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.

5. Chapter 5

"And this is the primal keystone to Rosier Place," Aldon said, brushing one hand along the dark stone that made the desk in his private study. Francesca looked around the room – the furnishings didn't look like the sort of things that Aldon would choose for himself. The bookshelves that lined one wall were almost entirely devoid of books, instead showing elegant if useless items from around the world. There was a golden globe, shining and outdated, showing the USSR rather than the conglomerate states that the Soviet Bloc had devolved into more than five years ago; a white, faux-marble bust of someone who had to be related to Aldon, with his same nose and keen eyes; a porcelain vase that had a vaguely Asian antique look, but more like what a Westerner would think of as Asian rather than an actual Asian antique.

The only part of the room that looked like Aldon's was the desk. It was clean, with a black blotter and a stack of leather notebooks piled high on one side. A wooden box held a mix of quills and fancy fountain pens upright, and there was a bottle of ink and stick of wax beside it. A basket sitting on the bookshelf nearby held scrolls – blank, Francesca guessed.

She had just received possibly the most expansive tour of Rosier Place that anyone outside the family had ever received, and she now knew the defenses almost as well as Aldon and Lina did. She knew exactly where each trap and mine was set, and she knew how to set them off. She had been walked through every secret passage, been shown every hidden shield spell, collapse spell, and protective ward.

Aldon might not live in a castle, not the way that Neal did, but Rosier Place was still a fortress, if only a magical one.

"Come," Aldon said, breaking her reverie. She glanced at him – he wasn't looking at her, instead down at his desk. He didn't look at her often, but she sometimes caught him staring when he thought she wasn't looking. "My research suggests that you'll be able to access the wards and defenses from the primal keystone. I can access them anywhere, but as the—"

He stopped suddenly, clearing his throat awkwardly. "You'll need to access them here, if you need to do it at all. I hope you will not."

Francesca didn't pry into what he hadn't said. She had her guesses, and she wanted none of them confirmed. She took a few more steps forward to stand beside him.

She hadn't forgiven him for the Unity Ball. She hadn't forgotten, either – how could she, when what he had done had had such wide-reaching effects? But maybe it was something she could move past, when other things became more important.

They were at war. Francesca hadn't really appreciated that beforehand, when she stepped off a plane into Britain. It was so hard for her to put together what that meant, from the safety of America, when the news she had been exposed to at home showed No-Maj Britain at peace. Even sitting across from Neal and Aldon, who had done their best to explain, hadn't made much impact. For Francesca, Blake & Associates was here. All of her collaborators were here, and at least two of them would never be dragged away. Her research was here, and she wanted the ACD to be real, a pretty pink machine on her own arm, as fast as possible. Her mind had been decided before she had come, and she wasn't going to be swayed, not by Neal, or Aldon, or John, or anyone. This was her future and turning away felt like giving up.

But then the Lower Alleys had burned, and the war became very real. She remembered the smoke and ash, the flames towering higher than any building, and she remembered the bodies. She wasn't even supposed to be there, but Lina had demanded it because she was a Light witch, the only Light witch they had other than Aman. Aldon had argued against taking her with them, but Lina had overruled him, slamming a defensive magic book into his chest. And so she had went.

Maybe she should have packed up and left, after the Lower Alleys attack. It wouldn't even be difficult for her to leave now, and Aldon would probably encourage it. Will and Tina would let her and Bubbles impose on them, and a plane ticket home to America was easy to arrange. Her parents would welcome her home to San Francisco, and Ilvermorny would still accept her transfer papers. But her research was here, and Francesca had always had a stubborn streak. It was obstinacy that had gotten her through her first few months at AIM, her obstinacy that had created the first prototype ACD, that had taken her through the Tournament and through everything that followed. Maybe Francesca was stupid when it came to certain things, especially her ACD, but if she was, it wasn't something she could stop.

Something in her balked at the idea of running from Wizarding Britain. Christie was not leaving. Aldon was not leaving. Aman and Albert, British-born citizens both, were staying, and even Jessica, newly arrived from Australia, was unwilling to leave her No-Maj husband, newly appointed to a tenured professorship at the University of Leeds. No one else was leaving, and Francesca wouldn't either.

The Lord Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier was very different from the Aldon Étienne Blake she remembered. Aldon Blake had been someone she looked at like someone around her age, with all the familiarity that implied. He had been friendly and gentle, easy to talk to about runes, magical theory, and anything else that had come to mind once she had gotten to know him. Aside from his accent, he hadn't seemed all that different than John, or Neal, or Archie.

The Lord Rosier, by contrast, felt worlds apart. When he joined them in the library to work on the ACD, she sometimes saw flashes of the Aldon Blake she remembered, but he often had other responsibilities. For the most part, when she saw him, he was formal, serious and polite, fulfilling his duties as the Lord of the manor. He was much more reserved, careful about what he said and stiffly considerate.

Francesca didn't forgive Aldon for the Unity Ball. It was just less important against the backdrop of war, and Aldon wasn't the person she remembered anyway.

She reached out, resting her hand on the primal keystone, and gasped as a wave of information assaulted her. She could feel the wards, now – thirty-seven different spells, woven together, some of which had to have been laid centuries ago and refreshed by each successive Lord. The last fifteen or so felt newer, more barbed and ready to react, and she suspected they had been the ones added by Aldon himself. She could sense the secondary keystones, eleven of them laid across the grounds, and she could trigger nearly all the emergency spells from here.

It was the same feeling she had when she looked at John, a wild influx of information and knowledge rushing into her head. And like when she looked at John, she breathed through it and rode it out. She started sorting the information – unlike looking at John, at least the knowledge didn't change, so she slowly separated the wards from the other protective spells. Having toured Rosier Place extensively beforehand, the manor made an ideal mind palace, so she set up a mental representation and slowly started putting each protective spell where it belonged.

"Are you all right?" Aldon's hand was resting on her lower back, his thumb making a soothing circular motion. She wasn't sure he knew he was doing it, but she thought he would stop if she drew any attention to it.

She didn't mind. His hand was warm, and it was comforting. It didn't have to mean anything.

"It's fine," she murmured, running her hands lightly across the stone. "I think – thirty-seven spells woven into the ward, is that right?"

"For now," Aldon replied, sounding grim. "I still want to weave in a few more. Let me walk you through each of the spells and how to trigger them – if you need to use them, Francesca, I want you to use them. I mean it."

She looked up, studying him for a moment – his molten eyes were firm, serious, and his hand had stilled. They were standing a little closer together than she was used to aside from when they danced together, but she found that she didn't mind. She wondered, briefly, if she should mind.

"Okay," she said, and paid close attention to his detailed explanation of the wards.

Since her argument with Aldon in the Rosier ballroom, Francesca had also paid three visits to Queenscove, testing everyone there for ACD compatibility. Neal had been ecstatic to find that he did fall within the range that they could make prototypes for, as did his brother Graeme and his cousin Fei Long, but they were unfortunately the only ones. Following Aldon's orders, she went next to Grimmauld Place, testing both Sirius and Archie. Both had matched, and while Aldon hadn't asked that Archie be tested or that he be given one of the few, rare ACDs, Francesca thought it should be fine. Even if Archie wasn't supposed to be in any combat, she would want him to have one just in case.

She didn't know anyone else anyway, nor had she really tried to meet anyone. So many people came in and out of Rosier Place, and a few even lived at Rosier Place, but unless they were specifically introduced to her, she never bothered to try to interact with any of them. She had her elegant suite of rooms, and she had Blake & Associates; what more did she need? She had calls with John every night from Geneva, and occasionally John would ask her to pass a particularly sensitive detail onto Aldon and the others for him. John didn't particularly like Aldon anymore, nor was he happy about Francesca's decision to stay in Britain, but there was little he could do about it other than remind her, ad nauseum, that she would be welcome to join him and Gerry, or Will and Tina, in Geneva. Or his family in New York City, or almost anywhere that wasn't Wizarding Britain.

It was a few days later that Aldon walked into the Rosier Place library where she and the others were working across one of the big library tables. Since they used the magic-free room specifically for building new ACDs and working with No-Maj electronics, and the other was too small for comfortable collaboration, they tended to spread into the rest of the library if it was otherwise empty.

"I hate to disturb you all," Aldon said, setting a book and a small bag onto the table. He didn't take a single look at her, but Francesca could see the words on the manual clearly from across the table: The Floo Regulatory Authority Manual. "I have good news to report, but also a request to make. We successfully removed our Floo point from the Floo Network last night with none the wiser, as well as forty-six other locations central to our resistance. The … mission's strike team also recovered these from the Floo Regulatory Authority – is there any way that we could recreate a similar network between our safehouses?"

Francesca glanced at the others around the table – Jessica and Aman were shaking their heads, not in denial but only a signal that they didn't know. It was too far out of their specialties. Albert was already reaching for the book, while Christie was reaching into the bag, pulling out pegs and studying them thoughtfully.

"It's not my specialty," Albert said, flipping through the book, sounding very reluctant. "I do have some friends from my AIM days who went on to work for the Floo networks in America, so I could ask them some questions, but I can't promise anything."

"These pegs are alchemical in nature." Christie was turning one of them, with a tag reading McKinnon Residence, over and over in her fingers. "That isn't surprising. The ability of the Floo Network to link together an area as large as the British Isles always suggested that alchemical efficiency had to be involved. However, I doubt it is needed in everyday practice – the Floo Regulatory Network is considered to be a part of the Ministry of Magic for employment purposes, and while Dumbledore is one of the greatest alchemists living, Hogwarts doesn't have much of an alchemy program. They simply don't have the in-house expertise for alchemy to be needed for Floo maintenance."

"Could you recreate it?" Aldon turned his bright eyes towards Christie, hopeful. "If you could, it would … simplify our internal travel immensely. The current system, relying on Apparition, is risky, since it requires leaving warded space and not everyone is comfortable Apparating on their own."

"What about Portkeys?" Albert asked, leaning forward thoughtfully as he passed the manual to Christie. "Not individual Portkeys, which can be lost, but a Portkey Hub at each location. My Mastery was in large-scale transportation spells, so it wouldn't be too much trouble to set everything up, and since someone would need to be monitoring the connection at both ends for it to function it would be more secure than the Floo. With forty nodes and constant coverage, you could manage with…" He paused, running the numbers in his head. "Fifty wizards, but fewer if you remove nodes or if you only intend to keep it open for certain time periods."

Aldon tilted his head, frowning. "We don't have fifty wizards to dedicate to managing a large-scale transportation network. I am doubtful that we would even have a single person at each house that could micro-manage it to the extent necessary for effective use. In retrospect, perhaps I should have asked the strike team to destroy the Floo Network entirely – then, if a safe house was lost, they wouldn't expect the Floo to work at all and it wouldn't be considered an access point. Christie, how does it look?"

Christie had found a large diagram showing the Floo Hub – Francesca saw a picture of a stone table, heavily engraved with runes, with hundreds of pegs lying underneath. "I don't know yet. I think with time we could reverse-engineer it, but the materials required for something like this… it wouldn't be easy, and if the Ministry is watching it could be very conspicuous."

"A Portkey Hub would also need materials," Albert added with a grimace. "It's more spellwork than anything else, but I would still need quite a bit of silver wire."

"I – um, for the ACD," Francesca cut in, a little hasty. "We're also out of materials for the ACD. I can, um, put in an order and the No-Maj materials through my dad, have them shipped here. We should organize a, um, post box location."

