Cataclysm

by kitsunerei88

[Sequel to Vanguard] Lord Riddle is dead, and the Ministry has fallen. What began as revolution becomes a war, and wars are never easy – not least because of the enemy.

2. Chapter 2

Emotions were malleable.

Pansy knew this. She had known this for a long time. When she was sad, she could turn sadness to anger, or anger to bitterness, or bitterness to resignation, with enough effort. Sometimes, she translated boredom and ennui to contentment, or pleasure, or even happiness, with the right combination of thoughts. The thoughts only had to be believable, a reaction that someone, somewhere, could find plausible – how someone could feel, as opposed to how she did feel.

She played with her reactions. Pansy hadn't liked being the sharp child, the one who saw the undercurrents of the world around her, so she changed. She presented herself in a certain way to the public, made herself seem good and sweet and kind, with just a little flash of intelligence here and there, and people liked her for it. People liked her for it, and after awhile, it became second nature. Taking others in, toying with others, manipulating people for her own agenda was endlessly entertaining, an ever-changing game of social etiquette and control that she played with wit and skill.

The game changed her, too. Sometimes, Pansy felt like she became the people that she was playing. Pansy could be the dutiful daughter of House Parkinson, she could be the kind and generous best friend to Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, she could be the sharply intelligent and witty dueller in the Duelling Club. She was all of these things, at some point or another. Harry had even commented on it, when she confessed her secret to her closest friends in her third year: her personality was a little more malleable than most, and that was perfectly fine.

That malleability would be what saved her.

The night of the coup, Pansy simply hadn't wanted to be afraid. Fear was a paralytic – fear would have stopped her from doing what needed to be done. It was better to be angry, so Pansy had made herself angry. She had focused on how slow Draco had been, though she knew he was probably overwhelmed with the emotions of everyone around him. She had blamed him and the Malfoys and their weak wards for their predicament, though she knew there was likely more to it. She had raged silently at everyone there for failing to defend her, though they hadn't even managed to defend themselves. She had pulled at anything and everything she had to turn fear into anger, because she hadn't wanted to be afraid.

It had worked. It had worked, and she had been furious, and her fury was enough for her to swipe a wand from an unsuspecting wizard's pocket as he pulled her forward to stand in a line, Draco beside her. Then, she had a wand, and when they were dragged forward she had raged at everyone behind her for their cowardice, against Lord Selwyn and Master Black and Edmund Rookwood and every other person who had watched the selection in silence and fear.

Pansy wasn't them. Pansy wasn't scared, because every grain of fear she had was instantly turned to incandescent rage. She would show these people what bravery looked like, she had decided, and she would go out fighting rather than being tortured to death. She was only deciding her plan of attack when she had overheard Lady Rosier's muttering.

"A diversion," she was saying, looking around, her sharp eyes covering the room, though her voice was so soft Pansy hadn't even been sure she had heard it at first. "If I just had a bit more of a diversion…"

"What for?" Pansy had asked, and then her insane, suicidal plan had become something else: a way to get her mother and Draco out. Her mother, because someone needed to protect the magical creatures that called the Parkinson Estate home, and Draco, because after Harry left, it was her and Draco, Draco and her, and she had too many memories of his fierce and stubborn pride, his casual kindnesses, his willingness to put himself forward for people he barely knew. She loved him; as a friend only, but she loved him, and if she could only pick two, then it would be her mother and Draco. She had taken a minute, five minutes, to revise her plan, to find a new Pansy to be, and then she had convinced herself that it was true.

She was Pansy Parkinson, noble girl who wanted to study a Mastery in Arithmancy. She was Pansy Parkinson, who wanted to wait on marriage and children, who had never wanted her betrothal to Draco Malfoy. She was Pansy Parkinson, who wanted to make a mark on politics in her own way, and she was Pansy Parkinson, a noble girl who hated being forced into a mold she didn't belong in. She was Pansy Parkinson, she was furious, and she had had enough.

Voldemort was not so different from her, was he? He was non-noble, and he had wiped away the whole noble edifice with one wave of his hand. He wanted power, and so too did Pansy. But this Pansy wanted her own power, not the weak power she had held previously as the Parkinson Heiress, not a power tied in tight legal contracts that she had had no voice in negotiating, not a power she wielded only through her simpering and smiles, not a power that others tried to control through the chains of duty. Noble girls were even less free than the non-nobles, and Voldemort would see that. Pansy would make him see it.

She had picked her moment, then she had lunged forward, out of the group of picked examples, and then she had murdered Lucius Malfoy in cold blood. She hadn't even cared about it, then, because for this Pansy, Lucius Malfoy had become only one of the men controlling her destiny, and she wanted him dead. This Pansy had been so angry about her betrothal for months, so enraged by her lack of options, and Voldemort would not take her revenge from her. So she had killed the former Lord Malfoy, and he had exploded into nothingness, and in the breath of silence and shock, she had dredged up her most beautiful curtsey for Voldemort.

She rewrote herself. In a few minutes, with the ease of long practice, she became a different Pansy, one with a slightly different worldview, a slightly different history, and very different motivations. This Pansy had never made a trade for her mother or Draco's security, because this Pansy didn't need any other motive – she hated Lucius Malfoy enough already to act. It would never have occurred to this Pansy to trade anything for anyone's safety, because this Pansy was too angry, and this Pansy didn't give two shits about anything or anyone but her own revenge. For this Pansy, the trade simply hadn't happened, because it was inconsistent with her personality.

"My deepest apologies, my lord," she had said, her voice cold in uncaring, and she had drawn the entire room's attention. That was where this Pansy belonged, in the spotlight in her own right, not an accessory to someone else. "You and I, we are more alike than you think."

The Lady Rosier's escape had been a problem. It had nearly blown her entire plan to join Voldemort. The explosions went off, and Pansy had dropped to the floor, shielding her head with her arms and her stolen wand. When the dust had cleared, Lady Rosier was gone, her father was dead on the floor, and Voldemort was furious.

"Tell me you had nothing to do with this," he had hissed at her, and his accent shifted ever so slightly. The emphasis went on the last word, and he sounded almost like the snake that was his Patronus.

"If I had anything to do with it, I assure you that it would have been better planned," she had retaliated, from the floor, meeting his eyes as she said it. Had she planned it, the blasts would have come with her murder of Lucius Malfoy, not seconds afterwards. Had she planned it, the blasts would have come with nothing at all, because everyone's attention had been on Lucius Malfoy anyway. "Your witches and wizards are terribly trained, which is no surprise given who you have at your disposal. The Lestranges are notoriously unstable, and Crabbe and Goyle? I see them back there, and there are trolls more intelligent than those family lines."

There had been a pause, and it was in that moment that Pansy, the Pansy that had slipped beneath the surface and was lying far below, silent and watching, knew. Voldemort was a Legilimens, a powerful one, and he relied heavily on his Legilimency as another sense. He had believed her, because her thoughts didn't lie to him, because he looked at her and he saw the Pansy that she had become.

"You need me," she had said then, looking into his eyes and throwing her knowledge, a lifetime of skill at social manipulation, into his head. She was a noble, so she knew all of Society. She knew all the people that Voldemort would need to win to his side, she was well-liked by all the former nobility, and she knew how to bring them to his side. And all she wanted in return was exactly what he had promised his followers: a future she could make her own, instead of being determined by a circumstance of her birth.

Voldemort could kill everyone who opposed him, but that would destroy Wizarding Britain's population. It was far easier to win everyone to his side, to turn all society into his dream world. How else would he have people to staff the restaurants or stores in Diagon Alley? How else would he delegate the tasks that he did not want to do personally, those political things that would not be handled well by his current followers? How else would he leave his legacy?

What world did he want to create?

She had smiled, watching as Voldemort, young as he was, process her thoughts. Some of his people had gone after the escaped group, but they soon came back, bloodier than they were before. She had taken a look at them, contemptuous: Crabbe had been in that group, Rodolphus Lestrange, and a wizard that she didn't know. Not noble. She wasn't surprised at their failure, because Crabbe was a fool and Rodolphus Lestrange was entirely controlled by his mad wife. Voldemort had glanced at them, his heavy brows furrowing in disapproval, before dismissing them and turning back to Pansy with a very different consideration.

Pansy knew that look. It was one that many men had given her during her disastrous arranged marriage meetings, to wizards who were on the whole undeserving of her. It was a slow look, one that started with her face, considering her light blue eyes, pert nose, the sprinkle of freckles over her cheeks. Voldemort studied her golden hair which she pulled over her shoulder and ran her fingers through, showing how fine the light strands were. She had smiled, a little coquettish, as he kept looking. His gaze had dropped, lower, as he considered her chest for a long moment, and then her hips, her bottom, her legs.

He had said nothing. He didn't need to say anything. And this Pansy…

This Pansy would consider it. Voldemort was a handsome man, dark hair curling slightly over his forehead, blue eyes so dark they were almost black. He was tall, with strong shoulders, and magical power rolled off him in waves. This Pansy did not care about concepts like purity, so important if she was playing the noble game, and that world was dead anyway. This Pansy controlled her own body, and she decided to whom she wanted to give her favours.

She had glanced at the survivors of the coup. Edmund was staring at her, pale, and Alice was sobbing. Based on the few new cuts and bruises, more than one of the survivors had tried to make a run for it with Lady Rosier, but their guards had been warier and none of them had wands. They had gotten precisely nowhere, a few more injuries notwithstanding. Pathetic.

"My lord, if you do not mind my recommendations, I suggest we simply keep this lot prisoner," Pansy had said, waving one hand towards them. "They've lost enough tonight, and this was most of the inner circle of the SOW Party. Were you to make examples of them, there would be none left to carry the news to the public. They are better alive, consolidating your power for you, than dead. You can always kill them later if they step out of line, or I shall do it for you."

Voldemort had looked at her, then he had looked back at the small, lonely looking group of survivors. Between the deaths in the coup and those who had escaped, more than half the group was gone, and most of them were dead. A bare eight people remained.

"And how do you propose that we handle the escape?" Voldemort had asked, sharp, his dark eyes still suspicious. "We will look weak, having let them escape."

Despite his tone, he had gotten her thoughts, and he knew that she spoke sense. There was no point in examples if no one was there to see it.

"We rewrite it," she had said, taking a few steps forward and reaching out one hand to touch his arm. The cloth of his robe was rough, and there were better materials for someone such as him. "They escaped in the first attack, not afterwards. And we set up the Daily Prophet again, and we crucify them in public opinion. The Malfoys were ranking members of the previous administration – there are a dozen corruption charges we can lay against them. Lady Rosier, too, concealed the origins of her halfblood son to give him the benefits of bring a pureblood – that is certainly a conspiracy to commit blood identity theft charge. Lady Parkinson, well."

Pansy shrugged, her face settling into an expression of disgust. "She is my mother, and I care for her as any daughter does, but she will do nothing. My mother belonged in the old world, relying on my father for everything. She will hole up on the Parkinson Estate and will cry for the next three years, instead of moving on. She is not a priority."

Voldemort had looked in her eyes, then, and Pansy knew that he read the truth in her mind. And Pansy was smoking in anger, and this new world was a better place for her than the old one. She looked forward to it, to standing by Voldemort's side, surveying a world where the fact that she was a noble woman didn't matter.

"Very well," Voldemort had said then, abrupt, as he had turned to his followers. "We move here, and we hold this place against the Malfoys. And tomorrow, we shall revisit these issues, and plan for a greater world. And you, Parkinson…"

Pansy's nose had screwed up in disgust. "Please, my lord. Pansy will do."

"A childish nickname," Voldemort had commented, but Pansy shook her head.

"It is what others have called me my whole life, so it is what I have come to know," she had said, dismissive. Pandora was more mature, but she had always been given a diminutive – Pansy, Pan, Pans. She cared not what others called her, and it had been advantageous to use a diminutive in the old world.

"Pandora is a lovely name," Voldemort had replied, reading her thoughts. "What is the point of having a lovely name if no one uses it?"

Pansy had smiled, then. "What point, indeed?"

It had taken her a good two hours to reverse what she had done to herself in her private suite of rooms, two terrifying, shaking hours of correcting her own thinking. Turning herself into someone else had been easy, almost too easy, but undoing it was something else entirely, and she had fumbled with her wand for far too long to cast her Patronus in one of the Malfoy guest suites.

