, winking at Hermione until she blushed, and the entire wedding procession, with a band accompanying them, made its way back to Ancient House, and through the Floo, to Malfoy Manor, where the evening entertainment was laid on.
The Vodka and Whiskey, in huge quantities. The live bands, playing fast and smart. Champagne and salmon. Brandy and cigars. There was an undercurrent of grief in the background. These were aristocrats, they lived well, even after the war, when others were suffering and impoverished. But even here, there were mentions of relatives who could not attend, because they were dead. The wedding only had half the size of a wedding party that it should on Larissa's family's side; the rest were dead, or still serving at the front. On Draco's side, it was even smaller.
Bellatrix, though, was ebullient. Somewhere after who-knew-how-much whiskey and champagne and brandy, her clothes mussed from far too much intense dancing, hair having escaped every attempt to contain it, in her third change of clothes for the day, she was kicked back in a lounge chair in a side room at the Malfoy Manor—it was probably about 0300 in the morning, Hermione wasn't really sure—and laughing, still manic.
"We'll be married next," she laughed, "my pet, my darling, my love. And Draco and Larissa should be lucky together, tonight. The magic is hot in the air, I can taste it. It's good for the old wizarding blood of Russia and Britain to be allied on this night."
Hermione walked up to her, stepped behind the chair, hugged her from behind. "And what about us, Bella? I'm not exactly 'old wizarding blood'." A fond kiss to her lover's head.
"I've been thinking about that, actually, and I asked Draco and Larissa something, a few days ago," Bella answered dreamily. "They agreed."
Hermione blinked. She wasn't sure if that was an attempt to change the subject, or…
"Draco will be happy to be the sperm donor for us to have more children together, love," Bellatrix finished. "Larissa thinks it's adorable. Does that answer your question?"
Hermione flushed brightly. "Uhm, uhm, yes it does. More children, oh. How will that work?"
"From my understanding of muggle technology," Bellatrix laughed, kicked back, and produced a snifter of brandy from the table next to the lounge chair—Hermione briefly considered trying to cut her off and decided against it—before laughing again, "Some scientist will do a bit of alchemy and there will be viable embryos from you and Draco. And, well, Draco is my closest living male relative, so that's what makes the most sense to me. And then, I'll carry them to term. They'll be as close to natural as possible."
"Gods… You're getting a bit old for that, Bella." She understood why Bella said as possible, though it was not strictly true. Magic could not create magic, though it could create life; as two witches they could have had natural children together magically, but they'd be squibs, and to Bellatrix, that might as well be impossible.
"Nonsense, I'm a witch. One more time, anyhow," she insisted, looking up beatifically to Hermione. "Cissy is going to make you the Governor General of Cape Province, and I am going to be – what" she hiccuped, and giggled madly, "fucking retired or something. Of course I've got the time to get pregnant again. Just, we need to get married first. Cissy would be furious otherwise."
Hermione smiled, and kissed Bella's curls again, but felt a bit of melancholy. Maybe it was just the fact it was the first night she had spent in the Malfoy Manor since that night, and even with alcohol and a party and her best friend close at hand-as well as her lover, who she had chosen to overcome her past with-that she still felt a little uncomfortable about it. Maybe it was nothing at all. Gods, you do tend to be a melancholy drunk. If only you could be more like Bella. She was thinking of her parents, and whether or not they would be found, so that she could have anyone at all on her side of the aisle, when she finally married Bellatrix Black.