"That I can help with," Jessica added, putting one hand on the table. "My husband can take the shipments at the University of Leeds – two No-Maj professors collaborating, Stanford to Leeds, isn't going to be too suspicious. I can go and pick it up, no problem."

Aldon frowned, thinking it over. "You can Apparate, I assume? How well known are you in Wizarding Britain?"

"I can Apparate, and not at all." The woman shrugged. "I'm an Aussie, schooled at Oceania. I reckon a few people in the Potions community might have heard my name, but I haven't stepped into the Guild here—I wouldn't expect anyone to recognize me to see me."

"Defensive capabilities?"

Jessica winced. "I did the requirements at Oceania for Defense, but not much aside from that. I focused on Potions otherwise."

Aldon sighed, shaking his head. "That isn't ideal, but nothing seems to be. Stick to Muggle public transit as much as possible, and we will have to hope that your anonymity is enough. Francesca, would you and Albert put together a list of materials you both need? Christie and I will work on the alchemical materials. If Lord Potter's strike is successful, we don't have to worry about it, but I would rather we plan for the worst. It is … a little outside your usual role, and I appreciate that this is a significant favour, but in the current circumstances…"

"It's fine, Aldon," Christie said, putting the manual down. "We understand. It'll take awhile to get the materials anyway, so we can continue with ACD research in the meantime. Francesca will make the list of materials for the ACD, Albert for the Portkey Hubs, and I'll take a look at the Floo Network setup in my spare time."

"Thank you." A weak smile flitted across Aldon's face, and Francesca couldn't help feeling something for him. This was Aldon. As different as the Lord Rosier was from the Aldon she thought she knew, that only made the flashes of the Aldon she recognized more prominent. He caught her staring and tilted his head in question.

She blushed and looked away.

XXX

Neal tilted the ACD on his forearm, admiring the way that the light shone off the plastic cover, tinted blue. He had less time to train with it than he would like, but the few times he had taken it out had been fun. Graeme and Fei were in the lists in a practice duel, trying it out, and judging from the shit-eating grin on Fei's face, it was Christmas.

"Ha!" Fei yelled, and there was a swipe of her fan, just under Graeme's guard, and Graeme fell back. It was only a training match, so it wouldn't be anything too bad, just a warning. "And now you're dead."

"Thanks for that, Fei," Graeme replied dryly, picking himself up. "As if I didn't know."

"The pretty thing on your arm only helps you if you use it." Fei nodded to the ACD that was still flashing on Graeme's arm. "You should have fired it; the shield is almost instantaneous. It's amazing."

"You try balancing about four different casting methods, Fei," Graeme grumbled. "Sword, wand, runes, and now an ACD? It's too much."

His mother, watching on the sidelines, tsked. "Drop the wand entirely, Yuanrong. Wand magic is more versatile, but you need versatility less than speed on the battlefield. Your sword magic is stronger than your wand magic—leave your wand behind when we go. Take ten minutes, and then you come back, without your wand."

"Yes, Mama." Graeme sighed, turning from the field and slumping on the bench beside Neal. "Shit."

"You're an active-duty Auror." Neal kept his voice down, lest his mother hear, patting Graeme on the back. "You have more experience than any of us."

"C'est pas le même chose," Graeme replied, equally quiet. "I'm trained to hold back, Neal – as an Auror, or even in the Tournament, we were trained to hold back, because we never wanted to really hurt anyone."

"Yuanren! It's your turn." His mother was calling him, and Neal winced.

"You survived the Ministry Unity Ball attack, same as I did," Neal reminded Graeme quickly as he stood up. "You'll make it through this, too. I'm counting on it."

"Good luck," Graeme called after him, as Neal saw Dom walking in on the other side. "Mama's on a tear."

Graeme was right, and Neal fought his way through six more fights, including two three-on-one fights, before they were let go for the day. With the upcoming strike on Malfoy Manor, his mother had instituted a formal training regimen for all of them, regardless of whether they would see active combat or not. The Queenscove contingent was on the left flank, under the formal command of Lina Avery. Neal would be there, and Graeme, Fei, Kel and his mother. Dom, a weaker fighter than the rest of them, would be left to hold the fort at Queenscove with Yuki. Neal was glad they would stay behind, but he could feel the tension in the air as well as anyone else.

Sirius was in the main group, leading beside James Potter, whom Neal hadn't come to know every well but had no reason to doubt. His mother had gone to most of the meetings for Queenscove instead of him – if Neal could avoid politics forever, he would be perfectly happy about it. Two weeks of formal treaty negotiations were enough for a lifetime, and his mother actually seemed to enjoy the meetings, so he left her to it and instead enforced her training regimen at home.

He even roped in Aldon, at least every other day. Aldon sorely needed the practice, and he never would unless Neal physically went over to Rosier Place to drag him back to Queenscove for it – he would always find something else to do. Neal had given him at least two lectures on the importance of training already, and while Aldon always nodded and agreed, he still never found his way to Queenscove on his own. Neal wasn't sure if Aldon was purposely being an idiot about training, or if it genuinely slipped his mind. He could only be thankful that Aldon would not be involved in the strike – he just didn't have the skill, and Lina wouldn't hear of it.

The precise date of the strike wasn't disclosed – as his mother put it, they were keeping the time frame flexible just in case Voldemort had managed to get any spies in their organization. Neal agreed with the decision, but the tension grew worse, day by day. He started waking up earlier, the nerves getting to him, training later. It wasn't good for him, and the meditative breathing that Yuki taught him only went so far. He ate normally, trained normally, but his stomach seemed full of flutters every time he thought about it.

He wasn't the only one. His mother was driving them harder as the days wore on, and they all took it seriously. Everyone they had going was strong, but battles were fickle things. They were each showing the effects – he and Fei joked more, laughed more, became more flippant and less serious, while his mother, Kel, and Graeme doubled down, spending longer in the lists as each day passed. It was a very different thing, going on the offensive, compared to going somewhere and waiting for an attack.

Lord Potter was throwing almost the entirety of their forces behind this strike. Aside from a few people here and there left to defend their strongholds, just as Dom and Yuki were being left at Queenscove, everyone would be involved. Taking Malfoy Manor would be a huge victory – it would be the legitimate government regaining control over the country, revealing the coup, before Voldemort could secure his hold on the Ministry. Losing, however, would be a disaster – it would only add fuel to Voldemort's comments, and Lord Potter knew it.

There was nothing special about the day of the strike. It was mid-July, when his mother stood in the centre of the circle of combatants in the lists.

"Today," she said, short and succinct, her expression grim. "So, no training. Save your energy and do what you must – we move out at sunset. Dismissed."

Neal exchanged a look with the crowd of people around him: Mama, Dom, Graeme, Kel, Fei and Yuki. Dom had turned away, shaking his shoulders out, and Neal could almost feel the nerves his cousin was trying to throw off. Kel was expressionless, but her hazel eyes rested on him, while Yuki had gone pale. Graeme's expression turned grim, and Neal would bet that, no matter what Mama had said, Graeme would be in the lists all day, keeping himself limber. He looked towards Yuki.

If he had only today, he knew what he wanted to do with it.

"Let's walk somewhere," he suggested, holding his hand out towards her. "On the grounds, but… somewhere."

Yuki smiled weakly, taking his hand and following him outside.

Queenscove was beautiful. Over the last year, Neal had had many feelings towards his castle: anger and frustration, but also a growing appreciation and respect. His castle was built to last – it had stood for more than a millennium and a half, it had existed through almost a century abandoned, and it was still here. Neal had memories here now, not just with new friends like Aldon and Alex, but with his family. Will had already asked to borrow the castle for his wedding, which wouldn't happen for a few years now that the war had started, and his parents, Graeme, and Jessa loved their ancestral home.

Yuki loved Queenscove, and his castle seemed to love her in return. There were people that his castle clearly liked more than others. Neal, Yuki, Francesca, and his parents seemed to have the castle's favour, while Kel, Dom, Fei and Graeme seemed to run into endless problems. The castle was capricious, moving things around at will, and there had been more than one embarrassing incident already. He couldn't help but smile at the memories, though – all the best stories made it back to him, mostly in the form of complaints.

The sea, forming the backdrop for his castle, crashed into the cliffs lying underneath Queenscove. If he concentrated, he could always hear the sea, rushing in and out even within the comfort of Queenscove. Outside, on the grounds, he could smell the brine in the air, he could feel the salt spray as they walked along the cliff's edge.

This close to Scotland, the grounds were rocky. They weren't so far away from the Highlands, at Queenscove, and the terrain showed it. There was very little tree cover across his grounds, only rocks and heather. The open grounds were good for defense, Neal knew – there was next to no tree cover for an enemy to hide.

Graeme and his mother had mined the grounds for him already, so they couldn't go far. Instead, Neal helped Yuki down to the small beach not too far away from the main castle. The slope was steep, rocky, and the beach was stony, uncomfortable, but they could pull their shoes off and let the icy waters of the Atlantic soak their feet.

Yuki gasped, stepping into the water, pulling her skirt up to keep the cloth from dragging in the water. Neal caught her arm, but she flashed him a smile. "It's cold!"

"I don't think the sea ever warms," Neal replied, sheepish. "I should have brought some towels, or something. I just—wasn't sure where else to go."

"No." Yuki sighed, knotting her skirt carefully on one side and reaching out for him. Neal needed no encouragement to step forward, wrapping her in his arms. Yuki wasn't small, as Japanese women went – Kel had said once that, by Japanese standards, Yuki was considered to be on the heavy side. She was plump, peppery, and had a certain tendency to speak her mind that didn't fly well in conservative Japanese pureblood circles.

Neal liked her exactly the way she was. From the first time he had met her, they had connected – first through Kel, then on topics of their own. A dozen long letters winging their way between, first, AIM and Mahoutokoro, then another two dozen or so between Queenscove and Mahoutokoro, had deepened their relationship, clumsy English and worse Japanese notwithstanding. A measly week or so in Geneva, imposing on his brother and Tina, then two weeks of winter holidays at Queenscove, and Neal dared to think that he could see a future with her.

He was too young to make such final decisions, Graeme would tell him, but Will had known what he wanted from when he was fifteen years old. Neal had no idea where he fell on that spectrum, but he didn't think he needed to know. All he needed was today, and hopefully tomorrow, and the day after.

She was a full head shorter than him, but that didn't matter. He rested his lips on her dark hair, silent.

"You will survive tonight," Yuki murmured to him. "You and everyone with you. Domitan and I will be waiting."

"Mm." Neal pulled away, lifting Yuki's chin with one hand and meeting her lips in a soft kiss. "I will."

XXX

Lina paced the ground in front of her command. It was just past sunset – not the traditional time for an attack, but in some ways that made it better. The traditional time for an attack was at dawn, when the night watch had grown tired and everyone else was still groggy, but over centuries people had come to expect it. Sunset, however, was unexpected and it had the benefit of being the time when most people began to feel a little sleepy, just enough to slow reaction time by a few crucial tenths of a second.

Humans had risen and slept with the sun for millennia. For Muggles, they hadn't had the technology for widespread lights at night until the last century, and for mages, light spells had needed centuries of refinement to be able to sustain without thought or a magical power drain. The sun falling below the horizon was a signal, wired by hundreds of thousands of years, that it was time to find somewhere warm, somewhere safe, and sleep. Evolution was a difficult pattern to break.

They were in a convenient copse of trees, about thirty feet away from the outer limits of the Malfoy grounds. Lina couldn't help but stare out towards Malfoy Manor, a miniscule sculpture in the distance. It had only been six weeks, maybe seven, since she was here last, but her memory was still fresh.