The other Pansy had wanted Narcissa's rooms. It had felt good to demand her rooms, to take that place, but Narcissa didn't have her own bedroom. The other Pansy had been disappointed, throwing a minor fit over it, before she had scoffed and went to find her own accommodations.

This Pansy would have preferred Draco's rooms, so that she could be grateful he had made it out, but it hadn't even occurred to the other Pansy. It disgusted the other Pansy, so there she was, in a guest bedroom, shaking herself to pieces and putting herself back together. She had murdered Lucius Malfoy. She had murdered Lucius Malfoy. She had murdered Lucius Malfoy.

She was still alive, and Voldemort believed her. Voldemort believed her because she was that other Pansy, because that Pansy's thoughts and feelings and beliefs were every bit as valid as her thoughts, her feelings and her beliefs now. All she could do was try to pull something good out of this, and off her Patronus had gone to Aldon, demanding immunity in exchange for information.

And here she was now, ready to walk out of her new suite of rooms, to rejoin Voldemort and to help him with his takeover of Wizarding Britain.

She shut her eyes, a part of her wishing her gamble hadn't paid off, that Voldemort hadn't believed her, and had simply murdered her. But it had, and he had believed her, and now there was no way out but through.

She took a deep breath, finding the other Pansy.

She was Pansy Parkinson, noble girl who wanted to study a Mastery in Arithmancy. She was Pansy Parkinson, who wanted to wait on marriage and children, who had never wanted her betrothal to Draco Malfoy. She was Pansy Parkinson, who wanted to make a mark on politics in her own way, and she was Pansy Parkinson, a noble girl who hated being forced into a mold she didn't belong in.

She was Pandora Parkinson, and she was one of Voldemort's followers.

She walked out of her suite of rooms.

XXX

Francesca stepped off the plane at Heathrow International Airport, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. Archie had the details of her flight, which she had provided before the end of the school term, and she had sent a confirmation by email to him a few nights before. Archie had gotten back to her, saying that she should stay home in America, because the government had fallen, but she had ignored it. The plane tickets were already bought, Blake & Associates was in Britain, and her plans were made, so her reply simply reiterated her arrival information. He had written last night, a short email saying only that someone would be waiting to meet her.

She looked around, anxious. John wasn't with her this time – his plans this time were to go direct to Germany, and he would stop off in Britain on his way home – and his lack of presence meant her anxiety was higher than usual.

Someone would come and meet her, she told herself firmly. Archie had said so, and she shouldn't worry. People couldn't get to the gates anyway without going through security, and the movies that showed people waiting at the gates were entirely fiction. Especially at an airport the size of Heathrow, where security was tight, there was no way anyone could possibly meet her before the baggage claim, at the earliest. And she didn't have any baggage at the baggage claim, because she always shrank her bags to be the size of a carry-on to keep the airline from losing her things.

Her stomach hurt. But she wasn't anywhere near the baggage claim yet, so there was no need for her to worry. Archie had said someone would be there to get her, though he hadn't told her who. Archie had never lied to her except for the one time, in first year. He wouldn't lie to her now, and she wasn't sure if he had a truly deceitful bone in his body. The Archie Black that she had come to know over the past year or so was no different than Harry Potter had been, other than his name and face. And at no time had he ever been malicious.

He said someone would be there to pick her up, so someone would be there to pick her up. She just wished he had told her who, or where, so that she didn't have to fret about being forgotten.

The baggage claim was crowded, a hundred and fifty people milling about the huge, metal conveyor belt in wait for their luggage. The belt hadn't even started moving yet, but people were already standing about, pushing for the prime spots to watch as the bags started coming down. It was too crowded – far too crowded, and she looked around for a familiar face.

There was none, and her stomach roiled, hurting.

She couldn't stay here. It was too crowded. Maybe this would be one of those airports where she had to pass through another security check before people could meet her, so she headed out of baggage claim. And it wouldn't matter if she never found them, she reminded herself – she had done this before. She knew where the Underground was, she could get to Grimmauld Place by herself if she needed. There was no need to be anxious.

It didn't work. She was still anxious.

"Francesca!" She heard someone calling her name, and she turned around to see a familiar face waving at her through a crowd of people. She smiled, a little hesitant – why was Neal Queenscove meeting her? Not that she didn't like Neal, he had always been a good friend, but she had expected Archie, or maybe Sirius or Remus.

"Neal," she said, and then she saw the person standing beside him, looking stiff and proper in a matte black waistcoat, with a white collared shirt and navy blue tie. He looked like a butler, she thought, or maybe a waiter in a fancy restaurant. It took her a minute to find her words, and her voice, when it came out, was soft, uncertain. "Aldon."

"Francesca," Aldon replied, looking at the ground awkwardly. "Er – welcome back to Britain."

Francesca nodded, a little stiff, then turned her attention to Neal. "Any, um, reason you are here to meet me? And not, um, Archie? Or Sirius?"

Neal exchanged a look with Aldon, who was still looking awkward, but took over the conversation. He glanced around carefully, then lowered his voice. "Things have changed in Britain, Francesca. Archie isn't even minimally trained in defense, and in these circumstances it's best he stay behind wards."

"And the two of you are any better?" Francesca asked, not sure if she should be laughing or not. "I mean – you, of course, but Aldon… And this is No-Maj Britain."

Aldon coughed a little and made a tapping motion with his finger on one side. Francesca didn't see anything there, but she heard the small, metallic click and saw the way that his shoulders shifted, as if there was something restricting his movement. Francesca had never seen a gun for herself, but she had seen enough television shows. Aldon was carrying a concealed handgun.

"We need to talk – let's get to Queenscove." Neal grinned, though there was an edge to his smile, and his eyes roved around the airport carefully. "What spells are you carrying, just in case?"

Francesca blinked, taken aback. She reached to touch the small stack of spells under her bra strap nervously, thinking about it. "Three shield spells, a speed spell, a disarming charm – all charged. And I can always call on lightning."

Neal nodded, a little distracted, then he fished in his pocked for piece of parchment and handed it to her. It was a runic map, which would lead her to a specified location – something Chinese paper-mages used instead of a Point Me spell. "Good. Keep those handy. If anything goes down, get to Queenscove, all right? Stick to No-Maj routes as much as possible – train north, take the local, the stop is Gretna Green. The paper is spelled to lead you there, it's most of day's hike south. Floo isn't reliable these days – or rather, we don't know how reliable it might be. Better safe than sorry."

Francesca paused, then she nodded. "Oh – okay. Um, how will we get there now?"

"We'll Apparate, soon as we get clear of the airport," Neal replied, turning to scan around. "Let's take the Underground, get off in a few stations. There's a park with some woodland we can Apparate from."

"I can take your trunk," Aldon said, reaching out to take it with a note of hesitation. He wasn't looking at her, focusing on the crowds, on her luggage, on anything but her. "Here. Allow me."

Francesca let him take her case from her without much argument, though she could have managed it herself. She didn't argue – she wasn't sure what there was to say. Instead, she simply followed Neal and Aldon to the London Underground connection, onto the train, and took Neal's arm for Side-Along Apparition to Queenscove.

"It's a bit of a walk," Neal said, crossing over an invisible line in the ground with a sigh of relief. "An hour normally, but Al showed me a trick to mess with the distances, so I can cut it to fifteen minutes. Can't believe he didn't show me it earlier, now I'm making everyone Apparate in if I can."

Francesca looked between Neal and Aldon for a minute, following closely behind. Al? Aldon hated it when his name was shortened. He had complained at length about Archie doing it, and Francesca had confided that she didn't care that much for her own nickname, which Archie and John had foisted on her in first year. She had just learned to deal with it, though fortunately Hermione and everyone else stuck to her preferred full name.

"I suppose he's earned the right to call me whatever he wants," Aldon murmured quietly to her, before he glanced back at Neal. "Neal, I did not know manipulating the dimensions of the grounds was possible until I was in control of Rosier Place. My apologies."

That didn't explain anything, but despite the continuing ache in her stomach, which crossing into Queenscove lands had barely helped, Francesca's curiosity was piqued. Aldon was in control of Rosier Place?

The Disillusionment Charm on Aldon's shoulder harness had faded when they crossed into Queenscove, giving her a glimpse of his handgun. Francesca had never seen a handgun, not in real life, but it looked real and deadly and completely alien against Aldon's clothes. And when had Aldon, who still treated everything No-Maj with an odd mix of practicality and bemused surprise, learned how to use a gun?

He seemed very different now – still awkward, and he had always been stiff and formal, but he was more authoritative. His bearing was straight, almost regal, very controlled. He had a confidence about himself that wasn't quite there before, as if before he had been showboating but now it was genuine. He smiled, watching as Neal showed off his many defensive fortifications. Francesca wasn't really listening to Neal, more preoccupied watching Aldon.

He was still wildly handsome. She wasn't surprised. But he was sharp, hard, and the new bearing he had didn't help. Fals had been gentle, his duelling record notwithstanding, and she didn't think Aldon knew how to be gentle.

She turned to look at Queenscove, a picture-perfect medieval keep set on a cliff by the sea, marvelling at its beauty. She had been to Queenscove before, of course, but she had always Flooed in as opposed to walking. The perspective from outside the walls was stunning: two sets of tall, outer walls, with the keep peeking out on top. She could smell the sea on the air, salt and brine, and hear the slap of the waves against the cliffs, and if she looked out the windows of her favourite solar, she knew that she would see the white crests of foam crusting the waves.

Neal settled her in his kitchens, warm and bright, and began brewing a pot of tea. One of his house-elves, in a neat tea towel pressed with the Queenscove crest, interrupted him and shooed him away before bringing the ceramic pot and four tiny teacups to the table for them. Francesca recognized the scent of oolong – plain Chinese restaurant tea.

"So – what is this about, then?" she asked, a little abrupt as she reached for the pot. It was homey, reminding her of weekends at dim sum, soothing even if it didn't taste that good. "The guard, the gun…"

"Lord Riddle fell, and so did the Ministry," Neal replied, his voice low and serious. "There was a coup – Voldemort attacked Malfoy Manor and the Ministry the day that everyone came home from school. He killed Riddle, and the Minister of Magic."

"My father also died in the assault," Aldon replied, his gaze fixed on the tea set, on Francesca's hands handling the small cups. His voice was quiet, without inflection. "Which leaves me as the Lord Rosier."

Francesca studied him for a moment. He hadn't been close to his father, she knew that from their many discussions by comm orb, but she was still surprised by how dispassionate he sounded. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Shockingly, so am I." Aldon favoured her with an awkward half-smile. "We weren't close, as you know, but I can't say I wasn't sorry to hear it."

Neal snorted, reaching for one of the teacups. "You're perfectly capable of talking like you didn't walk out of the eighteenth century, Al, so how about you do that? English is like my third language, so if you don't talk like a normal person I won't understand you."

Aldon's retort was in French, which Francesca didn't understand, but Neal laughed.

"But…" she cut in, frowning. "Archie already told me all this. How does – I'm not sure…"

"Well, we're not entirely sure what is happening, for the moment." Neal turned back to look at her with a grimace, and Francesca ignored the fact that he wasn't really answering the question she had wanted to ask. "I mean – the Ministry has continued running without the Minister, who is supposedly off sick."

"They are aiming for a soft entry," Aldon added, turning away to study one of Neal's tapestries. Considering most of Neal's tapestries contained an image of someone who looked very much like Neal doing daring feats of chivalry, Francesca suspected that he wasn't really looking at them so much as avoiding looking at her. "A quiet takeover of the Ministry, which handles most of the operational matters in Wizarding Britain. Then, my source indicates that he will be aiming for a seamless transition – an announcement through the restarted Daily Prophet, corruption charges against members of the previous administration, propaganda to advocate for the change." He paused. "Bridge probably didn't help with that."

"For now, we actually don't know what's safe or not," Neal admitted with a pained shrug. "We blew news of the coup in Bridge last week, but you know… who knows how it's being taken? For a lot of people, it just… sounds unbelievable. Lord Riddle had fully entrenched himself in Wizarding British politics over the last half-century, and many people look to other highly ranked noble families for truth otherwise – the Malfoys, the Parkinsons. They're either dead or in hiding now."