Evan had died here.

Evan had been a coward, but he had been her friend. He had covered for her, as much as she needed, always giving her reasonable-sounding excuses to be out of the country running the business she loved. He had given her a cover of respectability in Britain, enough that her family hadn't disowned her, and Rosier Place had become a comfortable place to call home. She had loved him, and in time he and his family had become hers.

There was a fire in her chest, something that burned in her to seek revenge. She didn't know for certain who had cast the spell that had felled him; there was a good chance that she had, indeed, already killed them in the first attack. They had congregated on Evan instead of her, and she had taken the first two of them by surprise.

It wasn't enough. Evan might have been a coward, and they might have known that he was likely to die in the conflict, and he might have given his life willingly, but she would still kill as many of them as she could to get something that felt like satisfaction for his death.

She turned away from the Manor to focus on her small command. Only a dozen or so had opted to follow her, and that was perfectly fine by her. She wasn't the Lord Potter, former Head Auror, and she wasn't Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, famed former Auror and Defense Master, known from running the top Duelling school in Britain. Unlike the other two, Lina didn't even have the endorsement of the Lord Dumbledore, who could not be on the battlefield tonight because, on the off chance that things went badly, they needed him to have the plausible deniability to hold onto Hogwarts School.

Within the bounds of Wizarding Britain, Lina Avery, Stormwing, had only been the Lady Eveline Rosier, noble wife and mother, for the last two decades. Even her Defense Mastery was something that many people had long since forgotten, and she had bullied her way into a command largely by simply refusing to accept that she should back down. It had helped, she supposed, that Moody, laughing the entire time, backed her in the face of Lord Potter's skepticism.

Lina Avery was a Stormwing, and war was what she had been trained to plan. Few people had heard of Stormwings, and even fewer in notoriously isolated Wizarding Britain. The Stormwing path was not one that was advertised, and that was for the better – half of people who attempted it dropped out before Service Year, and a third of those remaining died on Service.

No one needed Stormwing training. Stormwing training was for the desperate: those desperately running away from something, or desperately running towards something.

She had the Queenscoves with her, which wasn't surprising. They had seen each other in action before, and they were traditional heirloom-casters. Almost a third of all Stormwings were Chinese heirloom-casters, and Wizarding Chinese Army was the largest employer for Stormwings in the world. Kingsley Shacklebolt was with her, too – he had a Defense Mastery and had trained in Africa, so she suspected he knew of Stormwings generally if not her specifically. Four Shafiq cousins were behind her, two of them Aurors, and the Shafiqs had a close relationship with the Shacklebolts. Raoul Goldenlake and two of his closest allies were behind her too, which Lina guessed was likely because of their new alliance with the Queenscoves. Marcus Flint was a surprise, the only outlier, but he stood slightly apart from the others, an expression of graven fury on his face. Lina had no idea what had made Flint change sides, joining them when so many of the other SOW Party families were either standing aloof or behind Voldemort, but he was good with a wand and she didn't care.

A little over a dozen, but Lina dared to hope she had probably gotten the some of the best. Lord Potter was taking the lead in the main guard, mainly Aurors and former Ministry employees, while Moody held right flank with most of the Light-sided families. As the smallest group, Lina's command was expected to be light, mobile, and they would be assaulting from behind. An extra surprise for Voldemort's group, they hoped.

"Tonight," she said, eyeing her group of fighters. "We take back Wizarding Britain. Who we are, what comes next – we can decide that when a terrorist isn't in control of the country. If people surrender, put them under a Full Body Bind and move on, and if they don't, aim to kill. Don't hesitate. I want us to win, and I want all of you to survive. Got it?"

No one answered, but they all looked grim, serious. Lina eyed the Queenscoves – their group had left their wands behind entirely and would be relying on their traditional magic and some of the AIM girl's new devices to carry them through. "Mei Ling, I want your group in the forefront. I expect Voldemort has mined the grounds, so I want you to trigger the traps as soon as possible, from as great of a distance as possible."

"An earthquake spell should trigger many of them," the woman said, stepping forward with her fan in hand. "Keladry is an earth mage. My sons, my niece and I can then blast fire and wind through the space, clearing a path forward."

"Good enough," Lina replied with a sharp nod. Elemental magic had a certain raw quality to which nations long used to wand magic were no longer accustomed, and that could prove to be the additional edge they needed. "Watch for my signal, and we go."

She turned back around, waving her hand in a rune to identify any magic. The Malfoy wards, thirty feet away from them, flashed blue in the air. The Lord Potter had two Curse-breakers in his group who were working on unravelling them. From what she remembered in Stormwing training, the Curse-breakers would, if successful, disable the monitoring and alarm spells with none the wiser. She waited two minutes before flashing the symbol again.

The wards were shifting, varying as their allies pulled them apart. Four minutes, then six. Lina waited, feeling a cold calm settle over her. It had always been like that – she would be in frenzy of planning for weeks before, fuelled by worry, anger, and anxiety, but the moment right before action were filled with nothing but calm. She had done what she could, and what would happen now, would happen. It was time to meet the enemy, and she was ready.

Sixteen minutes later, her identification spell identified nothing. She held up one finger behind her, counting down a further fifteen minutes – the idea was for Lord Potter's main guard and Moody and Lord Dumbledore's group to draw out any defenders, then for Lina's crew to hit them from behind.

Eight minutes. Then six, then five. Then four, then three, and one.

She slammed her hand downwards, a motion to move, and the girl called Keladry, just seventeen with a Japanese naginata in her hands, dropped her earthquake spell. The ground under them rumbled, trembled, and then the spell tore forwards towards Malfoy Manor.

There was another snap, and the grounds in front of them exploded. Shields flashed, Lina's shield just one of many, but they were far enough away that the traps reached, grabbed at nothing, and collapsed. Lina squinted, trying to identify the spells at work – there was a mass blinding spell of some kind, another spell that would bind their magic for defenders to pick them off, a chasm that Lina would bet was marked with sharp spires at the bottom to spell their deaths. A small shake of her head at some of the spells, and she made a second motion of her hand. Fire roared, blasting forwards into open ground.

Halfway across the grounds, the flames reacted. Something was there, something triggered first by the earth magic, but the air glowed orange, then brighter.

"Shields!" Lina barked, but it was hardly necessary because they were already snapping up again around her. The fire expanded, like a grand balloon. It had been many years since she had seen this spell, but she still recognized it. "Poison gas, released by the earthquake!"

"Do we need Bubble-Head Charms?" Shacklebolt yelled, a note of concern in this voice, watching as the fire spiralled upwards, even larger.

"No, the fire will burn it in the air, but hold those shields!"

The orange fire coalesced, a hundred metres ahead of them, the colours shifting uneasily. Lina watched it, waiting – a minute, she guessed, hearing the people behind her moving closer together. That was fine.

It exploded, and she held fast and leaned into her shield spell as the concussive wave tore across the grounds. The trees around her shook, leaves and twigs rattling down, and there was a huge crack as several of the younger, smaller ones crashed. A chance glance behind her – half of her command were crouching against the ground, not expecting the power of the blast, but they were all there.

The ground in front of them was scorched, with smoke rising from small patches still smouldering in front of them. The once-manicured lawns were burnt black, still aflame, but Malfoy Manor was untouched. Guarded by further shielding, Lina guessed, but from the effect on the grounds, at least she could be reasonably certain that they had cleared any traps. There weren't as many as she had expected.

"We go," she said, "and let us seek the kraken."

Her gun was heavy in her left hand, her wand stiff in her right, as she strode forward, spells at the ready. They didn't run – running was panic, running would make them miss things, running was dangerous. Instead, they walked across the grounds, looking for anything and everything unusual.

The ground was hot under their feet, and the air smelled of fire and ash. Lina could feel a breeze blowing from behind her, courtesy of the Lord Queenscove. There was another scent, the electric tang of magic, and Lina listened closely. Above the sound of the wind, the crackle of the remaining flames, she heard spellfire.

She scanned the grounds. They could hit the Malfoy Manor from behind, start clearing the building, but her group was too small. Only a dozen, and Malfoy Manor had so many holes for the enemy to hide and take them by surprise. She had to meet with at least one of the two other groups to make a run at the manor, so she gestured for someone behind her to cloak them magically.

She felt a cold, wet crack against the back of her neck, a Disillusionment Charm, and she turned the corner around Malfoy Manor.

It was not good. One look over the battleground, and it was not good. Lord Potter's main guard was much smaller than it should have been, and they were already breaking. Voldemort was out on the field, his magic distinctive against her sharply tuned senses. There was an acidic scent in the air, possibly an earlier poison gas spell, and the ground was being ripped around them. Moody was already in the thick of the fray, trading spells with Bellatrix Lestrange.

Voldemort's group was well organized, small groups revolving around one or two leads each. Command was already delegated, she realized, and his group was organized into a six or so units that were highly mobile and quick to react. Moody's group was biting into one of the units, one which was most likely led by Bellatrix Lestrange, but the others were causing serious trouble with Lord Potter's group. Pansy Parkinson, in particular, was laying waste – no one in Lord Potter's contingent seemed willing to hurt her, and her group was a hot knife cutting through butter.

"Shit," she muttered. She recognized this formation. It was light, it was mobile, it was smart – Voldemort had either studied strategy, or he had someone trained to do it on his side. Another Stormwing. "Shit, shit, shit! We move in, everyone, and let's try to pull this out of the fire!"

Those were the last words she spoke for some time, as she slammed into Voldemort's troops from behind. She was too far away from Parkinson's group – if she was closer to them, she would have aimed to take Parkinson out as fast as possible, because clearly no one else was willing to do it. It wasn't working, and soon she was preoccupied – another one of the groups spotted them and split off to engage.

She recognized a few faces, and she didn't care. She shot the Lord Selwyn in the shoulder, sending him reeling back, and Blinded him while she was at it. Active combat was not the place to throw around Killing Curses, which simply required too much concentration and magic. She recognized Travers, who had let Voldemort's troops into Malfoy Manor, and she took pleasure in blasting him backwards. Edmund Rookwood, whom she recognized as Aldon's friend, dodged her and engaged with one of her fighters behind him; she let him. She expected that one of the Queenscoves could handle him.

Forward. That was all she could think about, carving a path forward to meet Lord Potter's troops. She could see them, but the space between them was chaos. She could break forward herself, but she couldn't leave her unit. They were safest holding together, moving as a unit, and one look behind her showed that they were struggling. Another one of Voldemort's units had broken off to engage them.

She hit someone fighting Mei Ling Song with a Severing Charm from behind. Blood sprayed, and she didn't bother to see who it was as Mei Ling set them on fire. Her sons, the Queenscoves, were using their swords almost as much as their magic, a clear advantage – it seemed like their opponents treated their weapons as a wand replacement, forgetting that swords were also wonderful implements of death without magic. Both Queenscoves had blood on their blades, and there was no sign of Edmund Rookwood.

Shacklebolt was engaged with a young man that Lina didn't recognize, one with the sharp nose and chin that spoke to pureblood noble heritage. The fact that she didn't recognize him told her that he was off-noble, someone likely related to a noble family but not noble themselves. Shaheen Shafiq and his brother, Ahmed Shafiq, were both fighting Corban Yaxley – their cousins, Ali and Nasir, were duelling two others that Lina didn't know. Marcus Flint was still upright, taking the time without an active opponent to send a non-verbal Blasting spell at the centre of a knot of the enemy. Raoul Goldenlake was doing better than Lina could have expected, for someone with no Auror training and little other experience, moving on after Stunning Isaac Hopkirk to help one of his cousins, who was struggling with another person Lina didn't recognize. She took the opportunity to hit that fighter with a Disarming Curse and a Severing Curse, and he went down and stayed down.