"I am aware that Archie sent you an email with the information," Aldon interrupted, abrupt and avoiding her eyes. "But I worry that he failed to communicate the seriousness of this situation. In the circumstances, it may be best for you to return to America. I know it was not in your plans, but we can continue to work on the ACD through the communication orb, and of course Blake & Associates will continue to supervise your last two years of schooling. Just – you can go home, attend Muggle high school. It'll be safer for you, Francesca."

Francesca's jaw dropped. Go home for Muggle high school? Being sent home like a child? "But—"

"He is right," Neal added, purposely gentle, and Francesca felt another flare of anger. "If not home, we can make other arrangements. My brother Will would help, you're almost family."

No. Francesca had it planned, and she was barely a witch anyway. She was more No-Maj than witch, and she didn't even have a wand. Taking her away from her funders would only delay progress on the ACD, and whatever the situation, she didn't think anyone would be looking too closely for her. She had taken precautions, and she was a citizen of Wizarding America, not Wizarding Britain. And the government, or what was left of it, didn't even know she was here, not like Archie, or Hermione, or anyone else who took the school flight.

"Archie and Hermione aren't – aren't leaving," she stuttered, stumbling a little through her words. "And the Ministry, if they still exist – they don't know I'm here. I travelled here only through No-Maj means, so they don't have a record of my entry. They can't track my wand, because I don't have one, and – and progress on the ACD will be a lot slower of I'm in America. That's not – that's not reasonable."

Neal exchanged a look with Aldon, and Aldon shook his head. "It's really – Francesca, the situation really has changed. It's a lot more dangerous for all of us now, and you should really—"

"No." Francesca crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm not leaving. You aren't leaving. Archie isn't leaving. Hermione isn't – isn't leaving. My research is here. I'll – I'll follow whatever security measures you want, but I'm not leaving. I told Archie that, in my email."

There was an awkward silence. Neal sighed and leaned back in his chair, exchanging another look with Aldon, but Francesca kept her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at them both. She wasn't going, it was ridiculous for her to have to go when she had everything planned. Everything was planned, she had taken precautions, and she was barely a witch. Everyone said so, all the time. No one would care about her.

"There are still a million things that need to be done before we can even discuss security measures," Aldon said finally, turning back to studying Neal's tapestries with a slight frown, and she heard Neal sigh. She relaxed, reaching cautiously for her cup of tea, while Aldon continued. "Before, we could rely on the Ministry to at least put up a defense; now, the Ministry is in the enemy's control. There is no one else. We need to decide who to send to the ICW to raise the alarm, we need to set up logistical and refugee routes, we need to consolidate with what allies we can get and determine what resources we have, we need to decide how to handle our information flow, we need to get someone into the Floo Regulatory Authority—"

"Shut up, Al." Neal smiled pleasantly, though there was something a little unsettling about that smile. "She doesn't care about the intricacies of war. If she's decided to stay, then you may as well move on to what you need to tell her. You told me to hold you to it, so get on with it."

There was an awkward silence, and Francesca's hands on her cup of tea tightened, foreboding. Something that Aldon needed to tell her? It couldn't be good. And they didn't need to explain all of this at Queenscove. Grimmauld Place would have been just as good. "What is it?"

Aldon sighed and looked at her, golden eyes apologetic. "At the Ministry Unity Ball, I… made a critical miscalculation."

Neal snorted. "A critical miscalculation, is it? You fucked up. Call it what it is, Aldon, you fucked right up. You done fucked up. I don't even have words for how badly you fucked up, and I speak three languages."

Aldon grimaced, but to Francesca's surprise, he didn't call Neal out for his language. Not that Francesca hadn't heard it all before, between John and Tina, but Aldon thought it was crass. The irony, though, was that according to John, Aldon swore quite a lot in his own head. She suspected it was probably something to with her specifically – for some reason, Aldon didn't think she should hear it.

And it was an odd change of topic. She didn't see what the Ministry Unity Ball had to do with the war, other than the attack which had happened there, but neither she nor Aldon had been present for the attack.

"I – do you need me to remind you about, er, my words that night?" Aldon was making a concerted effort to keep eye contact with her, but she could see he was fighting his instinct to look away. "I – er – I'm sure I don't, but—"

"You don't." Francesca's voice dropped several degrees, cool. Her voice was high-pitched enough that it would never be icy, but she could try. "I would – I want to forget about that night. I don't think we need to talk about it."

"Well, er, unfortunately, we can't." Aldon sighed, leaning forward and looking at her very seriously. "Or, er, you can if you like and if you like you can certainly do so, but there are things you should know before you make that decision. Er, so, the oath I made—"

"An oath," Francesca interrupted, her hands shaking a little. She set down her teacup, and Aldon reached across the table hesitantly, but she pulled her hands away to cross them over her chest again. "Is – that is what we are calling it?"

"Yes, my oath," Aldon bit back, and Francesca started. He had never taken that tone with her before. He caught her look and flinched, then softened his voice before continuing. "Because that is what it was, Francesca, a binding oath. Binding on me, but not on you – you are as free as you ever were, but I am not."

Francesca froze, her mind scrambling to remember the precise words that Aldon had used, some six months ago. Defend you with my wand, shield you with my name, anything I have or shall ever have is yours. A numb feeling started at the crown of her head, dribbling down her body, until it reached her toes.

"I – you…" She choked out, caught between panic and anger. She didn't know what to say, and she saw Neal Summoning a Calming Draught. He offered it to her, but she shook her head, pushing herself away from the table to lean over and just breathe for a few minutes.

How could he? The thrill of the moment, or had he just assumed she would go along with it? Yes, they had just learned that their feelings were reciprocated that night, but hadn't she said so many times that very night, no? It was too early, she had told him. Had he thought that proposing as a grand public gesture would make a difference? Had he thought Francesca's response would be different with a thousand people watching them?

Worse still, Francesca knew that without John's warning, she might well have said yes. Not because she would have meant it, but because she wouldn't have wanted to embarrass him in front of a thousand people and because she would have assumed she could quietly change her answer later. She had always hated those people who proposed to their girlfriends on national television, or at baseball games with posters and gleeful expressions – how could anyone say no when under the eyes of so many strangers? Proposals like that weren't about the person being proposed to, but were a show for the proposer. If the answer was no, everyone immediately felt sorry for them – regardless of the circumstances of the refusal. No one would listen to the person who said no, it would become all about the poor person who had put his heart out there and had been refused.

She took a few more breaths, trying to process his words. He had said that she was as free as she ever was, and she remembered other vague phrasings from the oath itself. A request only with no bearing on my oath. It didn't sound like whatever he had done had had any effect on her, only on him. He was now sworn to her support and defense, but she… there didn't seem to be anything she had promised.

It would have been so romantic in a book.

"So – so what does that mean?" She said eventually, looking up, carefully keeping her voice even, even if she was trembling in shock and anger.

"Well, er, it means I'm sworn to your defense," Aldon replied, a light stain of pink brushing his cheeks. He was normally pale-skinned, so it showed. "If you are close enough to me physically, my magic has some freedom to act in your defense if you are in danger, without my active participation. Socially, it – well, I suppose it doesn't matter anymore, but you would have been considered noble by class, with all the rights and advantages that entails. And, er, my property is yours, so, er, you are now joint owner of Rosier Place. And of the Rosier bank accounts, and my personal accounts as well. The old oaths are quite, er, literal."

Francesca reminded herself to breathe as she bent over again, head almost on her knees. Why, why, why would Aldon do this? It was so stupid, and even if Francesca didn't have any obligations from it, she didn't want him tied to her like this. She didn't want to create duties for someone else, she didn't want Aldon's manor or his money.

She knew why he had done it though. Archie had explained, and she knew that Aldon was, in his own way, probably quite as deeply romantic as her. In the world he came from, this was the most romantic thing he could think of doing – pledging all of himself to her without expectation of reply.

There was a tap on her shoulder, and she glanced up to see Neal, offering her a fresh teacup. She accepted it and drank it in three huge gulps, burning her tongue as she did it.

"How – how do I stop it?" She asked, sitting up and setting the teacup on the table with a very final clink. "I don't want this. I don't want your protection, or your nobility, or your property. I don't want to hold you to any of it."

"You may, er, release me from my oath any time." Aldon's eyebrows pinched together, just slightly, worried. "But given the circumstances, and since you are staying, I recommend that you don't. You see, er, aside from the protection my oath provides you, Blake & Associates has relocated to Rosier Place for the time being – or, rather, most of the firm has temporarily relocated to Wizarding France with the exception of the ACD unit which is at Rosier Place. There are defensive applications to the ACD; if we can expand the range of magical frequencies we can support, we can build ACDs for and train people to use them. It may prove to be a powerful defensive edge…"

"And?" Ignoring his statement about the protection he could provide her, Francesca didn't see where he was going with this. What did his oaths have to do with Rosier Place or with the ACD, or even with the wider war? Aldon was normally much better at structuring his thoughts. "So?"

Aldon sighed heavily, and his bright eyes were very serious when he looked at her. "Francesca, from a broader perspective, you are now the joint owner of Rosier Place, and should I die you will hold the manor – and since it's where Blake & Associates and the ACD unit is presently based, it's a place we can ill afford to lose. After the war, if you would like, release me – but for the moment, it is safer for you, and for all of us if you decide keep it. Please."

Francesca looked down, into her cup of tea. She didn't like it – she was tired of being protected, she was tired of guard dog shifts at school and Aldon's protection sounded rather vague. Gun or not, she found it impossible to believe that he could have become an excellent dueller in only six months. His other point, however, keeping the oath in place as a failsafe in the context of the wider war, that made more sense. She didn't have to like it, but losing the manor if Aldon died, if her entire team and their research was there, was not acceptable. She briefly considered asking to move the whole unit abroad, but then she realized that Aldon would never leave Wizarding Britain. And if he didn't, neither would Christie.

"I don't have to do anything, though?" she asked, seeking confirmation, leaning forward to stare at Aldon. "This … your oath, it doesn't require anything of me. It doesn't hold me back, right?"

"That's correct." Aldon nodded, a quick, sharp movement that still somehow betrayed a sense of disappointment. "There is nothing you need to do."

Francesca blew out a breath. "Fine." She paused. "So… is that everything?"

Aldon hesitated, and she glared at him.

"It's about where you'll be staying," he said, words quick as he rushed to get them out. "I know you were going to stay at Grimmauld Place, but Grimmauld Place isn't secure – Master Black was among those captured in the coup, and he is a Master of Ward Construction as well as a Black. The Lord Black can't ward him out fully. In the circumstances, I am, er, inviting you to stay at Rosier Place."

Francesca frowned, uncomfortable, then she reached for the pot of tea, pouring herself another tiny cup. She opened her mouth, trying to find the words to turn down the invitation, but Aldon wasn't finished.

"As I said, my oath will, er, provide you some protection if I am near, so it will be more effective if you stay with me. My manor is large, and as I said I'm also hosting the ACD team as well as several other people currently, and your room in the guest wing will be on the opposite side of the manor from the family quarters, so – so I hope you wouldn't be too uncomfortable." Aldon inclined his head a little. "But if – if that is too uncomfortable, Neal will host you here, at Queenscove. We could set up a Portkey, or we could Apparate you between."

But that wouldn't be very convenient, Francesca realized. With Floo out of the picture at least temporarily, both the Portkey and Apparition would be riskier and would be taxing on Neal and Aldon at a time when they couldn't afford it. Neither a Portkey nor Apparition would put her within the wards – she would be crossing into unsafe, unwarded space, if only temporarily. Then, she would either have to hike the hour at Queenscove, or however long it was at Rosier Place, or she would need to rely on Neal or Aldon to be there to alter the distances for her so that she could save time. Either way, she would lose time that would be better spent working on the ACD.

And she had said that she would follow any security measures put in place for her, too. She didn't want to give them any reason to return to insisting that she return to America.

"Rosier Place is … large?" she repeated. "How large, exactly?"

Aldon shrugged, looking away. "As large as it needs to be. The guest wing in particular creates rooms as necessary, but our main building is quite public. There are several reception parlours and formal sitting rooms, a formal dining room, a great hall, a grand ballroom… it isn't a home, Francesca, so much as it is a hall."