It was easier for her and the Queenscoves than it was for the rest. The Queenscoves were newcomers, and Lina had spent much of the last forty years outside the country. For the rest, they would recognize more people than she did, and they hesitated. Even if she told them not to hesitate, they hesitated too much.

"We have to get to Lord Potter," she yelled, and she saw Mei Ling nod. A wave of her fan released a plume of flame, but their enemy shielded, and the fire skewed off, harmless, into the sky. Winds fluttered around them, chilly, but with the heat it was almost comforting.

Try as they might, Lina couldn't get her group closer. The battle was an ever-shifting morass, moving in strange shapes, and Voldemort's units were incredibly successful at keeping her small group separate from the main flank. She heard a loud crack, and the ground vibrated beneath them, hard.

It wasn't one of her spells, and one look behind her told her that it wasn't their earth mage's either. Keladry Mindelan, the Lord Queenscove's friend, had the tip of her naginata in the dirt, and she was red-faced in concentration, sweating. The Queenscoves had gathered around her, knocking off any resistance.

"He's trying to tear the earth apart!" Keladry gasped, her lips turning white. "I can't hold it. The chasm he wants to open is under Lord Potter's main guard – we need to retreat, and now!"

Lina turned around, scanning the battleground. It was messy, but the girl was right. A brief look showed that they were down too many fighters, and her core was half-spent. They just didn't have the numbers, and a chasm under Lord Potter's main group would be a disaster. These observations took only milliseconds, and her wand up, firing bright blue sparks into the air – the signal to retreat.

She did it three times, twice towards the main guard, and once in the direction of Moody's group. People starting Disapparating, the cracks echoing across the field, and she made sure that the other commanders were taking up the signal. They would have to regroup, determine what went wrong, but they were not going to be pulling a win out of this. Now was about pulling a loss out of a complete rout.

"How long can you hold?" She yelled, twisting her wand in a Whip Curse on the closest opponent. "Maximum?"

A moment of silence, and the ground shook ever harder. A glance behind her, and the girl now had the older Queenscove ballasting her and funnelling her power. "Two minutes!"

"Be ready to Disapparate when you drop it, then!"

They felt like the two longest minutes of the evening. As the main guard received the signal and Disapparated, there were fewer people to distract Voldemort's units from her small group, and they promptly turned their attention to her. She shot her last three bullets into a group that was now charging towards them, two out of the three missing as the ground shook. The handgun went back into her holster, her wand went into her cleavage, and she reached back and drew her ritual blade.

She didn't have a spell for what she wanted, but that didn't matter. She could throw most of her remaining core into it, and the blade was cold against her arm. Blood spilled, and she focused – she wanted cold, and wind, and rain, to slow them down and obscure their vision. A long moment, as her blood sank into the ground, and she reeled and heard thunder. Most of what remained of her core was gone, but there was thunder, and there was a cold drop of rain on her head. And then there were more droplets, fat droplets, as the skies opened and dumped a torrent of rain on them.

It slowed them. It slowed them, and that was all she needed to buy a few more, crucial seconds, and she felt the moment that Keladry dropped her resistance. The ground underneath her shifted, something breaking only feet away from her, but she turned on the spot, thinking of Rosier Place, and Disapparated.

XXX

Archie paced the living room at Potter Place, waiting. Hermione was there, curled up in an armchair in the corner with a book in her hands, but she wasn't reading it. Instead, her eyes had glazed over, and her hand rested limp in the fold of the book.

Addy was running around behind him, Aunt Lily keeping an eye on her. The toddler was quiet, staring in fascination at both him and Hermione, but too shy to approach. She didn't remember him – a year apart, on top of his schooling at AIM, meant he hadn't seen her enough for her to have more than glimmers of a memory of him. Now that he thought of it, her memories were probably of his old body, the one half merged with Harry's, not his true form.

If he turned to look at her, she would run and hide behind Aunt Lily, so he didn't. Aunt Lily was silent, stiff in the loveseat, the mug of tea Archie had brewed for her earlier sitting untouched.

Harry was home too, but she was in the basement, in her Potions Lab. Hermione had frowned when Harry had gotten up, saying she was going to go brew, but Archie had just shot her a look, shaking his head in a silent gesture to leave it alone. Harry had never done well with her hands idle, and if brewing made her feel better, then what could Archie say about it? The Healing Potions that were most likely to come out of it would no doubt be useful.

The Potter living room felt too small. Dad was out there, with Uncle James and Uncle Remus. Dad said he would know if anything happened to him, because the Grimmauld Place wards would fall to him, but he had no idea what that felt like. Dad said he would know it if it happened, that it was unmistakeable, but Archie couldn't help second-guessing himself. What if he didn't feel it? What if it happened and he just didn't know?

"Stop pacing, Archie," Hermione snapped, slamming her book shut. "You're making me dizzy. Sit down."

Archie tried smiling at her, but it felt wooden. "You're in the only spot in the room I want to sit, 'Mione."

"I can move."

"But that would ruin the whole reason why I wanted to sit there."

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes, and shifted over, letting Archie wedge himself into the armchair beside her. They didn't fit in the chair, not really, but with some wiggling Archie wormed himself half-underneath her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He buried his face in her curls, trying to breathe in calm.

She was comforting. She didn't have to say anything, or do anything, but she was a comfort just being there. Her breathing was slow and even, though her shoulders were tense. She repositioned her book, letting Archie read over her shoulder if he wanted. It was a guide to curses and counter-curses – neither of them had taken the Spell Damage specialty at school, but they were Healers-in-Training, and they were at war. He tried to focus on the page she had open, something about Transfiguration curses, but he couldn't concentrate.

Time passed. Archie didn't know how much time had passed, but the ticking of the clock became almost a heartbeat. One, and two. Tick, and tock. Hermione turned the pages, one every few minutes, which told Archie more than anything else that she wasn't reading it. When Hermione put her mind to it, she could make it through a book that size in an afternoon, learning all the spells inside at the same time. She was holding the book as a matter of comfort, and little else.

It was dark, getting towards the true darkness of night rather than twilight. Addy had long since fallen asleep, when Aunt Lily moved, her beautiful face turning towards the door.

"James is back," she murmured, and her soft words were loud in the silence. "Sirius and Remus, too."

Archie sucked in a deep, calming breath. Hermione stood up, letting him stand, and caught his arm when he staggered. His legs were tingling, weak from being still for so long, and he hopped from one foot to the other, trying to get rid of the feeling.

There was no shouting, no loud whoops or excited celebration, but Archie dared, at first, to think that they were just being quiet. Addy was still a baby, after all, and it was nighttime, and maybe they just didn't want to wake her.

But the door opened, and Dad and Uncle James carried Uncle Remus over the threshold. Uncle Remus was pale, bloodless, barely breathing, and Archie was there immediately, his wand flying in a diagnostic charm.

"It's mostly blood loss, Arch," Dad said, raising his wand to Summon a Blood Replenishing Potion. "He'll be fine, in time. He was caught in a shred spell – Mulciber tried to flay him alive, but it didn't take very well."

Archie nodded, seeing the blood markings where skin had come off, huge patches that needed immediate attention. Hermione had caught the Blood Replenisher, and Archie didn't need her to explain before she started spelling it into his stomach. He quickly undid Uncle Remus' shirt, hissing in empathy as the fabric stuck to dried blood. Large chunks of skin came off, revealing bare muscle and sinew.

"So?" he heard Aunt Lily ask, her voice trembling. "Did you…?"

"Lost." Uncle James' voice was gravelly, rough. "We were… hit harder by the resistance than we thought we would be. Avery, or the former Lady Rosier, called the retreat, but we had lost before then. I have to go walk the grounds – strengthen our wards."

"I'll come with you," Aunt Lily replied. "Sirius—"

"I need to go shore up Grimmauld Place. I don't know how much more I can do, but my brother—"

"We'll watch Addy," Hermione said, looking up, the vial of Blood Replenisher empty. "Go."

There was a moment of silence, but someone had to have nodded or made some other signal, because the front door open and shut and he and Hermione were left with Uncle Remus.

Archie focused on Healing. It took much longer than it should, because magic didn't stick well to Uncle Remus. The werewolf transformations that had kept the curse from taking strongly in the first place fought Healing spells just as well. He had a small supply of No-Maj gauze and disinfectant, which he used with no reservation. After a few hours, Harry came up, took one look and disappeared to find an array of Potions.

"The Potions will help better than the spells," she said, spelling them into his stomach while Hermione went to disinfect a spare bedroom. There was no way Uncle Remus could go home tonight. "They'll act like slow-release spells, so even if they're not as strong, it's like they're being continually cast – it'll hold."

"Thanks." Archie sighed, heading to the sink to wash his hands. No-Maj methods got messy, and he was careful to disinfect his hands.

"I think you and Hermione should stay the night, Arch." Archie glanced over – Harry looked exhausted, but worried. "It's late. Sirius won't mind, and with your uncle Regulus on their side, it's probably safer here."

Archie smiled weakly. He wanted to go home, check on his Dad, but he was tired. His core was low – too many failed spells not sticking to Uncle Remus. Harry spoke sense. "I have to let Dad know. I can't – I'd rather go home, but…"

"Yeah." Harry nodded, understanding without Archie needing to explain. "You and Hermione can take another room – I think we should have one ready, and if not, I'll get one ready. One room, two?"

"One room is fine." Archie laughed. "I mean – I think one room is fine, it's up to Hermione, but after tonight I'd – I'd prefer it, even if Uncle James might not like it. Though, we aren't…" He coughed, embarrassed.

Harry laughed a little, a creaky sound. "I don't care if you are or aren't, Arch. I'll check with her. I think my dad has more to worry about right now than whether you're sleeping with your girlfriend, but if he says anything, I promise, I'll say or do something even worse to distract him. Deal?"

"Deal."

His night, even if it was curled up with Hermione at his side, was restless. He knew the morning would be bad, and spent what felt like hours trying to imagine the worst case scenarios. It would be all over the Daily Prophet, of course. They'd probably be blamed for the attack, made out to look like criminals. There might be criminal charges. He would have to write to Percy, as soon as he could. He would have to prepare a response for Bridge. His own alliance would be breaking, again, and he would have to arrange for more meetings to calm people down. How did he calm people down if he didn't even know what to do next?

He couldn't do anything about it at three in the morning, so he told himself it would be better if he slept, came at it with a fresh mind in the morning.

He wished that worked, and even snuggling closer to Hermione only helped a little.

It was seven in the morning when he treaded downstairs, still tired despite having caught some hours of sleep. He wasn't alone – Dad and Uncle James were already there, hovering over a copy of the Daily Prophet, already spread across the kitchen table. He steeled himself and joined them. "How bad is it?"

"About as bad as you'd expect." Despite his casual words, Dad sounded disgusted. "We're the rebellion, now. Rule of law, and all that."

Archie took a deep breath, and leaned over the newspaper to read for himself.

VICTORY BY MIDNIGHT

Voldemort, Deputy-In-Charge of the Ministry of Magic, reported this morning a resounding victory against a rebel attack last night.

Close to seven in the evening, rebel forces assaulted Malfoy Manor. The rebels appeared to be led primarily by former nobility, particularly the former Lord James Potter and the former Lady Eveline Rosier. A preliminary investigation indicates that the attack was supported by a number of former Ministry officials, particularly those associated with the former nobility, as well as foreigners, Bridge supporters, terrorist organizations, Muggleborns and halfbloods both.