"I… see," Francesca said, and despite herself she felt a little sorry for him. Aldon had grown up at Rosier Place, but he didn't seem to have any fond memories of it. He hadn't spoken about it the way he had spoken about Hogwarts, or even about Christie's penthouse – in fact, he had said little about it at all. And now he was in possession of his ancestral manor, and as much prestige and power as that might have brought him, she didn't think it made him happy.

"It's up to you, Francesca." Aldon sighed, reaching for his own cup of tea – he had barely touched his, so it had to be cold by now.

Francesca nodded, thinking it over. It hadn't been in the plans, and she didn't think she would be very comfortable at Rosier Place, but at the same time, it did seem to be best for everyone. And it wasn't as if she wouldn't be seeing Aldon nearly every day anyway – he was a part of the ACD team, and the entire ACD team was also at Rosier Place, he said. The way he talked about Rosier Place made it sound more like a hotel, almost. She could cope with that, she thought. It would be like staying at a hotel, or a bed and breakfast, and Aldon would be on the other side of building.

"Okay," she said. "Rosier Place, then. If it seems best for everyone."

"Thank you." Aldon shut his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. "I – I assure you, I will keep things professional, Francesca."

"We're work colleagues. I'll hold you to it."

Rosier Place was nothing like Francesca had imagined. It was not a medieval fortress, as Queenscove was, but a huge mansion clearly built after a time when outer walls were necessary. The lawns were smooth, rolling, and there was wide, gravel drive leading up to the doors. It looked like something that would be on a movie set for an adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, with additional flashes of magic.

Aldon showed her around his manor with a bland, perfunctory attitude that told Francesca, more than anything, how little he cared for his hall. He opened doors, announced what the room was, and shut the door. He didn't bother explaining any of the portraits or paintings to her as they passed them, though they all watched with golden-bright eyes as Aldon and Francesca walked past, silent, a rail of dark birds on the walls. Francesca shuddered. She didn't think she liked them.

The guest wing even felt like a hotel. The corridors were panelled in oak, carpeted in a dark green patterned with cream-coloured vines. The doors were each shut, but each one had a different symbol – a leaf on one, a blackbird on another, a paw print on a third. They all seemed to be nature-inspired, but there was no other connection between them.

Aldon opened a door with a peony carved above the handle, showing Francesca inside. Francesca took two steps in – it wasn't a room, but a pair of them with a private bathroom. There was a burgundy velvet sofa in the outer room, a tea set already laid out on the coffee table, and there were three small, low-lying bookshelves along one wall, half-full. Through one open door at the back, she spotted a bedroom with a princess bed, with four posters and red velvet hangings.

"If this one suits, you can have these rooms," Aldon said, awkward, hanging in the doorway. He hadn't taken a step into the room after gesturing for her to enter. "Aman is next door, and I have Albert and his family across the hall from you, though he's sending his wife and children to America on a flight in a few days. Christie, I have in family quarters with me, but I understand the team usually has dinner together around seven in the formal dining room. Is there anything else I can do for you? To make you more comfortable?"

He sounded earnest, even if formal, and his expression when Francesca glanced up was pleading, somehow. As if he wanted her to be pleased, or if he wanted her to tell him what more he could do to please her, and he didn't quite know what else to say or do now. That made two of them.

"No," she replied. "No, it's – these rooms are fine. More than fine. It's – I'll settle in."

Aldon nodded, a little stiff, no easy smile on his face. "If you do need anything, please – let me or one of my house-elves know. You can – clap twice, loudly, and one of them will come to you."

"Thank you." Francesca took a few steps back towards him, holding out one hand for her case, which he was still carrying for her. "I'll – I'll do that."

Over the next week or so, Francesca saw even less of Aldon than she had been prepared to see. He had set aside the Rosier library for the ACD development group exclusively, and while he came in as often as he could, it seemed that he was largely preoccupied with other things. Some days, Francesca and the team didn't see him at all.

The mood was different now. Aman hadn't been a key part of the team when they were working on it previously, her main area of expertise being Dark detectors, particularly advancements in Sneakoscopes, Foe Glasses, and Secrecy Sensors. With the reorientation of the ACD towards more war-time applications, however, she had stayed behind to advise on potential defensive uses for the ACD. She was also within the magical frequency range for the device, so she had the newest iteration – Francesca's smallest and lightest version yet, with a tiny screen that flashed the runic sequence for Aldon's three-spell ward.

Francesca settled in, focusing on the work for the ACD. Around her, other preparations were being made – a map of Rosier Place appeared in her sitting room, not even a day later, with a map of the grounds and large red marks showing where traps had been planted, and other security rules were in effect. She caught sight of Neal, Sirius, Archie and Hermione passing through Rosier Place every few days for meetings with Aldon.

They weren't the only ones. Francesca saw Professor Patricia Ryan come in, a few days later, in her role as one of the Board members for the British International Association, Hermione beside her. Derrick Holden and Tobias MacLean came through, whom Francesca recognized as a former teammate and from the Triwizard Tournament. Most of the others, Francesca didn't know: a handsome man with a bright, easy smile and a familiar face that Francesca couldn't place; a large girl with blonde ringlets who stuttered a little as she talked; a well-dressed, dark-skinned boy close to her age with a sharp accent all came through Rosier Place to speak to Aldon. Owls were flying every day, both in and out, to people farther away. They were organizing a major meeting, trying to bring together anyone who wasn't already compromised, anyone who would be willing to stand against Voldemort.

Francesca stayed out of it. She was here for one thing, and one thing only: the ACD. It was what she was good at, and it was the best and most effective way for her to help, so she got on with it – with helping Albert test his new magical frequency measuring device, with analysing data and cross-referencing magical frequency with electromagnetic frequency, and with building new devices for anyone who would be able and willing to use them.

XXX

Potter Place wasn't the same as he remembered, Archie thought, landing heavily outside the walls that had never, ever been there the entirety of Archie's life. These walls were shielded with a half-roof over most of their length, but they weren't as high as the ones at Queenscove, and there was only one ring rather than two. They had their own, inbuilt guards, however, and Archie heard the regular stomp of the stone knights as they patrolled the walls in stiff, silent pairs. Unlike Queenscove, almost all the Potter grounds were contained within the walls.

He and Dad were the first people there, and Archie's nerves were high. The last two weeks had been busy; ever since Voldemort's very quiet takeover, they had been in action, doing the million and one things necessary to get the word out, to get people together for this meeting.

Uncle James and Aunt Lily had come back a week ago. Addy was walking now, and talking, and Archie wished he had some time to play with her. She didn't recognize him at all, hiding behind Aunt Lily and sucking her thumb, and all Archie had really been able to do was wave at her with an apologetic sort of smile. With the missives he and Hermione were sending out and the meetings and coordination that needed to happen between different groups, he simply had no time for anything else. Even the location of the meeting had been a fight.

Grimmauld Place was probably most likely to be accepted, but it was too small, and Neal had had no interest in having dozens of unknown persons on his lands. Aldon had wanted the meeting held at Rosier Place, but none of the Light faction, Uncle James included, had been particularly keen on that idea. Aldon, similarly, hadn't particularly wanted to go to Potter Place for the meeting, and he had the support of the Irish and Welsh, who considered James Potter, former Head Auror, every bit a part of the regime that had oppressed them for centuries.

Archie sighed, running a hand through his hair as he followed Dad across the grounds. He had talked everyone around to accepting Potter Place, no easy task. He had written multiple letters to Cedric Diggory for the Welsh, he had spent three days arguing with Aldon over it, and worst of all, there had been four hour-long phone calls to Ireland from Hermione's parents' house where he had listened to Saoirse rail at length about Ministry collaborators and he had had to convince her to set her legitimate grievances aside for the moment before she would agree to fly over for the meeting at all. Then, he had slipped down into the Lower Alleys, despite the risks, because Leo wasn't answering his owls.

Margo had found him within half an hour and taken him to the Dancing Phoenix. The Lower Alleys had more boarded up houses, more empty shops, and the streets seemed dirtier and emptier than he had seen them last. He wasn't sure if that had actually been the case, or if it was just his imagination – he expected the Alleys to be darker, different, more sombre than before, to reflect Voldemort's rise, so maybe it was impossible for him to see otherwise.

Leo had heard him out, as well as Archie's request to pass the word onto Harry. Voldemort taking control of the Ministry and the Wizengamot was a major change, and he didn't know what she would do about it. It made everything more dangerous for her, so Archie thought she would stay away, but at the same time, they were all in danger now and she would be no different, so he hoped that she might return. He didn't know, but he didn't have a way to reach her other than Leo, and truth be told, it would be nice to have her back.

"I've already sent a copy of Bridge to her," Leo said, over a pint of ale. This time, Archie had asked Leo for a recommendation on what to drink, so the ale he had was lighter, less bitter than the one he had had tried over the winter. "I don't know any better than you whether she'll come back. I'll attend your meeting, though, on guarantee of security – no one arrests me at this, not for who I am or anything I've done in the past."

"I think I can promise that." Archie grinned, lifting his glass. "No one has any evidence against you, and with the current state of things, I don't think anyone there will have the authority to arrest you. What is this? I like it better than the last ale I had it here."

"Thought you would – it's a pale lager, not an ale. It's local, too." Leo nodded at the glass, half-full. "Confirm that no one will try to arrest me at your meeting and send me the information. I'll be there. I might not have much to say, but I'll be there."

But today they would break through all of that, Archie hoped. Surely everyone, once they were face to face, would see that this was a time to cooperate, for everyone to band together against Voldemort.

Uncle James and Aunt Lily were already seated at the huge table, set out in a great U on the front lawn, talking quietly between themselves. Addy was sitting quietly in Aunt Lily's lap, sucking her thumb. Pitchers of water were already set out, one every few chairs, with full glasses beside every place. Archie reached into his messenger bag, pulling out pads of paper – two pads of paper for every chair, and five pens. He counted them out carefully, because the way Hermione put it, even a minor disparity might be grounds for a fight over who was being favoured.

Archie didn't understand that part. They were only cheap plastic Bic pens. He had bought an extra hundred and it had cost all of five quid, but Hermione said it wasn't about that, it was that some of the people there would be raring for a fight anyway.

"All right there, Archie?" Uncle James asked, looking up as Archie passed him and accepting his pads of paper and pens with a smile. "Have you heard from Harry?"

Uncle James had been asking the same every few days, just in case Archie did hear, but Archie only shook his head. "No, sorry. But I heard that word of the coup was sent to her a week ago, and it might still be in transit. For all I know, she could be in Borneo – she was in the Pacific Islands sometime last year, I think – and no owl is making that journey quickly."

Uncle James sighed. "Well, let me know if you do hear anything, Archie."

"Will do."

Archie heard the distant clap of Apparition from outside the gates, and he turned around and immediately grimaced. It was Aldon, with the former Lady Rosier behind him, and the Lady Malfoy.

What did Aldon think he was doing? He was dressed formally, as he always did, in a waistcoat, trousers, and boots, but otherwise he was obviously kitted out to make an impression. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, showing off ACD, wand, and more than one scar, and he had a leather harness over his shoulders, dangling a gun on his right side. His adoptive mother, too, had chosen Muggle dress – jeans, boots and a leather jacket that did little to hide the two guns hanging from her own shoulder holster, worn under her jacket. Her hands were free, her wand still away, but she scanned the walls with a careful eye, sizing up the Potter defenses.

Lady Malfoy was silent, regal, dressed in robes that Archie knew weren't hers, but Aldon had asked his house-elves to spare no effort in making fit. She took a seat, at the end of U, without a word. The former Lady Rosier sat down beside her, rearranging her shoulder harness with a casual shrug of her shoulders.

"Excuse me." Archie heard the rumble of disapproval in Uncle James' voice and looked over to see that his uncle had stood up, his hands flat on the table, and he was glaring at the Rosiers. "What, exactly, do you think you're carrying onto my grounds? My daughter is here as a show of good faith; do you not trust my hospitality?"

"I had not thought you would be bringing your child to a treaty negotiation," Aldon replied, sharp. "And I am, as you are very well aware, still within my challenge period as the new Lord Rosier. I haven't much choice. Here. A peace offering. I had lost track of it after the trial last year, but I recently found it in my trunk. It seems that Justice didn't care for it."

He dug in his pocket for a second, finding something, before throwing it across the U at Uncle James – a small stone, set into an earring, which Archie recognized after a moment as one of the communication orbs used by a player in the Triwizard Tournament. "It was Harriett's, and it was broken in the Tournament final. I traded my functioning half for hers just before she left, but she has not used it since to contact me, nor can it be used to send messages, only receive them. You might as well have it."

Uncle James seemed flabbergasted for a moment, before he blew out a breath and sat back down, pocketing the tiny device.

"No formal welcome to Peverell Hall, from one Lord to another?" Aldon smirked and sat down beside his adoptive mother, almost on the opposite end of the U from both Uncle James and Lily. "Well, no one ever said the Light faction was known for their manners."

Uncle James ignored him. "Lady Rosier," he greeted instead. "Lady Malfoy."

"Lord Potter," Lady Malfoy acknowledged, with a gracious tilt of her head.

"Not Rosier," Aldon's adoptive mother said, her eyes still roving the grounds, calculating. "Avery. Lina Avery, Stormwing. Don't cross me, Potter, and you still haven't formally welcomed the Lord Rosier."

"Aldon. James." Dad's voice was a warning. "This isn't the time, or the place, if it ever was. James, you know pureblood noble culture – the Rosier proposal was years ago, and Aldon isn't pursuing it—"

"And it's revoked." Aldon added, his expression and tone purposely indifferent, though Archie knew perfectly well from the quickness that he had leapt in that he was thinking something very different. Francesca had decided, to his relief, to stay at Rosier Place, and even if Francesca couldn't tell, Archie could see from every visit to Rosier Place that Aldon was quietly trying to impress her with the state of his holdings. There were fresh flowers laid out, every few days, wherever she might wander, and he knew that Aldon had asked one of his house-elves to pay extra attention to her and ensure that she had everything she might ever want or need. "That proposal is formally revoked. It would never have worked out anyway."

Uncle James blinked. "Good."

"Good," Aldon retorted, then he pulled his pad of A4 towards him, wrinkled his nose at the plastic pens that Archie had laid out, and reached inside his waistcoat for a fountain pen.

A few others trickled in, Lords and Ladies that Archie didn't know very well, all members of the Light faction. Lady Longbottom came in, turning her nose up at the Rosiers, followed by the Lord Thomas Ollivander, a very distant relation to the wandmaker. The Heir Goldenlake came in, as did the Heir Naxen, and the Lord Shafiq, and Archie smiled with relief when Neal showed up, his mother beside him.

Neal didn't have time to chat, since they were there formally, only flashing Archie a quick smile and taking a seat beside Aldon. There was a quiet murmur around the table at the motion, and with a second of hesitation, the Heir Goldenlake stood up and, with a quick nod to Uncle James, crossed the U to sit down beside the Queenscoves. Gareth the Younger of Naxen, the Heir Naxen, followed suit moments later.

"Well, if it isn't Lily Evans," Archie heard a familiar voice say, rich with unpleasant surprise, mixed with disdain, and he was so surprised that he nearly fell out of his chair turning around. "Didn't think you'd show your face, but I suppose we all have a price. Nice house."

There was a moment of silence, then Aunt Lily sucked in a breath. "Trish," she said quietly, then she stood up, neatening her skirts with one graceful hand. "Welcome to Potter Place. This is my daughter, Adriana. Addy."

Her voice quavered a little, and Archie looked back and forth between the two redheads: his Aunt Lily, always graceful and cheerful, now pale as if she had been punched in the gut, and Professor Ryan, her face twisted in disgust as Archie had never seen before, scanning the grand building behind them.

"Tell me, Lily – was it worth it?" Professor Ryan's voice was very quiet, her words clearly meant for Lily alone, but her faded accent was sharper as she spoke. "Big house. Nobility. A family. And all you had to do was throw away your principles – be beautiful, marry rich, marry noble, and go home. You could almost forget about the rest of us, couldn't you?"

"I never forgot," Aunt Lily snapped, clutching Addy a little closer to her. Tears were starting to form in Addy's eyes, upset because her mother was upset. "I never, ever forgot, Trish, and with my daughters, I always remember. There's more than one way to fight, and I fought the laws from the inside, the way I always said I would."

Professor Ryan snorted. "I see you've made wonderful progress," she said, her voice thick with sarcasm, before she took a corner seat on the massive U. "So much progress, indeed, that your daughter masqueraded as her pureblood cousin to go to the school that you once dreamed of attending. Great job – all the gold stars for your help."

"Excuse me." Uncle James' voice was a low growl of warning. "This is my home, and I don't know who you are, but you will treat my wife with politeness when here, or you will leave."

"No," Archie interjected, standing up, and he heard Aunt Lily echoing the same thing. He glanced at her, and she shook her head at him with a weak sort of smile, motioning for Archie to continue. "No, Uncle James – Professor Ryan is here as a Board Member for the British International Association. They have more than a thousand members worldwide. She needs to be here."

"I'll take Addy inside, James," Aunt Lily added, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek and tucking her chair in beside him. "I'll – you can fill me in later, all right? You don't need me here for this."

Uncle James looked taken aback, while Archie breathed a small sigh of relief as he saw Hermione enter. He flashed Hermione a smile, hoping she would know what to say or do, but Hermione only shook her head with a small, confused frown and took a seat at Professor Ryan's side. Archie wished she could sit with him, but like Professor Ryan, Hermione was here in her capacity as a representative of the British International Association, and specifically the student branches. They would meet up later, if they could, but now wasn't the time.

Percy slipped in a few minutes later, with a quick nod to Archie as he took a seat between the Heir Naxen and the British International Association. He was the last one Archie personally knew for the next fifteen minutes, however, since while he recognized people by face, or name, or reputation, he couldn't say he knew much about any of them. There was a thin, small man with a twitching nose that he remembered from his trial last year, walking with Hannah Abbott, and Blaise Zabini walked in soon afterwards and took a seat beside them. Cedric Diggory, too, was someone Archie recognized vaguely from the Tournament, but to whom he had never spoken other than in letters. Minerva McGonagall, the Lady Ross, received nods of welcome from Dad and Uncle James, who had been in her House at Hogwarts. Archie gaped with surprise when he saw someone with bright pink hair walk in, beside a solemn, wary-looking man in a turban, both of them dressed in black No-Maj uniforms.

"Tonks!" He grinned, taking a moment to place her – he didn't think he had ever formally met her, but he had heard the stories. The only other Metamorphmagus in the family, and now the only one in the family at present. "You became a Muggle bobbie?"

"Well, I was already doing double duty as the official Auror liaison with Scotland Yard, so when I got fired from the Ministry, I just kept the other job. And that's Detective Constable Tonks to you," she winked, then nodded at the man beside her. Archie wondered, offhand, if he was a No-Maj until he caught a peek of the man's wand, cleverly hidden in a buttonhole. "Sorry, Arch. Work calls. We'll chat later, yeah?"

Saoirse Riordan walked in, a bare five minutes before the meeting started, dressed in emerald green, a magical wind lifting her bell-like skirt in around her as golden Celtic designs ran over her dress like water. She was followed by Sean Docherty, also from Ireland, and a brown-haired woman who could only have been his mother. Archie stood to welcome the group with a smile, but he had barely taken two steps forward when Uncle James grabbed his arm.

"You invited the Tuatha Dé?" he asked, his eyes serious and his voice low. "Archie – they're terrorists."

"And you're a Ministry pig," Saoirse said, her voice crystal as she made clear that she heard him fine anyway. "Better make this worth our while, Archie – we didn't come here to be insulted. Cousin."

The latter comment was directed at Cedric Diggory, who stood and bowed sharply to her, three fingers on his left land touching his right shoulder. "Cousin," he replied, before sitting back down. The three Irish pulled out seats beside him, on the long line connecting the two loose arms of the U, between Diggory and the Lady Ross.

Leo Hurst was next to show up, alone, and Uncle James shot Archie another look as Archie stood up to welcome him, too.

"Thanks for the invitation," Leo replied, tipping him a roguish wink.

"Don't arrest him, Uncle James," Archie warned lightly, and Uncle James sighed as Leo took a seat in an empty space between Hannah Abbott and the British International Association. "He's a guest, today. And he speaks for the Lower Alleys."

"The criminals of the Lower Alleys," Uncle James muttered back, but Archie clapped him on the shoulder.

"They're in good company," he replied with a warning grin. "With me. I have a criminal conviction on record too."

Lord Dumbledore was the last to arrive, which he did much to Uncle James' obvious relief. He and Dad were on their feet immediately, welcoming him with bright smiles, though two thirds of the table stayed sitting. Archie was surprised, for a moment, but winced as he realized that while Lord Dumbledore might have been the head of the Light faction for many years, a symbol of hope for Archie and many halfbloods, he was little more than another noble and a Ministry sympathizer to others.

There was a round of muttering at the table, and Archie winced when he belatedly realized that the group was already divided along traditional lines. Aldon, his adoptive mother, and the Lady Malfoy sat on one end of table, and most of the Light faction was already on the other. Between them sat a range of representatives from other groups – many of them illegal under the Ministry laws, many of whom had no friendship with either the former SOW Party or the Light faction.

Already a great start, he sighed mentally, but the news of Voldemort would override all their differences. It had to – there was no other option.

"Good morning, everyone," Lord Dumbledore began with a kindly smile. "I'm glad that everyone here could make it here today, that we can discuss how to handle the rise of the so-called Voldemort."

There was a mutter from one corner. "And who are you to be taking charge?"

The voice was Irish – not Saoirse or Sean, but the woman who had to be Sean's mother. She stood, brown eyes scanning the group warily. "Mary Docherty. We were invited here by Arcturus Rigel Black, not by you, Lord Dumbledore. Why are you taking charge and leading this discussion?"

Lord Dumbledore paused. "Why, indeed?" he asked, polite, leaning back in his chair. "My apologies. I fell back into my role as the head of the Light faction too quickly. I will happily concede the chair to another."

"Now, wait a minute," Lord Ollivander cut in with a frown. "Lord Dumbledore has more experience than you lot combined. There's no reason why he shouldn't lead this meeting, and I'm not listening to some wet behind the ears pup."

"Then we walk," Saoirse said, standing up briskly. "Voldemort is a problem that you lot created, for which you sought Irish assistance – forgetting, apparently, about the last four centuries of oppression. Deal with your problem yourselves. Whoever your terrorist is, he doesn't much care about Ireland. Sean, Mary, lunch in London before we head home?"

"No, no, hey, calm down," Archie said, standing up quickly with a quick intake of breath. "Look, I'm here. Calm down. We're all in this together – Voldemort killed the Lord Riddle, and the Minister for Magic, and we need to figure out how we're going to work together."

"We're taking it at your word that the Voldemort led a coup of the Ministry and the SOW Party at all," Lady Longbottom added, her voice cold. "My son and daughter-in-law report no changes at the Ministry, and the memorandum that went out states only that the Minister is ill. Where is that evidence, Black?"

"We were there," the former Lady Rosier snapped, her eyes dark with fury. "My dear friend, the Lord Evan Rosier, died there, which is why my son now sits in his seat. The Lord Malfoy fell there as well, as did many others. Good people, most of them."

"Pureblood supremacist bigots," someone corrected her, but when Archie turned his head, he couldn't identify who had said it.

Lady Longbottom scoffed. "He's not your son, Lady Rosier," she reminded the other woman, her voice hard. "I'm not sure what he is, exactly, but the trial showed quite definitively that he isn't your son. I'm surprised another of the Rosier relations hasn't come to knock him off that seat yet."

"They're a little preoccupied with hiding the fact that a madman is now in charge of the SOW Party and the Ministry," Lady Malfoy said, sharp, her blue eyes narrowed in dislike. "I lost my husband in the coup. I was there."

"Then why haven't we heard anything?" Lady Longbottom spread her hands on her side of the table, and Archie could see Lord Ollivander nodding beside her. Worse still, he could see that she was making headway with some of the other minor Lords – the Heirs Naxen and Goldenlake were listening, at least. "There's been no press release from the Ministry, nothing, and my son and daughter-in-law tell me that all is normal at the Ministry."