The Ministry of Magic sustained serious losses, with an estimated twenty dead, but was successful in repelling the attack. The number of enemy dead is not yet confirmed but is expected to be nearly twice as many. For a complete list of the confirmed dead, see page 2.

Citizens of Britain are encouraged to take caution. Anyone with information regarding the perpetrators of this horrific crime are requested to contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as soon as possible. Further interim measures to ensure public safety are expected in the coming days.

Archie gritted his teeth, preparing himself and flipping to page two, but the list of the dead only included Voldemort's followers. He hadn't gotten around to asking about their own dead last night, with Uncle Remus being so injured, but of course they had to have taken losses of their own.

"We're meeting with Avery, Moody, and Dumbledore at noon," Uncle James said. There were dark circles under his eyes, signs of a sleepless night. He didn't say anything as Hermione trailed into the kitchen, her hair a bird's nest, and Archie grimly passed her the paper. "Avery will probably bring Rosier with her."

"What happened?" Archie asked, his forehead creasing. They had planned so much for this attack – it had seemed like every eventuality was explored, every possible defense canvassed. There was always an element of risk, and Archie had known that, but from everything he knew, he thought they had been well prepared. Dad, Uncle James, they wouldn't have agreed to go ahead with the plan without being prepared.

Uncle James shook his head. "I've been spending all night thinking about it, and I'm still not completely sure. We need to work it out, and a path forward. You should…" He hesitated, then sighed. "You should stay for the discussion, Archie. I don't like to include you – you shouldn't be worrying about this – but our tactics will need to change. We'll need to coordinate with Bridge on messaging."

"Yeah, of course." Archie nodded, heading for the coffeepot on the counter. "I'll stay."

He was setting out sandwiches and tea when Aldon, Lina and Moody arrived. Harry had disappeared, saying that she was going to check on Leo and the refugees and drop off more potions, and Hermione had gone with her. With the loss, it was important that they get the refugees out sooner rather than later, and Harry said she could work with them, engineer some trust so that they would agree to go. Aunt Lily was in her workroom, working on the Portkeys – with luck, Hermione was hoping that they would get the refugees out as early as next week.

"No Dumbledore, today, Potter," Moody said, taking a seat at the wooden table and reaching for a sandwich. "He's meeting with the Light faction who have lost people, but I can speak for the both of us. He'll catch up later."

"Fine." Uncle James paused, his eyes moving to Aldon. "I suppose I have you to thank, Rosier, for having the foresight to remove us from the Floo Network."

Archie tensed, half-expecting Aldon say something mocking, but for once Aldon seemed to ignore the opportunity. "Call it for what it is, Potter—not foresight, just paranoia. And the thanks belong to your daughter, so I thank you for authorizing the mission. Losses?"

"Too many. I spent some time last night making a list—I can't guarantee that it's complete, but even so…" Uncle James reached into his robes, pulling out a scroll of parchment and spreading it on the table. Archie glanced at it – there had to be more than two dozen names.

"I lost two: Nasir Shafiq and one of Goldenlake's allies, Ulysses Flynn." Lina's mouth was a hard line.

"Four more in my group: Gideon Prewett, William Naxen, Anthony Veldine and Amanda Minch," Moody grunted. "Good people, all."

"What happened?" Archie couldn't help but ask, for the second time that day, setting out a coffeepot in case some of them preferred coffee.

"A shitshow, that's what happened." Lina reached for the coffeepot. "An absolute shitshow. Lord Potter, what happened to the main guard? When I joined, you were already down fighters."

Uncle James shook his head, his expression dark. "In retrospect, one of our Curse-breakers must have tripped an alarm spell in the wards. They were ready for us, but we didn't know. Our trap identification spells found three traps, fewer than I had expected, but I had no reason to think that we were missing any. We were halfway across the grounds when another trap spell triggered – three explosions, from under our feet. Then they were on us, an ambush on our ambush."

"Manually triggered," Lina guessed. "One of the ways around a trap identification spell. Stormwing trick."

"Did you recognize one?" Moody scowled. "The formation was distinctive. No one I recognized, but I don't keep track of our compatriots."

"No, but I don't know everyone, and it seems likely. I can reach out to my contacts. The formations are too close to what we are taught in training. Small units, light and mobile, with prominent delegated decision-making. Move fast, react faster, hit hard."

"The past information I received from within Voldemort's group would be consistent with that analysis," Aldon added, sounding very clinical. "Voldemort has a demonstrated controlling streak – although the coup had two commands, that was clearly a necessity considering they needed to hold down the Ministry while assaulting Malfoy Manor. It would not be natural to him to reorganize his followers into more than six units, nor to trust his own followers that much, which speaks to the influence of a third-party advisor. Now, I am unclear how Voldemort would come to know of the organization, but I do not think it matters overmuch."

"Well, we don't know much about him by way of background," Dad said, reaching for the coffeepot himself. "He could be internationally trained himself. We don't know."

"With that nativist and xenophobic streak?" Moody snorted. "Not likely. But one of his followers might have heard of us and mentioned it."

"Whatever it is, it worked." Uncle James' face was a grim mask. "We died for it."

"I don't think it could have been anticipated." Lina sighed. "It's done. There was also some mental preparation lacking, but I don't think we could have prepared better. My unit had the advantage – I don't give a shit about killing people I know when they're on the other side, and the Queenscoves are too new to have many connections. But Goldenlake and the Shafiqs struggled; they went to school with people on the other side, they had relationships with people on the other side, and they didn't want to kill people they knew. And no one wanted to kill Pansy Parkinson – that girl made mincemeat of the main group."

"I would appreciate if we did avoid killing Miss Parkinson," Aldon interrupted, his accent somewhat sharper than usual. "She is… a childhood friend. I am sure she has been Imperiused, or something of the like. I cannot see her murdering anyone."

"Well, she did," Lina said flatly. "She might have only killed Lucius Malfoy to break us out at the coup, but she was fully on their side here. I saw her cursing Jennifer Abernathy myself."

Aldon looked away. "Still. She is still a child. I'd like if we did not kill her."

"A child by only a few months," Lina snapped. "She's seventeen in September. Imperiused or not, we cannot hesitate if we run into her."

Aldon shook his head, but he had no answer. Instead, he picked up his mug of coffee, drinking from it with a troubled look on his face.

"In general, Aurors aren't trained to kill," Moody added quietly. "It wasn't only Pansy Parkinson. Auror training focuses on stop and arrest tactics. The duelling circuit, too, emphasizes form over practicality, with limits on the spells that may be used. Put under stress, our troops fell back on what they knew best: spells to disarm, Stun and arrest, or minor curses like Stinging Hexes, Knockback Jinxes, or the Full Body Bind. Voldemort's followers had a year of attacks where they became used to using more powerful spells, to torturing and killing, and we didn't prepare to do the same. That was an oversight on Avery's and my part. As trained warmages, it should have occurred to us. We apologize."

Lina nodded, looking into her mug of coffee. There was a moment of silence, but when she spoke her voice was begrudging. "I also erred. I am… with all due respect, Alastor, Lord Potter, I am the most seasoned one here. I came to this fresh off a three-month tour with the Dhampiri Order in Georgia, and before that I have thirty years' experience as a mercenary. Alastor never held himself out for hire—"

"Absolutely disgusting practice."

She ignored him. "And while you are an accomplished Auror, Lord Potter, policing is a very different game than war. I … allowed myself not to care. I let myself be satisfied with getting what I wanted, which was to lead a small group of volunteers who already had reason to trust and follow me absolutely. I didn't care about the bigger picture, and I didn't help or advise you with the main group. I should have."

"I'm not sure I would have listened." Uncle James was similarly quiet. "I don't know much about you, Avery, and the Lord Rosier being…" he paused, his eyes resting on Aldon, who was staring at the table with a vaguely embarrassed look on his face. "Well, I'm not sure I would have listened."

There was a long moment of silence, and Archie looked from Dad to Uncle James, to Aldon and Lina and Moody. "So... what happens next? The Daily Prophet is making us out to be the enemy, and... what do we do?"

Uncle James took a deep, shaky, breath, reasoning out loud. "This—this critically changes things for us. We lost too many people, and we can't win on an outright strike. More importantly, Voldemort now has something concrete that he can use against us. Statements in an underground newspaper are one thing, but we have now committed a major action against the Ministry. He also has the bodies of our dead, so he knows, or he can guess, who a lot of our allies are. They're going to come after us, and after our families."

"It is not so bad as all that," Moody countered gruffly. "We took heavy losses, but so did he, and those we killed were among his most loyal. His hold on the Ministry is strengthening—"

"And it's only going to strengthen after this," Dad grumbled, under his breath.

"Yes, but we took out enough that he's needs to abide by certain rules in order to continue strengthening his hold. He needs to be seen obeying the law and following criminal procedure. That means issuing and serving arrest warrants, which we can dodge, and that should buy us some time." Moody smiled, or at least Archie thought it was supposed to be a smile, though it was more a grim slash across his face. "Failing to serve us properly, he'll then need to be seen seeking exemptions from the usual criminal procedure or passing new laws, and then he'll need to do public show trials in absentia, and all sorts of bureaucratic nonsense. Only then will he build enough support for a full-scale attack against us."

"I have a spy in the Department of Justice," Aldon offered with a slight, humourless smile. "I will ask her to delay the warrants and other procedural matters as long as possible. Routine administrative incompetence breeds wonders."

"For now, we need to regroup," Lina added calmly. "One of Voldemort's greatest advantages is that he is centralized at Malfoy Manor and the Ministry of Magic—we need to make our decentralization our strength. Any allies not already in a defensible location needs to move into one, but each safehouse needs to have enough internal expertise to stand on its own. Internal command, internal Healers, the works, with emergency escape routes if they need to abandon a location. Unlike Voldemort, we need to be able to lose a holding, keep most of our people, and continue resisting."

"We don't have enough Healers," Archie broke in, his heart sinking. "Not fully trained and licensed Healers—there's Mrs. Hurst, and Neal, maybe a handful of others, but not enough to staff every safehouse."

"This is a war, and we make do." Lina's brown eyes were hard as she looked at him. "I understand that you, Harriett Potter, and Hermione Granger are all trained in Healing, even without a license. We'll have to build Healing capacity, and right now, I don't care who has a licence to Heal and who doesn't."

Archie swallowed, nodding. When she addressed him directly, and in that tone, it was unnerving. "I'll put together a basic Healing training program, then. But what about transportation? If they're going to come after us, then we're going to need better transportation than Apparition and No-Maj transit. I can Apparate, but Hermione—"

"Blake & Associates is on the transportation problems already," Aldon cut in. "We will handle it, but we need materials. Speaking of which, what do we know about Voldemort's supply chains? If we can obtain our required resources while depriving Voldemort of the same, that would be all the better."

"Striking at non-combatants?" Uncle James frowned coldly at Aldon. "We're not terrorists."

"We'll be called terrorists no matter what we do." Dad argued, his voice entirely practical. "In these circumstances, James, we need to strike at Voldemort where we can. I'll find out where and how they import goods—if you tell me what you need, Aldon, I'll find out where they're being stored. We'll plan a hit, it shouldn't need a big strike force."

Uncle James grimaced, but Archie was surprised to see he didn't argue. "As little violence as possible on those, please. If we want to take over the government, we need to avoid as many instances where we can be accused of terrorism as possible. We need more troops. What about our allies, can they help?"

"The Clans, the Tuatha Dé and the Free Irish are reluctant to send too many of their troops out of their territory." Aldon pushed away his empty coffee mug, shaking his head. "We can negotiate, but they are most concerned about their own lands. To them, we are already another nation."

"We need to recruit," Moody grunted. "Hell if I know where or who we're going to recruit, though. The Alleys might not have been bad, but Voldemort torched the ones most likely to support us. The SOW nobles, if they can swallow their blood purity, the ones who aren't already on the other side, maybe. British expatriates?"

"We'd need to make them more promises," Archie said, similarly shaking his head. "It's one thing to ask British newbloods and halfbloods to provide the support they have agreed to, being lobbying, financial support and refugee assistance, but now you're asking them to give up their lives abroad for a country that basically expelled them when they were eleven? That's a huge ask, and they don't trust us enough for it."

"The Guilds?" Even saying so, Uncle James didn't sound like he had much hope for them. "The general population is going to be running confused—they trusted the Daily Prophet, but it's a lot of change that Voldemort is asking them to accept. At the same time, Bridge was making some headway, but now we'll be vilified."

"I wouldn't hold out much hope for the Guilds." Aldon frowned in thought. "Voldemort was clearly targeting Guild support in his first press release, and I have a source that reports that he is acting on his promise to enact trade protections. I can make some of those instructions disappear, but not all of them. We'll need to have a response in Bridge. He calls us the rebellion—we need to recharacterize this as a civil war."

"I'll put it in Bridge this week," Archie agreed, reaching back to mutter a muscle relaxant spell into his tense shoulders. "Just have to write it, then get it out. How about the radio station? You were having someone in the Clans look into it, not too long ago."

Aldon blinked. "In all honesty, I had forgotten. I will reach out to Toby on it. We can afford the equipment."

"There's an idea. New tactic." Lina reached for the coffeepot again. "Wars are fought on multiple fronts: information is one. We might reach a different, younger audience with radio. Make it hip and fun, cool. We might get some new recruits, which we need."

The expression on Aldon's face said clearly what he thought about that, and Archie couldn't help but agree. War was dangerous, and he didn't like the idea of making it out to be anything other than what it was: an unavoidable necessity.

"War as cool. Imagine," Moody growled, grimacing in disgust, before looking around the table. "In summary: we move to guerilla-style tactics. We consolidate our forces at heavily defended safehouses and in safe territory, and we start instituting a decentralized command network. We'll plan escape routes between our holdings. Archie will put together a basic Healing training program and manage the communications from Bridge; Aldon will have his spies on delay tactics, handle our transportation issues and reach out to his contact on a wireless station for recruitment purposes. Sirius will look into Voldemort's supply chain and will organize a strike for any needed resources. Does that sound fair?"

"I'll identify people who might succeed in command roles for our other safehouses," Uncle James said, with a deep sigh. He picked up his list of the dead, looking at it with a heavy, bitter expression. "I need to write letters of condolence to the families. If we're a legitimate army, in a legitimate civil war, then we need to act like it."

"Let me help with the letters. We want them out as soon as possible, Uncle James, so—so I'll help draft them and hopefully we can get them out faster that way. I'll – I'll also see to it that obituaries are printed in Bridge." Archie smiled, a little weak as he looked around the table. "Since it doesn't look like the Prophet will be printing them any time soon."

If the night before was hard, and the meeting was hard, then helping to draft the letters of condolence was even harder. The first one was the absolute worst, because they didn't have a template for them yet, and had to settle on the formulation for the letter. They couldn't even use the templates included in an etiquette book that Dad had dug out for them. I am deeply saddened to hear of your loss... just didn't cut it when the person had died in an attack that that they had led.

Eventually, they settled on a simple format, with the first paragraph informing the family members of the death and the second paragraph personalized, mentioning the person's courage, their spirit, their kindness, or whatever else they could remember. The second paragraph, Archie thought, was necessary – how would it feel to receive a bland letter, after a loved one's death? They had to be personalized, even if it meant that they had to dredge up memories that hurt too much, too soon.

He asked questions about the dead, took notes of the things that Dad and Uncle James said stood out about each person, and suggested wording while Dad and Uncle James, who both had the formal noble penmanship trained into them, wrote the letters themselves. More owls came in, people reporting deaths, which Archie cross-referenced against Uncle James' list. Thirty-two letters went out under Uncle James' signature, and Archie knew that, at Rosier Place, Lina and Moody were doing the same.

It sucked. It sucked, and when he Apparated home to Grimmauld Place, without Dad who had stayed behind to help attach the letters to owls and send them out, he dwelled on the people he never knew, tiny details about them that he needed to remember to write in an obituary. The obituaries had to be good ones – anything the Prophet published would paint them as criminals, so it would be up to Bridge to paint them as heroes. He would paint them as heroes.

There were twin redheads sitting on his doorstep. He blinked.

"Why the long face, pup?" One of the Weasleys grinned, standing up.

"Poor joke, Fred," the other one commented, with a softer smile. "Not really the time."

"Er…" Archie looked from one to the other, then he decided he might as well come out and say it. The Weasleys hadn't been in the group recruited by Uncle James, and while he liked them well enough, he didn't know if he had the emotional energy to handle them right now. "Are you looking for Harry?"

"Isn't she still abroad?" George, or at least the one that Archie assumed was George, said with an inquisitive smile.

"From the question, I think we can safely say not."

"But that's not why we came here anyway," George finished. "Did you know your Floo is disconnected? We had to look up Apparition coordinates for you. Had to hex a Ministry minion who was hovering around setting up surveillance spells, too, you know. Better be careful."

Archie rubbed his forehead. He was a prankster too, but there was a time and a place, and this wasn't one of them. He had to coordinate the obituaries for thirty-eight people he had never met, and he was tired, and thank god Harry had returned early and said she would look after Uncle Remus and redress his bandages. "Thanks for that. Look, this isn't really a good time—"

"We know." George interrupted, the smile disappearing. "Our uncle Gideon—"

"Mum's been in a right state all day."

Archie sighed, looking down, feeling ashamed of himself. He hadn't known that the Weasleys were relatives of the Prewetts, but he should have known. No matter how tired he was, he had to find something within him for them. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

He didn't know what else to say. The letters were hard enough, but what did one say to family members who came to him? Were they here seeking revenge, to look at a symbol of the war, to blame him? Or was it something else?

One of the twins slung an arm over his shoulders. Archie was surprised to see that he was taller than they were now, and the couple inches difference made it awkward. Either way, the twin didn't notice. "Hey, he died a hero, didn't he? That's what Uncle Fabian said, and Moody's letter said it too. We're not blaming you. We're here to offer our help."

Archie looked up from the ground, surprised. "You? But—"

"We're seventeen," the other twin said, a stubborn tilt to his chin. "We graduated school. We can make our own decisions."

Archie paused. A week ago, he would have welcomed them with open arms, but now… "It's not that, but… it's dangerous. What about your family? If you're with us, Voldemort is going to target your families, not just you."

The twins exchanged a look, and one of them shrugged. "We know. Our parents… Mum wants us all to lay low, says we're too young and that this is something for the Wizengamot to work out, and with Ron and Ginny still going to Hogwarts they have to toe the line. But Perce is an informant already—"

"Who would have thought it, that Percy would be the first of us to dive into revolution?" The other twin added, with a small smile.

"And Bill heard about the Alleys. He and Charlie are both still abroad, but we're going to be targeted one way or another. As for us—"

"Here we are. We want to help. We're decent with our wands, but our gifts are really…" The twin grinned, and Archie had lost track of which one was which. "We're inventors. And we have other talents, too—got rid of that pesky official watching your door, after all."

Archie smiled back at them. It trembled, but it held. "Then, I guess – come on in."

It wasn't their first time at Grimmauld Place – he remembered that Percy had brought them along for his post-trial party, and that they had argued vociferously with Derrick and Saoirse about Quidditch and learned some dance. They were Harry's friends, that much he knew, the friends that he had always thought he would get along with best, but he couldn't say that he knew either of them very well. He had only met them once while pretending to be Rigel, and once as himself.

"Tea?" he asked, gesturing for the twins to take a seat at the kitchen table. "Or water, if you'd prefer."

"Either is fine," said one of the twins, pulling out one of the wooden seats. "Whatever is easier."

Archie smiled in thanks – British he might be, but he felt like he had made a dozen pots of tea in the past twenty-four hours, and about half as many pots of coffee. He pulled out a pitcher, one of Mum's old favourites decorated with azaleas, and filled it with water. "So, what are you thinking in terms of helping?"

The other twin shrugged. "What do you think would be helpful? Er, I guess you don't know much about us?"

"I know what Harry and Dad told me." Archie raised an eyebrow. "The next generation of pranksters at Hogwarts?"

They grinned, and one laughed. "We aren't at Hogwarts anymore, so maybe the newer and shinier version of the Marauders is better? When Weasley Wizarding Wheezes hits the market, your dad won't know what hit him."

Archie smiled back. He had heard enough of them from Dad and Harry, and seen enough of their ideas, that he couldn't be offended. "Dad will love the competition."

"Or he will, once we have the funding." The other twin sighed, his face taking on a more serious cast. "We were thinking, though, that some of our inventions might have war applications, and be a chance for us to show our skills."

"So, research and development?" Archie leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"Ugh, no," the first redhead replied, making a face. "George might have a bit more patience for that, but we're not the type to sit and think for hours."

"We do like action, but we probably wouldn't fit in well in your usual troops, either," George added, with a more sheepish look. "We've… never really taken orders well. Ideally, we'd like to do things like sabotage, or maybe recruitment—"

"Or we could be spies!"

"We'd be awful spies, Fred." George slapped his brother on the shoulder. "But we are generally well-liked, so recruitment might work for us. But sabotage would be—"

"The best," Fred finished. "We'd be good at sabotage."

"But we'll still fight if we need to fight," George added hastily. "I mean, I doubt we can avoid it, and we're up to it—"

"It's just not where we would be best placed."

The exchange was so fast, a ping-pong ball bouncing from one twin to the other, that Archie needed a moment to process it. Most of the spy network and sabotage was within the shifter Alliance, of whom Archie had main contact only with Armand and Hannah, and he wasn't sure how they would feel about adding two more. Aldon's secret informants did some of the same sort of work, but most of them already had positions in the Ministry, or they were busy ingratiating themselves in Voldemort's group. The twins weren't in the Ministry and Archie somehow doubted they could believably join with Voldemort. Recruitment, though... "I don't suppose either of you would know anything about the Wizarding Wireless Network, or Muggle radio, would you?"

The twins glanced at each other, then George shrugged. "Some. Not a lot, but I think we could work it out. We only got about three NEWTS between the two of us, but one of them was in Charms."

Archie smiled. "I think I might have a project for you."

Meeting with the twins was, at least, a bright note that marked the following days. The edition of Bridge that came out a few days later was thicker than usual, covering their own report of the attack, a response to the Daily Prophet, and effusive obituaries for their dead. Archie had hoped that it would mean more people would come forward to help, but the Weasley twins were followed only by a few others – mostly young, almost all untrained. Aldon saw more come forward, especially from the Ministry, if only because people were more inclined to volunteer in secret informant roles where they felt more secure.

"It's a lie, of course," Aldon said, matter-of-fact, at yet another meeting. If anyone had told Archie years ago that war was mostly meetings, he'd never have believed it, but there he was, stuck in another one. "They feel more secure because very little actually changes for them on a day to day basis. They keep their jobs and their income, but there is very little we can do if any of them are caught. In fact, they are in more danger than the rest."