"But what else would you expect people do?" Percy raised an eyebrow. "There is a command structure at the Ministry, and always work to be done. In times of uncertainty, people will follow their routines in the absence of other directions."

"Lady – Lady Longbottom, if I might interrupt, I would also remind you that the Daily Prophet continues to be out of commission." Armand Abbott raised his hand – Archie remembered, suddenly, that he worked for the paper. "I will be the first to tell you that it was not a… reliable paper in the best of circumstances, and I do note that there was a comprehensive report in Bridge a little under a week ago."

"Bridge," the Lord Ollivander growled, disparaging. "That rag?"

"My spy in Voldemort's ranks confirms that he intends on a soft entry into Wizarding Britain," Aldon interrupted, his voice clear as he tried to bring them back onto the issue. "That involves maintaining normalcy at the Ministry, which handles the operational functions of Wizarding Britain, until he can set up the Daily Prophet again and rewrite the story of his coup into something sympathetic."

"Your spy," someone else muttered, and Aldon glared around the U, looking for the person who had said it.

"Yes, my spy," he confirmed, icy, after a few minutes when he wasn't able to identify the speaker. Neither had Archie, so Aldon was doing about as well as he did. "I would also swear on Justice that the coup happened. I was not there, but my gift and my information are in complete agreement."

"I also had a contact at the meeting," Lord Dumbledore added, his voice quiet but carrying a tone of warning. "Professor Severus Snape was at Malfoy Manor. He advised me of the coup that night, though I did not know the extent or details before the Bridge report. Professor Snape was fortunate enough to escape early in the night, before Voldemort killed Tom."

"As was I," Zabini said, raising a hand. "I was there. I was also fortunate enough to escape just before the attack happened, but I heard, and I saw, the attack behind me as I ran."

"I think that settles the truth of Voldemort's coup at least, or do you need more evidence?" Aldon's words were harsh, but not as harsh as his tone. "Because if so, I would be delighted to pass the word onto my spy, and he can earn some trust with our resident madman by planning a strike on your families."

"That's a perfectly horrible thing to say, Aldon," Hermione snapped, throwing her pen down from where she had been scribbling furiously. "How could you say you would put someone's family out to be attacked? We are trying to build trust and consensus here, not attack each other."

Aldon blinked, then he frowned and nodded. "My apologies. I allowed my frustration to get the better of me. I apologize for those remarks, Lady Longbottom, Lord Ollivander."

"Silver-tongued, the lot of you," Lord Ollivander growled. "I don't believe for a second that you mean that. I've never heard a Rosier mean their apologies."

"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't," Aldon retorted, a flash of anger coming across his face and folding his arms over his chest. "However, if you are not satisfied at this point that Voldemort has indeed taken control of both the SOW Party and the Ministry, with confirmation both from Lina and the Lady Malfoy, who were present, from Mr. Zabini, who was present, and with independent corroboration from Lord Dumbledore, then there is little that I can say now that would convince you. We should move onto the negotiations. I agree that with the Irish that Lord Dumbledore should not be leading these discussions – while I mean him no disrespect, he is the head of the Light faction, and I am a Dark wizard with no historic friendship with the Light faction. My preference would be for Arcturus Rigel Black to moderate the negotiations, with the assistance of his father."

"The British International Association agrees with that choice," Professor Ryan said, inclining her head towards Archie. "We have limited to no past experience of Dumbledore, whether good or ill, but we are familiar with and we trust Arcturus Black, who shares many of our experiences."

"I agree," Neal added, with a quick smile of encouragement at Archie. "Queenscove has not been an active house for long, but despite my invitations, I have never met Lord Dumbledore before today. If not Archie, I would be fine with Lord Black as well."

"My apologies, Queenscove," Dumbledore said, with a small smile. "I did mean to respond to your invitation, and did not intend my silence to be a snub. I was busy."

Neal nodded, brusque. "No matter, Queenscove prefers Archie run the agenda. Please."

Archie paused, glancing at his Dad, who only nodded at him to go on. Archie hadn't prepared for this – or, well, he had, because Hermione had made him. He had thought she was just being over-prepared, as always, but his job had been to get everyone to the bargaining table, he thought. Get everyone to one table, and the issue of Voldemort would be overriding. Get everyone to one table, and Dad, or Lord Dumbledore, or Uncle James would take charge, and they would all start making plans.

He hadn't realized that Aldon wouldn't trust Lord Dumbledore or Uncle James, or that Saoirse would only want to talk to him, or that even the BIA had no reason to trust Lord Dumbledore, or Uncle James, or Dad. They didn't know them, but they did feel like they knew him.

He swallowed, reaching for his bag. Hermione had made him prepare an agenda for the day, printed on a stack of sheets in his messenger bag, but he hadn't bothered to set them out since he assumed someone else would take over and run the meeting. He was prepared, but he wasn't ready for it.

Fake it until you make it, he ordered himself silently. Just like acting. Who do they want to moderate, and who do they need to moderate? He pulled out the stack of printed agendas from his bag. "I'm prepared to lead, if everyone is agreeable?"

"You want me to sit here and listen to a child?" Lord Ollivander stood up. "This is insanity, and I will have no part in it."

"I agree with the Lord Ollivander," Lady Longbottom said, stern. "Lord Dumbledore has the greatest political experience of anyone at this table, but as a compromise, I would be willing to accept Lord Potter taking the chair as well."

"And Ireland walks," Saoirse snapped. "I will not take part in a meeting being led by former leaders of the Wizengamot and the Ministry."

She hadn't called them pigs, which was an improvement, Archie thought with a note of hysteria. At least she had gotten that out of her system, in four hours of phone calls and before the meeting started.

"Then walk," Lord Ollivander replied, with a haughty glare. "This is a table for adults and problem-solvers, and not for terrorists pretending at legitimacy."

"The Tuatha Dé and the Free Irish can raise a fighting force of four hundred between us." Sean Docherty's smile was light, playful, but sharp as a skinning knife. "Sure you want to make that call?"

"Is that a threat?" Lord Ollivander was flabbergasted. "As should be expected of terrorists. Professor McGonagall, surely you have something to add, here – you have worked closely with Lord Dumbledore over many years."

"Now, hold on," Archie said, standing up with his sheaf of agendas and trying to see how he could possibly deescalate this situation, bring people back to the bargaining table. "Everyone, calm down. We're here to talk."

"Sit down, child." Lady Longbottom waved her hand at him, dismissive. "Leave this to those old enough to handle it. I will lead this discussion, if I must."

"Should you step up and do so, Lady Longbottom, House Rosier walks, and I take Stormwing military guidance and my spy network within the Ministry and Voldemort's camp with me." Aldon's voice was icy and Archie felt a blast of cold air from his direction. Aldon had to have been learning from Neal, using his elemental magic to showcase his mood, and Archie winced. "I am not here to wantonly support Light faction decisions, but to discuss a path forward."

There was a murmur of agreement from the connecting line of the U – Cedric Diggory and Saoirse Riordan were nodding, and even a quick, rough count showed that Aldon's supporters outnumbered the Light faction.

There was a moment's pause, before Professor McGonagall spoke. "Lord Ollivander, Lady Longbottom," she said, stiffly polite. "I believe there has been some misunderstanding. I am present here not as one of Dumbledore's staunchest friends and allies, which I am, but as the Lady Ross and as the official emissary of the Clanmeet. The death of Lord Riddle and rise of Voldemort leads to a paradigm shift – I, too, am not here to discuss only what I can do for Wizarding Britain, but also to explore a path forward for the Clans, one in which we are not a part of Wizarding Britain. I believe the Tuatha Dé and the Free Irish are here with the same intent. You have asked for our support to win your war, and expressed a willingness to negotiate, so let us get to it. The Clans may be able to raise a force of a hundred, which I understand is comparable to what the Lord Potter has managed to pull together of Aurors, former Aurors, and Ministry defectors."

"I do expect to be able to pull together more," Uncle James added, a line forming between his eyebrows. "It is early, yet."

"Only because you were caught flat-footed." Aldon smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Nearly half of this table was better prepared – I suppose you and the Light thought we would just show up and be grateful to bask in your glory. Archie, I told you we should have held this meeting at Rosier Place. It would have set the tone better. Otherwise you have this: the Light already thinking they can tell the rest of us what to do."

"Aldon…" Archie sighed, standing, and handed his sheaf of agendas to Dad to pass out. He was glad he had watched Hermione run her Advocacy and Policy meetings at AIM so many times last year – he knew what he was supposed to do. And he had a written agenda for today. He could do it – he could listen to people, and today would be about listening and controlling the room. He glanced at Dad, who smiled at him, encouraging. "Insults will lead us nowhere, so stop it. I'll run the agenda. Any opposition?"

"This is absolutely preposterous," Lord Ollivander snapped, getting to his feet. "I will not sit here and be lectured to by a child, nor entertain these absurdities. The Clans, the Tuatha Dé, the Free Irish – we should not be negotiating with our freedom."

He walked out, and Archie watched him leave, somehow disappointed even if he didn't know the man. He scowled, taking a breath to try to call him back.

"Let him go," the former Lady Rosier said lowly, shaking her head. "He's not worth it – his holdings are sizeable, but far from any of ours. He brings nothing to the table but it would stretch our resources to defend him in case of attack."

"I have to agree with Lord Ollivander, however," the Heir Goldenlake said, his low voice careful. "Not on Mr. Black as the moderator for our discussion, but on the matter of the topics for negotiation. You're telling us that a terrorist has killed Lord Riddle and taken control of the Ministry – this should be our priority. Any other issues should be set aside to later."

"And our view is, if not now, then when?" Professor Ryan replied, tapping the pad of paper in front of her. "The British International Association, as a prominent international lobby group, could assist you in many areas: setting up refugee routes out of Britain, putting pressure on the International Confederation of Wizards and other wizarding governments for humanitarian and military aid. But we have no incentive to do so absent very real promises for change. Some of us are happy living abroad, but many of us would like to come home. We didn't choose our blood – we didn't choose to be expelled from our country."

"And you'll hold aid hostage unless we give you what you want, is that it?" Uncle James snapped, blue eyes sparking. "That's reprehensible. No one at this table, except the Lady Malfoy and the Lord Rosier over there, ever voted for the blood discrimination laws."

"And that's factually incorrect," Aldon interrupted, with a contemptuous glance across the table. "Lady Malfoy has never held the Malfoy vote, let alone any other, and you know full well that I claimed my seat less than two weeks ago. Neither the Lady Malfoy nor I ever personally voted in favour of the blood discrimination laws. Lady Longbottom, by contrast, did vote in favour of the 1981 reforms, and both Lord Ollivander and Lady Longbottom voted in favour of the Marriage Law. Well do I remember having to duck and remain out of sight for many months to avoid unwanted proposals – I, too, am a halfblood."

"Regardless, you need to make a decision," Professor Ryan said, her voice clear and carrying. "British Muggleborns and halfbloods are either a part of the nation you want to save, or we are not. We should not be called on to provide aid to you unless you are prepared to make concessions to us – full repeal of all the blood discrimination laws, including the employment restrictions, schooling laws, and Marriage Law. It should be a small price for pay, if you already disagree with those laws."

"I wish I could agree with you." To his credit, Lord Dumbledore did look apologetic. "I would have no issue making those promises, but the schooling restrictions at Hogwarts were ordered by the Board of Governors. I have no authority to override them, else I would have done so. Similarly, with the Wizengamot – we cannot unilaterally end legislation already passed."

"The Wizengamot is probably finished anyway," Lina said, shrugging. The movement, and her open jacket, flashed her weaponry to the rest of the table. "This kind of coup – rarely do governments return to what they were previously. It would be perfectly appropriate to consider what you might be willing to support or what government you would push to see in the event we don't all die in the next few years."

"There was nothing wrong with our system of government!" Lady Longbottom snapped, and her hand, heavily jewelled with rings, slapped the table. "Nothing except that, according to you, Voldemort has taken over it!"

There was widespread muttering, especially from the Irish, though it looked like others agreed; Hannah had leaned over to whisper something to her father, Cedric Diggory was expressionless, and Hermione had broken her first pen and blue ink was dribbling over her sleeve.

Dad nudged him on the shoulder, and Archie saw that everyone at the table had his agenda already. "Go on, Arch," Dad whispered. "Take charge. I'll back you wherever you need it, and let Lady Longbottom leave if she wants. James can try to talk her around later, and she isn't critical."

Archie nodded. "That's enough, everyone," he said, projecting his voice across the U. "Lord Dumbledore, I invited everyone here, and it seems like more than half of this table agrees that I should run this meeting. Will you oppose?"

"I'm sure you will do admirably." Lord Dumbledore smiled, serene. "I am most interested in a fruitful discussion, and I do not need to be the one to lead it. Please, go ahead, Mr. Black."

Archie nodded again, before turning to the rest of the table. He kept his voice clear and firm – he was in charge, and he had to show it. "From the last forty-five minutes of arguing, I can see that most of us don't know or trust each other, nor do we agree on where we should be going with this meeting. Let's back up, start with introductions – introductions and an opening statement from everyone, please. And we'll address each other by name – first names. We are all equals at this table, and we are trying to come to an agreement. First names will remind us of that."

"Equals—" Lady Longbottom spluttered, then she stood up. "I have no time for these games, nor am I satisfied that there is a situation of risk. I will be leaving. Everyone, I would caution you against following Black into this madness – while he sounds cogent, he is a Black."

She turned and walked out, and Archie heard the clap of Apparition from outside the gates. Ignore it, he told himself sternly, and attempted a smile. "I'd make a joke about how all the best Blacks are insane, but given that my Aunt Bellatrix is, uh, who she is, I somehow don't think that would be appropriate."

He waited for a laugh, but there wasn't one. Instead, most of the remaining Light faction shot him a glare, while Aldon and a few others smiled slightly, humouring him. Archie shook his head, deciding it was probably best to just get on with it. "To start – my name is Arcturus Rigel Black. I go by Archie, or Arch. As many of you know, I am one of the many people behind Bridge. Voldemort has killed the Lord Riddle, along with the Lord Malfoy and the Minister for Magic. Based on Voldemort's own actions over the past two years – the attacks on the 422nd Quidditch World Cup, the Triwizard Tournament, the Hogwarts Express, the Daily Prophet and numerous other targets in the last two years – I strongly believe that he is a threat to us and to everyone who stands for blood equality and the rule of law both. Bridge's analyses indicate that Voldemort stands for pureblood supremacy, to a greater degree than even Lord Riddle did. I am primarily interested in working together against Voldemort, but I am also interested in planning for a better world after Voldemort – one where we are all equal, and one where we all have a voice in government. Narcissa?"

The blonde woman was solemn, taking the moment to think about it. "Lady Narcissa Malfoy," she said eventually, though most of the table had to know who she was. Her voice was even, calm, hinting at little of her emotions. "I was there, the night that Voldemort killed Lord Riddle, and I watched as he tortured and murdered my husband. My son and I escaped with our lives and little more, while Voldemort holds his birthright. I want Voldemort dead, and Malfoy Manor returned to my son. I am willing to negotiate on all else to make it happen."

Archie nodded, seeing that she was done, then gestured for the former Lady Rosier, Aldon's adoptive mother, to go next.

"Lina Avery, Stormwing," the woman said, shaking her head. "Call me Lina. I don't much care for any of the issues, but I made promises to the former Lord Rosier before he passed. I intend to see them through. I stand with my adoptive son, the new Lord Rosier, in all things."

Aldon didn't need a gesture to speak – he went ahead and started, while Archie picked up a pad of paper and started taking notes. He would need them, to keep everyone's statements, the things they wanted and wouldn't want, straight. He should have brought a dicto-quill, or eight. "Lord Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier. I am a halfblood, and my… I am sworn to a Muggleborn. I have to offer information, including from within Voldemort's camp, and I have no interest in handing over anything to this group without certain guarantees being made. A complete repeal of the blood discrimination laws, beginning with the Marriage Law, followed by repeal of the employment and schooling laws. I will also support widespread emancipation."

Archie didn't let the Aldon's tone, rich in unconcealed anger, distract him. "Thank you for that statement, Aldon. Neal?"

On and on, it went. Neal was interested equally in coordinating against Voldemort and wider governmental change, but nearly all of the other Light houses, Lord Dumbledore and Uncle James included, were only interested in fighting against Voldemort and restoring the Wizengamot, with varying degrees of openness to a new system of governance. Some, like Dad and Lord Dumbledore, were willing to discuss it; others, like Goldenlake and Uncle James, didn't think it appropriate to discuss other issues at all until the problem of Voldemort was addressed.

In contrast, for the British International Association, the repeal of the blood discrimination laws and a change in governance, to break the entrenched pureblood hold in government, were non-negotiable. While they had members in Britain, the vast majority of them were not, and Voldemort represented more opportunity than threat. They wanted to come home, but they had lives elsewhere – without promises of a new kind of government, they had no incentive to help at all.

They were echoed, to varying degrees, by the Irish and the Scots. Both the Irish and the Scots would fight against Voldemort on their lands, not wanting his intrusion, but were both ultimately interested in leaving Wizarding Britain entirely. They were agreeable to working collectively, but only within limits, and only if they maintained authority within their territories. They both had sizeable fighting forces to offer, but expected to be treated with like an independent nation and to maintain decision-making authority over their own forces.

Still other groups had other demands. Cedric Diggory, speaking on behalf of the Welsh, wanted a complete repeal of the laws on traditional casting as well as a loosening of the laws restricting witches and wizards from participating in the Muggle world. He had pulled together a small group, only forty or so, but his forty was far more accessible than more than four hundred Irish, and a hundred Clan kin. Armand Abbott, for the shifter alliance, did not push for full governmental change but for a wider voice in the Wizengamot for shifters – ten seats in the Wizengamot or other government body set aside specifically for the shifter community to hold as they chose. In return, he noted a network of fifty shifters, willing to work at any variety of tasks but whose strength was espionage and sabotage.

Still others said little. Leo's introduction was perfunctory, and he only stated that he was there as a representative of the Lower Alleys. He offered nothing and demanded nothing, only saying that he would carry news back to the Lower Alleys. Uncle James looked suspicious, but considering that Archie knew Leo was holding back, he couldn't blame Uncle James for being suspicious. Percy was there on request to provide advice if desired, but he had no position of his own, nor much to offer. Detective Chief Inspector Alokpreet Singh, who had arrived beside Tonks, provided a statement on behalf of the mages working in Scotland Yard, almost thirty strong, and advised their only priority was the protection of the public – the Muggle public – from interference by the wizarding world. They wouldn't fight directly against Voldemort but demanded open lines of communication.

"Why not help more directly?" Uncle James asked, frowning. The question had been meant genuinely, Archie thought, and there wasn't a hint of judgement. "Even if you work in the Muggle world, you have magic."

The tall, turbaned man studied him for a moment. "Do you realize how much time we spend scrubbing the CCTV of Apparition and other magic, even in peacetime? It's as if mages don't realize that Britain has CCTV at all. I think we'll have enough to do, simply generating cover for any major action that might bleed over to the Muggle world, don't you?"

Archie moved on, taking notes of what each group was willing to offer, what they would demand in the meantime, and how they envisioned working. Just the opening statements and replies, interrupted as they were by more argument and frequent breaks for people to clear their heads, took the rest of the day. No small part of that was Archie himself, often with Dad's help, reining in another argument, scolding someone for being unproductive or interrupting someone's speech, and generally cajoling, teasing, and lecturing people to staying on track.

It came down to listening – real listening, not just pretending to listen, and listening to more than what people said. It came down to understanding what people really wanted, what was a posture and what wasn't, and breaking through each of those postures to get to a group's real position. He found a book, Getting to Yes, slipped into his messenger bag after two days, courtesy of probably Hermione, but there wasn't any magic to it – it was just work, endless work, figuring out what promises could be made and what couldn't, what each group considered to be a deal-breaker, and walking people back from their emotions to a point where they could all reason together.

Archie wanted a deal, a firm agreement one that everyone could believe in, that everyone would follow. And he would do what he needed to do to make it happen.

XXX

Leo sighed, Apparating back to the Alleys after another long and exhausting day. After three and a half days, Harry's cousin had finally managed to talk the lot of them into setting aside their differences and into some meaningful action on Voldemort. Wars were complicated creatures, and Black did not have a firm group that would listen to him. Decisions had to be made about what each of group would do and how the alliance would function during the conflict: who would be involved in military decisions, who would take charge of information gathering and flow, supply chain logistics and refugee routes, the million other small duties that went into fighting a war.

Leo understood more than he said about fighting wars. He, after all, had been dealing with Scar in the Lower Alleys for most of the last two years. No one knew where the man had come from, but he had been Leo's personal headache, a thorn in his side, for about that length of time. If Scar had come out and challenged him openly, Leo would have welcomed it, but he didn't – he launched strikes on Leo's most loyal friends and allies, he set traps on traditionally off-limit locations like the Dancing Phoenix and the Maywell Clinic, and he involved innocents who had never been involved with the Rogue into his schemes. It was a daily war, one that Leo couldn't be sure if he was winning or not.

He hated to admit it, but he was tired. How long had he been the Rogue, now? He had been fifteen when he had won his title the traditional way, in trial by combat. Only fifteen, and he was twenty-two now. Twenty-two, and he had been fighting for two years or more, outside the usual Rogue duties, and that wouldn't end anytime soon.

There was no one to replace him. Marek always said he wanted it, but even those comments and challenges had tapered off since Scar had become an issue. And Leo couldn't just walk away from his responsibilities – the Rogue might have his hand in a hundred illegal activities at once, but he was also the ruling force down here. He saw to it that the streets were cleaned, that Floo stations and other public utilities were maintained, that orphaned children were looked after, that something like order prevailed. Whatever the Department of Magical Law Enforcement thought, the Alleys were one of the few places where vampires, Squibs, thieves, werewolves, and law-abiding witches and wizards could co-exist relatively peacefully.

It was a position of honour, and he carried out the duties of his office with pride. But however long Archie and his allies had been dealing with war, Leo had been doing it longer, and he was tired. He was tired, and stretched thin with hours of negotiations every day on top of his regular duties, and before he could even think about going home to sleep, he needed to meet with Marek and Rispah, hear the word in the Lower Alleys, and provide instructions for another day.

He wished Harry were home. Not because she would have necessarily helped him with any of his duties, though her potions expertise was appreciated, but because he liked having her around. She was his friend – she was someone who knew him and liked him, someone who hadn't grown up with him and who didn't answer to him as the Rogue. Just a friend, and someone who provided Leo a place where he could just be Leo, not the Rogue, not anything more. She gave him a space to breathe, to relax, and with Harry, Leo could just have fun. And she was off, somewhere in the big, wide, world, and Leo missed fun.

He cracked open the door to the Dancing Phoenix, smiling when he saw that Marek and Rispah were already waiting for him. Old Solom had set out a steaming chicken pot pie at his usual place at the table, probably fresh from the oven and filled with crisp peas that would pop in his mouth, and there was a tankard of his favourite dark ale, too.

"You all treat me better than you should." Even saying so, Leo sighed happily as he slid into the seat they had left for him. "Keep this up, and I'm going to think I'm noble or something."

"I'll take care of it if you do, don't you worry about that." Rispah tilted a small, cat's smile at him. "But you look awful, Leo. You aren't made for this sittin' and politickin' business. It's bad for your health."

"And don't I know it," Leo quipped, digging into his pot pie with another heavy sigh. "Three days. It took three days for Black to break through the bullshit and get down to business. But in the process, he's talked almost everyone with any sort of political power to commit to referendums on Irish and Scottish independence, a full repeal of the blood discrimination laws, and more talks on governance after Voldemort is finished. Don't know if he can promise any of it, but I wrangled seats for the Alleys at the later talks."

"Think it'll lead anywhere?" Her voice was skeptical, but she was leaning back, her blue eyes looking upwards in thought. She didn't think it would lead anywhere, but Leo could see the wisp of hope around her, nonetheless.

"Think we even need it?" Marek replied, one eyebrow raised as he shot them both a disbelieving look.

"We were a part of the formal government before." Leo's smile was teasing – with the length of time that had passed, few remembered the time when there had been commoners in the Wizengamot. Half the hall was technically reserved for them, and all those seats now used for the Book of Copper noble families had once been the purview of commoners. It was only that those seats had always gone to the same people, and eventually they had just been ennobled, and no one had replaced the commoner seats. "If it happens, I think it'd be a good thing. The British Muggle government has a House of Commons alongside the House of Lords, speakin' for the people, and it works well enough. Really, the government should be doing a huge part of our jobs – providing social services, public utilities, that sort of thing."