"Are you warning them?" Archie asked, a little skeptical. "I mean, if they're putting themselves in that much danger…"

"I need the information." Aldon looked away, no doubt anticipating what Archie would say next. "I need it more than I can afford to warn them."

"I want you to warn them, Aldon." Archie glared at the man, trying to emphasize his meaning. "I don't want us, or Bridge, to be that kind of organization. Warn them of the dangers, when they come forward. You can emphasize that the information they have to provide you is important, but you have to warn them."

There was a long moment of silence, before Aldon spoke, the word twisting out of his mouth. "Fine."

Just as they had predicted, the arrest warrants were out for him, Dad, Uncle James, Lina Avery, Aldon Rosier, Alastor Moody, Fabian Prewett, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and a long list of their most recognizable allies within the week. Most of a week was all Aldon could buy them—his spy sat on the arrest warrants as long as she could through plain bureaucratic and administrative incompetence, but it couldn't be forever. It was long enough for them to pull their surviving troops back to a set list of safehouses, and to start organizing escape routes out of the country for their allies' families. By the end of that week, all of their names and faces were splashed over the front pages of the Daily Prophet, with an attached, expanding list of their crimes, and reports came in saying that identical posters were plastered over the shop fronts in both Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade as well.

They were all under surveillance. From his upstairs bedroom at Grimmauld Place, Archie could see the Auror stationed just outside his front gate, just waiting for him or Dad to appear so that he could arrest them. There was no chance of that happening, or so Archie hoped—Dad had, over three days, reconfigured the Grimmauld Place wards to allow for Apparition from one back corner of the lot, and Aldon told them the Silence Rune trick to keep their comings and goings secret. It wasn't ideal, but it was functional until Aldon came up with an answer to their transportation problems.

Another few days, and despite an unusual and likely fabricated hubbub of confusion about how new laws were to be passed without the Wizengamot, the Ministry of Magic succeeded in passing new laws in the name of national security. First, a curfew was instituted – no witch or wizards was to be outside after ten at night. Then, a new vital statistics and census law passed, requiring all witches and wizards to attend at the Ministry of Magic within the next two months to provide their name, their addresses, their family trees, and to register their wands – those that didn't comply, the law warned, would have their citizenship struck. The minimum sentences for aiding and abetting in any crime were increased, especially as they pertained to sedition, treason, and conspiracy, and laws applying to search and seizure were loosened. Criminal procedure was also simplified, in the name of increasing efficiency but obviously intended to allow Voldemort to begin his show trials against Uncle James, Dad, Archie himself and their other allies without following the usual protocols for a trial in absentia.

"None of this is surprising, you know," Hermione said, folding the paper after yet another article proclaiming laws that would restrict their freedoms – this one about mass gatherings, whether it be in public or in private homes. Even as she said so, her lips were pursed, and she looked deeply unhappy. "This is the low-hanging fruit; this is what governments do when they want to enforce control. Wizarding or not, Voldemort is enacting the exact same kinds of laws that No-Maj governments have always passed when they're trying to establish control."

They ignored the new laws, publishing a piece in Bridge that week reminding their readers of the illegitimacy, and the danger, of the new Ministry of Magic. Bridge emphasized that this was no rebellion, but a civil war. To underscore the point, all pseudonyms were dropped – they were all in the same amount of danger regardless, none of them were obeying any subpoenas to court anyway, and their doors, and homes, were barred to Ministry Aurors regardless of what warrants they were carrying. Less fortunate were those that were caught on the streets: Sturgis Podmore had been arrested, along with a number of friends of their other allies. The shifter Alliance was taking greater care for their own people, but there were only so many warnings they could give. Every street arrest felt like a punch to Archie's gut, though Dad was more impassive.

"We do what we can, Arch," he said, shaking his head in regret. "Sturgis was never careful enough. If we told him once, we told him a dozen times—"

"Most of these arrests aren't even ours!" Archie railed, throwing the day's arrest list into the fire in a burst of fury. "I don't—most of these people have nothing to do with us! They're innocent!"

"And we have to trust that the Department of Justice has enough dedication to the law to let them go when the evidence doesn't hold up." Dad gripped his shoulder, steely grey eyes sympathetic. "Look, I'll have a word with Aldon—his spy might be able to do something for some of these people, but war is messy. We won't be able to save them all, Archie."

Archie had stared back at his Dad, his face crumpling, but there wasn't much he could do. Not from being in the closest thing to house arrest without actually being under house arrest. If it weren't for one of Aldon's house-elves, they wouldn't even have food, since they couldn't go out for groceries themselves. Instead, Archie threw himself into his old Healing textbooks, building a short Healing bootcamp program that he hoped he could run someone through in a matter of weeks to get them battle-ready. He stripped out the theory, most of the diseases, and focused on trauma, curses, and counter-curses—the latter of which he had never specialized in, and which he had to teach himself out of books as he went along.

The third week, and the first opportunity that the Ministry could legally act given the bureaucratic delays that Aldon's spy and their own stubborn intransigence had managed to buy, Voldemort struck back under the guise of executing a search and seizure warrant. Moody's house was torched, as was the Chesmore residence, but Moody had long since moved to Rosier Place and the Chesmores were holding out with the Naxens. Moody was shockingly nonchalant about it, merely shrugging his shoulders about his burnt out property.

"I knew the simulacra I planted in my house would come in useful one day," he said, a note of pride in his voice. "They were completely taken in, and all my traps went off without a hitch. They didn't walk away from my house unscathed!"

"Martin Chesmore wants his wife and children sent out of country as soon as possible, though," Dad added, looking at Hermione, who only nodded tiredly. She was still able to move a little more freely than the rest—while the Ministry knew her name, they weren't yet sure on her appearance, and she had figured out how to make a single-use Portkey to take her where she needed as long as it wasn't warded.

At least, and to Archie's great relief, the ICW agreed with them that they were at civil war. News from their allies and their informants alike were that, despite Voldemort's orders to downplay it as internal unrest, the other member states generally agreed that there had been a change of power and Wizarding Britain had effectively collapsed. There were holdouts – Wizarding Russia and its closest ally states took no position at all, while Wizarding China considered it irrelevant to their interests and ignored it totally. Wizarding France was, as usual, divided between the old families that supported Voldemort for his views in blood purity and the remainder of the population that didn't, and took weeks to come to a lukewarm agreement with the voting bloc led by Wizarding America. It took three weeks, but the ICW passed a resolution stating that Wizarding Britain was in a humanitarian crisis and recommending that all member states provide aid.

Hermione was drowning in refugee logistics. Even with the first refugee group gone to Stord, she was caught in reports from the Wizarding Nordic Union about their problems. Food and other supplies from other nations were slow in coming, and conflicts were developing between the camp and the surrounding population. Primarily wizarding as the west coast of Stord was, there had been about fifteen incidents threatening the Statute of Secrecy, and the alleys had always had an innate resistance to any sort of outside authority. At the end of July, she, Harry and Leo slipped out of Wizarding Britain under false identities and appearances, flying to Stord to settle the issues.

But there were always more requests for help with it came to refugees. Newbloods and many halfbloods, those with one foot in the No-Maj world, found it easy to slip away on their own means: leaves of absence were taken, new jobs obtained abroad, and they were on the next No-Maj plane out of Britain. Others, however, struggled – most of those who came forward were legal halfbloods or members of ally families, those who were no friend to the new Ministry of Magic but who had been wizarding their entire lives. Aunt Lily was caught up making powerful international Portkeys to the closest friendly Portkey Hub in Wizarding France, and refugees went out to Wizarding Germany, America, Canada, and Australia. Fortunately, these groups did seem to cope better than the Alley refugees had – they hadn't been as traumatized, Hermione said, and they had had some semblance of choice, so they were better prepared to adapt.

By his birthday, the first week of August, things were clear. Wizarding Britain was at war, and it would not be ending anytime soon. Hermione received a letter from AIM, sent through the No-Maj post to her home address in Oxford.

"They're changing the student flight," she said, reaching into a rucksack and pulling out the letter. "It's flying out of Marrakech this year, but they've guaranteed a Portkey from Paris to Marrakech. Paris is easier for most of ours to get to by No-Maj trains, and the Scottish and Irish Portkey Hubs are still safe."

Archie looked up from his meeting notes – this one with Armand Abbott at the Daily Prophet, a warning about the newest headline to come out tomorrow. He had completely forgotten that school would be back in less than a month. "Oh."

He stared at her for a moment, silent – her expression was solemn, determined, and there was a quirk in her eyebrows, her lips slightly pinched. It was her I cannot believe I am doing this face, combined with her I have a responsibility face, all rolled into her this is the right thing to do face.

He understood. AIM was his Healing training, it was his studies in Infectious Disease, it was theatre. There was still even a script in his bag, upstairs, which he hadn't been able to glance at more than once or twice all summer. AIM was his future. But he couldn't leave – not with Britain like this.

"So…" Archie started, looking towards the letter in her hand again – light, No-Maj paper, completely nondescript. "Are you going back to school, 'Mione?"

Hermione shook her head, a tiny movement. "I can't. Archie, I'm coordinating more than half of the logistics to get refugees out of Britain, and I'm the primary British contact for refugee assistance and aid. I've – I've filed the forms to defer the year."

Archie nodded. He understood, and he glanced at the letter again. "I don't… Dad isn't going to like it."

He looked at her, and her brown eyes were understanding. She nodded slowly. It sucked, putting their educations on hold, but they didn't have much choice. Archie couldn't leave Britain, not while this was happening – even if he didn't have any precise role, half of their allies always seemed ready to break off if he wasn't there, and sometimes it seemed like things just wouldn't happen unless he reminded everyone of what was important. They didn't talk, the many gears that made up the war machine, and even two months later some groups were all too ready to leap down each other's throats.

"Okay," he said, the impact of his decision hitting him in one swoop, and he took a deep breath. "All right. No school next year. Can I get a copy of the deferral forms?"

"Already had them." Hermione smiled, a little weakly, reaching back into her rucksack. "I even filled them out for you, so you can just… sign them and I'll send it express back to AIM."

Archie smiled back, grateful, reaching for his pen. "You're always ahead of the game, 'Mione."

To his surprise, AIM wrote back within the week, advising that not only had his and Hermione's requests for deferral been approved, but that they would be given partial credit for the year, including two elective Healing credits in Emergency Healing, a Defense credit, and an International Relations credit. Both John, at the ICW, and Keladry Mindelan, at Queenscove, filed for deferrals too, though John was annoyed to have gotten only got two International Relations credits, while Kel was getting her full year of credits and graduating on time with her Defense Mastery.

As August dragged on, they settled in. No war ended easily, and they hunkered down, regrouping and planning their next move.

XXX

Draco was reading on his sofa – the Daily Prophet, again, and Bridge, taking notes to put on the wall of information that he had started three weeks ago. No one except Harry was telling him anything, nor did she seem to know everything, so he had to piece most of it together from the newspapers that were left for him. It was frustrating, and it was slow work, but at least it was something for him to do. Based on his reading, he had managed to put together a rough idea of who was on which side, though he still had huge holes in his information.

He didn't really know what he was going to do with it all yet. He was just collecting it to know, because information was always useful. There was a part of him that still toyed with the idea of getting out, getting away from Rosier Place and fleeing overseas, but he knew enough now to know that it wasn't reasonable.