"Pipe dream, askin' nobles to care about any but their own." Marek shook his head. "You're idealists, the both of you."

"Sometimes, you need a little idealism, Swift." Leo grinned back, taking a bite of his pie. "Lets you dream and come up with new things for a better world, you know?"

"Got more things to worry about here," Marek replied, but he smiled anyway. "While you were off sittin' in a chair and eating food off them rich nobs tables, we were looking into Scar and keepin' an eye on things here."

"Rich nobs food ain't as good as this." Leo sighed, contented. There was nothing like one of Old Solom's chicken pot pies. They were stuffed full of goodness, only Ma's pies were better. Nothing beat Ma's pies. "And you followed your orders, good for you. What have you got for me?"

Marek exchange a look with Rispah, who shook her head, her mouth pressed into a thin, hard, line. "Not much. Not enough. Scar's been quiet, too quiet, and his last hidey-holes are clear. Maybe we shouldn't have cleared them out, a month back – now we have no idea where he is."

"We had to clear them out," Leo reminded her, wrapping his hands around his tankard of ale. "They were posing a risk to the neighbourhood, and we had good info that Scar was hiding in the one on Kingsgate. So, he's in the wind – it was a risk. Back to the drawing board then, you know the drill. Ask around, check in on our key contacts, the covens and werewolves and so on."

"There's the problem, boss." Marek shook his head again. "Half our contacts aren't talking, too scared, and the other half don't know. The Strigoi Shrouds are gone – Wizarding Britain is too hot for them, they said. Took off to the south of Italy."

"Damn," Leo cursed, taking a swig of his ale. The strikes last month, a coordinated one that hit three of Scar's hideouts at once, had been his best shot so far at wiping out his enemy. He had lost four in it, and even if he had scooped up a good number of Scar's men while he was at it, the losses were still sorely felt. "We keep looking. Someone will talk, eventually. It's a long game."

"You think there's any relation to Voldemort?" Rispah's words were careful, but Leo knew her well enough to know that she had probably been pondering the question for some time. "Wizarding Britain is small, Leo. Hard to believe they're not related."

Leo shrugged, shaking his head. "Who knows? Scar was doing some recruiting in the Alleys awhile back – you heard the rumours, so did we all. But I don't know that it was related to Voldemort, because even if the timing works, the motives are different. According to Avery and Malfoy, who were at the coup, Voldemort's big speech was oriented towards pureblood families that never managed to make it powerful, make it noble."

"That ain't wrong, for the Lower Alleys." Marek scrunched up his forehead, thinking about it.

"But it ain't right, either." Leo sighed. "Most people in the Alleys can't prove their blood status, and we've too many Squibs. Voldemort doesn't help us – Black's big ideas of widespread citizenship and emancipation help us better. We're more likely to be Bridge readers than Voldemort followers."

"Down here, maybe," Rispah interrupted with a grimace. "Down here in Market district, or Patten or Cesspool, sure, but the upper districts like Unicorn, Flash, Highfields – they're exactly that type. Pureblood, have been for generations, but never made it into the noble or elite families. Know much about who Voldemort's got on his side?"

Leo shook his head. "No more than what we knew before. Malfoy was too in shock, Avery too busy breakin' out, I think, and both of them are shit at identifying anyone not noble. Aldon Rosier has the best information out of Voldemort's camp, but he's been spending more time getting into fights than he does sharing information. Anyway. Black's talks are moving on to Voldemort. Things are still shaking out, but I think James Potter and the Light faction are going to end up with authority over most of the military action. Potter is pulling together Ministry defectors, recently fired Aurors, that lot, and that group will probably only trust Potter and Dumbledore. Scots and Irish will probably end up keeping full control over their own forces, but not sure who'll give directions when they're outside Scotland and Ireland or how things will work for joint actions. Logistical details, it'll probably be a mix, they're still working that out."

"What about refugees?" Rispah was frowning. "They're going to have refugees – we're already seeing some in the Alleys. It's going to flow into our territory, and we need to have plans for this. We can't take in that many people."

"They're talkin'." Leo's tankard of ale was empty, and he looked around, flagging one of the wait staff for another. "If they can persuade the British International Association fully on board, they might be able to work something internationally. I'll raise it though, tomorrow – you're right, we can't take in that many into the Alleys, even if I'd like to."

"Talkin'." Marek shook his head again, disgusted. "They been talking for days."

"You should try it, sometime." Leo shot him a grin. "It's a different way of doing things, but Black's making progress, more than I thought anyone would. Anything else I should be adding, in the discussions? What have we got to offer, if Voldemort comes onto our turf?"

"Not much." Rispah blew out a heavy breath. "Numbers are down, with the Scar situation. He's been pickin' us off, Leo. We have forty people still in fighting condition, but we can't do anything more, not with Scar still on the loose. And you know it would never work. We can't work with Aurors, there are too many trust issues, and most of us aren't trained, not like they are. No formal schooling, and our wands, for those of us who even have them, aren't ideally matched. Tell them we'll keep an ear out down here. We can pass on anything we hear down here."

Leo sighed in return, taking a swig from his new tankard of ale, which Phillip had just delivered. "No, you're right. I'll raise the refugee issue. Think I should raise the Scar issue? I wasn't sure it was related, but it's a reason why we can't do more, and they can make of it what they want. Voldemort could be related."

Rispah exchanged a look with Marek, thinking it over. Marek shrugged – he didn't like questions like these, which were a little more divorced from everyday practical problems. Rispah clicked her tongue against her teeth. "I think that's up to you, Leo. I don't see the harm in it – I don't think they'll care, honestly – but maybe you should. It's also a reason for them to leave us out of the refugee picture. We're just managing to take care of our own, right now. We can't take in more."

Leo nodded. "I'll think about it, then. See if it comes up naturally, or I'll work it into the refugee route discussions. Thanks, Rispah, Swift. Any word from Harry?"

"You're welcome, as always, Leo." Rispah smiled back, tilting her head slightly in a move that Leo knew was very effective on her admirers. "And nothing new. Our message got through, I know that much, but no reply yet."

"Thanks, Rispah." Leo sighed, stretching his neck a little. He was getting old – he could feel something in his upper back pop. "Appreciate it, as always."

"Finish your ale and go sleep, Leo." She smacked him on the shoulder, cheerful. "We'll hold the fort here, while you play at bein' a politician."

The Alleys were quieter – quieter than usual, in a way that Leo did not like. The Alleys were a strange place. If things were good, the Alleys were loud. People were out on the streets, chatting, arguing, getting in brawls, and causing trouble that he or Marek or one of his other lieutenants would have to go sort out. It was only when things were bad that things were quiet like this. People were only quiet when they were scared, when they decided to hide indoors with their families rather than go out. It wasn't a good sign.

But it was normal now. This had just been the state of the Alleys over the past year, and with time, Leo was finding it harder to remember the earlier times. There was nothing he could do about it that he hadn't already been doing, that he hadn't already tried to do, so he kept a wary eye about him heading home.

It was too quiet.

His apartment wasn't far from the Dancing Phoenix. He could have taken rooms at the Phoenix, of course, and many past Rogues had, but Leo liked his independence. His apartment was small, only a kitchen, a sitting room, a bathroom and a bedroom, plainly furnished, but it was his. Sometimes, he wondered if he shouldn't just get a room at the Phoenix – he was there all the time anyway, and it wasn't as if he used his kitchen or sitting room at all – but he always felt good, walking into his own apartment, so he could never really regret it.

He didn't have anything at home, but it was fine, because he had two tankards of ale and a pot pie in him and he was exhausted. Who would have thought that days of treaty negotiation would be so exhausting? He had had days of fighting that weren't so exhausting, and all he was doing at Black's meetings was sitting, listening, taking notes, occasionally throwing in a comment of his own. He wasn't physically active at these meetings, but there's was something exhausting nonetheless about them, something draining about the need to pay close attention to what everyone had said, and to what no one was saying.

He shut the door behind him, twisting his wand to set his alarm spells – not only on his own apartment, but there were a few down the street, as well. Leo liked having forewarning of anything happening and his first alarm spells, at the corners to his little block, would give him an extra five minutes of time. In a situation of emergency, an extra five minutes could mean the world.

It was those alarms that woke him first. His wand, and his magic, blaring like a siren and burning in his chest, told him to wake up, to get up now. His life was about trusting his instincts, and he rolled out of bed, snatching his wand from his nightstand, falling towards his window, one hand reaching for the latch.

A dragon swept down the street, its mouth open in a silent roar. It didn't need to make sound, not over the crackle of flames that Leo could see already consuming the Alleys. It couldn't make noise anyway, because it wasn't a real dragon, and there were other shapes, chimaeras and giant serpents, griffins and giant eagles, forming and springing their way through the cobblestone streets. They were made of flames, red with flashes of green, violet, and blue, the frontrunners of the fire that licked and ate the Alleys that he loved.

"Fire!" Leo's wand was out, and he cast the loudest Caterwauling Charm he could manage, then a Wailing Charm just for good measure. He didn't know if they would be enough—

No. He knew they wouldn't be enough. He couldn't cast anything powerful enough to hit all the districts, and that was for people who hadn't already been overcome. This wasn't just fire, but Fiendfyre, alive and sentient and hungry with only one, overriding goal: to consume. Water, whether enchanted or not, wouldn't do more than slow the flames. There was a Charm that could stop Fiendfyre, but Leo didn't know it. And even if he did know it, these flames covered too much of the Alleys, and he didn't have the magical power for it.

He raised his wand, thinking about Harry, thinking about lunch in the courtyard of the Dancing Phoenix, thinking about afternoons spent rolling in the dirt teaching her how to free duel. "Expecto Patronum!" he roared, and his coyote erupted from his wand, leaping into the air. "Message. The Alleys are on fire – Fiendfyre. Wake up, we need to work!"

The first coyote went to Marek, the second to Rispah, the third to the Maywell Clinic. The fourth went to Old Solom, the fifth to Aled Flint, the sixth to Will Weasley. Coyote after coyote went out, to anyone that Leo could think of, to anyone who might be able to help, to anyone who might know the Charm to stop Fiendfyre.

He needed to buy time for his people to run. The Alleys burned too easily, too many buildings made of wood, and fire was a danger even without Fiendfyre. But Fiendfyre was a complication; Fiendfyre was something that the Alleys could not put out with just water, Fiendfyre was made by magic and could only be ended by magic. Advanced magic, to Leo's knowledge, and likely advanced Light magic. Not his magic, not magic that most people in the Alleys would ever have the opportunity to learn.

He didn't have time to learn a new Charm now, if he could even find the counter-spell for Fiendfyre.

He hesitated, and his last coyote went to Arcturus Rigel Black. Black wasn't Harry, but Black had once offered his help, with anything, no strings attached.

And Leo needed help. Leo needed all the help he could get, because his Alleys were burning.

Then he tore out of his apartment, bolting down the street, heading towards the Dancing Phoenix. He would see who he had, who had come to his call, and set up a command centre for further action.

XXX

ANs: I know I'm early even for me, so blame (or thank?) COVID-19. It doesn't mean more or faster updates, unfortunately, because I'm in an essential service position, so I just get to work from home a bunch, but there you have it. Fun facts about this chapter-after I wrote the Chess talking to herself about how no one could meet her at the gate anyway because security, I learned that in the pre-9/11 era, this actually was a thing that people could do! 9/11 really changed how we handle airport security. Yes, Aldon is a bit of a tool in this chapter, but let's all remember he just turned 19, and he's being told to walk into enemy territory where he knows perfectly well that people won't like him, and judging by Neal's experience with Queenscove, he's probably doing it all with a magical backlash headache.

Thanks always to my wonderful beta-reader meek_bookworm (and I'm sorry I can't fly to visit you now *cry*), and to everyone else who reads, reviews, or comments! Remember, reviews are writing fuel, so looking forward to hearing your thoughts! Oh, and for those of you who prefer AO3, I am actively cross-posting now on AO3, so choose your platform at your leisure!