He couldn't leave Britain without Pansy. Pansy had given herself up for him—he could never repay that by leaving without her. He had started his wall of information trying to work out where Voldemort was keeping her, thinking abstractly that he might be able to rescue her and they could run away together, but it seemed like Voldemort was keeping her close. Too close, close enough that rescuing her would be no easy task.

Voldemort had taken them unprepared at Malfoy Manor, and even Rosier's group hadn't managed to take back his home. Draco wasn't so stupid to think that he alone could challenge Voldemort, rescue Pansy, and flee the country without help. For now, Rosier Place was probably the best place for him to stay while he worked out what to do next.

He was still free to wander Rosier Place as he pleased, but there was little point. It was safe there, but that was all it was—there was no one he wanted to speak to, and everyone was busy. He often ate with the motley group of Muggleborns and halfbloods that met in the formal Rosier dining room every night, though he didn't understand most of what they talked about: an American sport called Quodpot featured prominently, or Muggle sports like football or cricket. They talked about the television shows they were missing, the Internet they longed for, or, most often, the food that they missed. Things with foreign names, like yam cha, bayaaynatu or bamayan, pad sew and pho and palak paneer.

He didn't know what they were, and he wasn't wholly sure he wanted to know. He didn't ask, and even if he sat with them, he rarely said anything to them. They were kind enough, always polite and saying hello when he joined them, but he just didn't have much to say.

Instead, he just listened.

They didn't speak like he had always thought Muggleborns and halfbloods would speak, not that he had ever really given much thought to how they would speak. He had just assumed it would be different, somehow. They were all internationally trained, but they all had Masteries of one kind or another. There weren't any magical accidents at the table, and from the mere fact that they all held Masteries, he somehow doubted that they lacked for power, either. Maybe they weren't the magical powerhouses that Riddle and Harry represented, but Draco wasn't either and Harry was a halfblood anyway.

There was a knock at his door.

It couldn't be Harry, not at this hour. It was long after the dinner hour, and with Rosier being conservative even for a Dark pureblood—or, he corrected himself, not a pureblood but one educated as a Dark Society pureblood—he doubted that Rosier accepted visitors to Rosier Place this late at night. He thought about ignoring it, feigning sleep, but his curiosity won out. It had to be someone staying at Rosier Place, but there was no one here that would have anything to say to him.

The Lord Rosier, radiating a mix of tiredness and discomfort, stood in the doorway.

"Excuse the late hour," the man said, absurdly proper even in the middle of a war. "May I come in?"

Draco studied him for a minute, then he left the door open and walked back into his rooms, sitting down on the sofa. "It's your manor."

It was a lukewarm invitation, if it even was one, but Rosier came in anyway. He looked around, somehow discomfited, and took a seat in an armchair where he could look at Draco while he spoke. Draco wasn't sure what Rosier wanted with him, since he had already passed the test and hadn't left the manor since he arrived, but he waited.

"I came to talk to you about—about what comes next, I suppose," Rosier said, leaning forward with a resigned sense, his eyes scanning the wall that Draco had covered with his research from the newspapers. Lists of names, for both Voldemort's side and Bridge members, with red thread marking traditional blood connections between names and white thread marking the alliances he knew, by which Draco tried to guess where other families he knew fell. Aldon raised an eyebrow at the red-and-white cobweb, but he didn't comment. "As you know, we've suffered major losses recently—nothing in Wizarding Britain is safe, so I have made preparations for you to join your mother in Geneva."

"Geneva—" Draco blinked, taken aback. Of course, he wanted to see his mother, and of course, he had thought about leaving and doing the same, but at the same time—

Pansy was here. Harry was here. Pansy was a captive here, and if he left, he would be leaving them here.

"Yes, Geneva," Aldon repeated, emanating a sense of tired impatience even if his voice was even. "Your mother wishes for you to join her in Geneva. Although there are charges against you, Switzerland is far from Wizarding Britain, and without an extradition treaty. I can also tell you that your friend, Miss Bulstrode, is now with the Wizarding British delegation there. Although formally she will likely be barred from seeing you, I trust that she is clever enough to slip away from the delegation from time to time. Geneva is considerably safer for you, and you wouldn't be as lonely, there."

"And Pansy?" Draco demanded, incensed at Aldon's patronizing tone. "What about Pansy? How could I leave without Pansy, or Harry, or Blaise, or anyone else?"

Aldon shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. "Harry and Blaise, as I am sure you are well aware, are an active part of this war effort. They are staying, and as for Pansy—"

"What about Pansy?" Draco interrupted, pointing at his wall, his hand trembling slightly. "She's still captured. She's still there, with Voldemort. What are you doing about it?"

Aldon coughed, looking away. "I have been making efforts, but… Well. There have been some troubling reports that she has become one of Voldemort's highest-level advisors—"

"No." Draco sat bolt upright, feeling short of breath. The room spun. That didn't make any sense. Pansy was a prisoner of Voldemort, not on his side. She couldn't be on his side, that didn't make any sense at all. "Pansy isn't—Pansy wouldn't—"

"I can hardly believe it either, yet I have multiple accounts of her leading a unit at the Malfoy Manor strike." Rosier paused. "She did very well and was apparently quite destructive against our main flank."

"She has to have been Imperiused," Draco argued, nearly standing up in his need to convince Rosier of the fact. "She doesn't know what she's doing. Pansy wouldn't do that, and she wouldn't hurt a fly."

Rosier held up his hands, placating. "I understand, however, the facts are the facts. She was on the battlefield as an enemy combatant, which … complicates matters. Despite what you might think, Malfoy, I am not in command of any of the military matters, and there is nothing I can do for her based on the information I have. There is nothing that I can do for her, but we have decided that we can get you out to Geneva. I am sure that—I am sure that she would be glad to know that you are safe abroad."

Rosier was now radiating a sense of regret, sorrow and worry, which made sense. Pansy was one of Rosier's childhood friends, and as much as Draco might not personally like Rosier, he doubted that Rosier would leave Pansy to be a captive if there were anything he could do. Draco fell silent, looking down at his coffee table for a few minutes.

He could go to Geneva. His mother was in Geneva, and he loved his mother, and she wanted him there, which was more than he could say for anyone here. He could return to something like a normal life—not like it would be in Britain, but he wouldn't be living in a manor that had been heavily mined with trap spells with people who were ambivalent at best about him, and he wouldn't be in the middle of a war. Millie would be there, and even if he hadn't been on the best of terms of her over the last year, he knew now that he owed her an apology and he knew that she would accept it. In Geneva, the war would fade into the distance, and he would have his mother beside him, his only remaining family, and he would have Millie. He wouldn't be alone, or at least not so often as he was now.

But Harry would still be here in Britain, and Blaise. Pansy was still a captive, and based on what Aldon had just told him, he guessed that Aldon was struggling to convince his allies that Pansy wasn't on Voldemort's side, however it looked. He knew Pansy—whatever Pansy said or did was for her own survival, and he had a responsibility to stay here and try to convince anyone who would listen that Pansy was a prisoner, not one of Voldemort's followers. He had a duty to try to rescue her, by any means possible, after what she had done for him.

He couldn't leave. If he left, he would be abandoning his duty, leaving Pansy to Voldemort, and he would be leaving the rest of his friends to fend for themselves. If he left, seeking safety for himself, he would be a coward.

Draco Malfoy was not a coward.

"I don't want to go," he said, looking at Rosier directly. "No one else is evacuating."

"Actually, quite a lot of people are evacuating right now," Rosier replied, thoughtful, but Draco cut him off.

"No, that's not what I meant. I—" he paused, steadying himself. "I'm not going."

Rosier stared at him, his eyes almost glowing in the dim light. "Then what will you do? Excuse me for stating the obvious, but we are at war. Everyone in this household, except for you, is an active part of the war effort. While I don't mean to ask you to leave, if you are not a part of the war effort, it would be best for you to leave and go to Geneva."

Draco started, a little surprised, though he knew he probably shouldn't have been. "The Muggleborns and halfbloods—"

He hadn't seen them doing anything that looked war-related at all. They were always in the library, either locked in the study rooms or talking at one of the big tables, or reading, but they didn't look like they were training, or planning attacks, or anything that he would consider a part of any war effort.

"Blake & Associates is very much a part of the war effort," Rosier replied, and there was a cold edge to his voice. "Their duties are not of your concern, however, because you are not part of this war. To speak bluntly, Malfoy, Rosier Place does not have the resources here for people who are not an active part of the war effort. It—" He paused. "It is not personal, regardless of how it may seem. I really—things have become a great deal more dangerous for us, over the past few weeks."

Draco looked down. Rosier wasn't wrong. His wall of collected information had told him that much, with show trials against Alastor Moody and another family, the Chesmores, already underway. They said that Lord James Potter would be next, then Sirius Black and a long list of names that were neatly printed on Draco's wall, including his own. Rosier's own feelings, tiredness, worry and grim determination, didn't contradict it. Rosier spoke sense, but Draco didn't have to like it.

He didn't know if he agreed with anything Rosier, or Blaise, or Harry were standing for right now. But he didn't think he had to agree, either. There were two sides to this war: there was Voldemort, and there was not-Voldemort, and Voldemort wanted to arrest him, put on him a show trial for corruption, and probably execute him if he could capture him. Voldemort had Pansy, and god only knew what Voldemort was doing to Pansy while not-Voldemort tripped over itself arguing over whether she was on his side or not.

Draco could live with not-Voldemort, and they could argue over things like blood discrimination laws or governance later.

And if he was part of Rosier's side, he could help convince them that Pansy wasn't on the other side. Pansy couldn't be, because it was Pansy, and Pansy wasn't a killer. She had to have been Imperiused, or worse. This was a fact written into his soul, and he needed to do everything he could to rescue her. She had given herself up for him, so he had to rescue her.

"What would it take…" Draco started, then he took a deep breath and shut his eyes. "What would it take for me to join your side?"

There was a pause, and Aldon was looking at him, very seriously. "What do you think you can offer?"

Draco didn't know. He would have offered his alliance, once, but he didn't know how much that was worth now that Malfoy Manor had been captured. He would have said influence, once, but he didn't have much influence to wield anymore. He would have offered money, once, but he didn't have any money anymore.

He didn't even have a wand, anymore.

"I can… I can work," Draco said, scrambling. "I led the Duelling Club at Hogwarts for years, so if I have a wand, I can fight, or I can help train people and lead workouts. If there are SOW Party families that haven't joined Voldemort, I can try to help sway them. I might also know some things about the families that did join Voldemort that could be helpful."

Rosier was silent, studying him for a minute or so, and Draco knew he was considering not just what he said, but what his gift was telling him. Draco thought he had been honest, but who knew what Rosier was reading from him. It was a long minute, and Draco tensed, but eventually Rosier stood up.

"I will speak to the others. We'll consider where we can place you. What was your wand?"

XXX

ANs: Here we are, back on the usual update schedule, and while I maybe spent the break writing oodles of exchange fic (all of which is now uploaded under Flashes, or, in a nicer fashion, arranged as a series on AO3), the buffer has now been refreshed! Hooray! Most of my exchange fics are fluffier in nature, but those of you enjoying CC (which I hope are most of you) might enjoy there is beauty, which is about Percy, or Blake, which is a what-if featuring an Aldon who was raised by Christie. Those who take the time to do it will have, I guarantee, more to think about in the upcoming chapters!

Thanks always to beta-reader meek, who does not pull punches (one paragraph of her edits stated "these three paragraphs should not see the light of day"), and to all of you who encourage me to keep writing! Please leave me a comment or review - they are the fuel that keeps me writing! ;)