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.

7. Chapter 7

The Lord Potter looked at the list of potential targets with a frown on his face. Aldon knew well what it said. It was a list provided to him by Swallow, the sites that Voldemort was thinking about hitting as retaliation for the Irish revolt. Late in October, the man had finally let go of trying to strike at Ireland itself, and the Daily Prophet had been spinning tales for the past two weeks about Irish collaborators within Wizarding Britain.

Aldon had no idea how Swallow was doing what she was doing. All his informants had reported that Voldemort was a powerful Legilimens, and to his knowledge, Swallow had never had any Occlumency training. Yet, somehow, she had gained a high position for herself in his Ministry, her role as a spy apparently sailing beneath his notice.

The issue was that, the higher she rose in Voldemort's esteem, the closer she was watched—not only by Voldemort himself, but by any number of his followers who wanted her position. She was only rarely able to get away, and when she had smuggled out this list, Voldemort had not yet settled on a target. This was only a list of possibilities, not firm, but because it was Swallow who had provided it, Aldon knew that it was good information.

Voldemort's next target was on this list. He just didn't know which one Voldemort would choose to strike.

The Scots topped the list of potential targets. Some of the Scottish Clans wanted independence as well, and it was not hard to believe that they would support their friends, the Irish, in breaking away in return for a similar favour at a later time. The Daily Prophet had also been drawing comparisons between the Scottish Clans and the Irish for a week, drawing attention to their similar goals, as well as the threat the Scottish posed in the north. Three days ago, the Prophet had released a suggestion for any British families living within traditional Scottish lands to consider evacuating south. If that wasn't a signal, then Aldon didn't know what was.

On the other hand, Queenscove was also on the list. At first, Queenscove seemed like a bit of an unlikely target. It was shockingly well-defended by both magical wards and trap spells, and by physical walls and ravelins. On further thought, however, Aldon couldn't be sure that anyone on Voldemort's side knew anything about Queenscove. Neal had only hosted one event, mainly for Light faction families, and it had been poorly attended by Society standards. Not everyone who had attended stood with them, but Voldemort's followers included few Light faction families and Aldon didn't think any of them would be volunteering information to Voldemort just yet.

Queenscove was a good target because Neal wasn't British. He was a Canadian and proudly so, and he had strong connections abroad—not just in Wizarding Canada, but in Wizarding China, America and at the ICW. He, his mother, his brother and cousin had all been a part of the Malfoy Manor attack, and after that strike Queenscove had drawn further recruits from the British International Association, who were among the most supportive of Irish independence. Striking at Queenscove would strike at many supporters of Irish independence, as well as matching Voldemort's nationalistic and xenophobic rhetoric.

But the Welsh, including traditional casters much like the Tuatha Dé, were on the list too. Through the Triwizard Tournament, Cedric had shown that the art was not lost among the Welsh, and Aldon did not think that would have escaped the notice of anyone with any sense. However, Cedric wasn't strong by traditional standards, and the magic he had shown in the Tournament was nothing on par with what Aldon guessed had to have happened in Ireland. The Welsh were also fewer in number, covering a large area, and fairly beaten down otherwise. They hadn't been at the Malfoy Manor attack, and there were far fewer justifications for a strike against them than against the other listed targets. Other than a vague connection by way of traditional magical technique, there was no rationale for a strike against them, and the Welsh were weak. After Ireland, Voldemort needed a show of power to demonstrate his authority, and the Welsh wouldn't provide one.

If Voldemort wanted to demonstrate his authority, it would make far more sense for him to strike at Grimmauld Place, the known residence of Arcturus Rigel Black, the assumed leader of Bridge. Bridge was often described as an Irish collaborator, and by their own statements, that wasn't wholly incorrect. Grimmauld Place was also the weakest of the manor homes—it didn't have the expansive grounds that any of the other manors had, into which trap-spells could be built to bleed the enemy. Unlike the other manors, they were also fairly certain that Voldemort could break the wards and gain entry, because Master Black was a part of the Black Family. To close that loop, Sirius would have needed to disown him and strike him from the family, requiring a blood ritual that he was unwilling to do.

Aldon and Lina had pushed him on it more than once, but Sirius had been immovable on the subject. He would rather lose the manor than disown his brother, regardless of the fact that Regulus Black now stood at the side of the enemy.

Lina had told him to prepare, then, for the loss of the Black manor—the second such incident in three hundred years. Even if Grimmauld Place wasn't lost in the next attack, or in the one after that, it was such a prime target that Voldemort was bound to capture it eventually. Grim-faced, Sirius had simply accepted the inevitable, and he had spent the better part of the last three weeks setting his manor with Blasting Curses and Explosive Runes. He and Archie now lived over the equivalent of a Muggle bomb and had six different emergency escape plans prepared for the inevitable attack.

Finally, Rosier Place had also made the target list. Aldon could not be sure what would have prompted their inclusion—Aldon himself was a halfblood who had recently graduated Hogwarts, but their family was historically Dark, and indeed he had been raised as a Dark pureblood with many acquaintances now in Voldemort's ranks. Aside from that, however, Aldon didn't think that his manor had any of the particular characteristics which would make it a good target for a retaliatory strike against the Irish. Aldon had no connection to Ireland, and with Blake & Associates officially relocated and headquartered in Lyons, he hoped that their own international connections would go unnoticed.

He could hope that his and Lina's historical connections might cause Voldemort to hesitate with an attack on them, if only because his followers might, but he wouldn't rely on it. Aldon's resident Stormwings were already shoring up his defenses, though Lina did not think that Voldemort would strike seriously at Rosier Place. The Stormwings there, whom she had identified through international connections, would know that she was at Rosier Place and would have some idea of the defenses that she had laid. As innocuous as his manor seemed by way of physical defences, Lina and the Stormwings swore that the spells they had laid would bleed the enemy dry.

Five separate targets, each with good reasons to be targeted. But each also having good reasons not to be targeted, too.

Aldon stared at the Lord Potter's expression as the man eyed the list. Over the past few months, they had developed something like a working relationship—they would never like each other, but Aldon thought the man would at least consider what he said.

"Do you have any other information that might tell us which one Voldemort will choose?" Lord Potter said finally, setting the list down. "Anything else, Lord Rosier."

Aldon shook his head. "Nothing. I've given you my analysis of the advantages and disadvantages of each target with the list, and that is the best I can do."

"We don't have the resources to defend multiple locations." Lord Potter's mouth was a thin line. "It's too soon. Our new units, not that there are many of them, are too green—they'll just be slaughtered. We don't have the resources for this."

"The Clanhomes, with warning, may be able to hold against an attack," Aldon said, trying to be helpful. "Queenscove has walls. Neal would appreciate an additional unit stationed at his manor, but he may be able to manage on his own with his own forces. Rosier Place is already shoring up defenses, though we have no internal unit of our own. I would suggest, however, that we put additional forces to defend both Grimmauld Place and the Welsh. With the Portkey Hubs, we can also redistribute forces as necessary."

The Lord Potter grimaced. "We don't even have additional units to cover two locations, not the way I'd like. I'll put an additional unit at Grimmauld Place. Even if we think we'll lose it long-term, we can't just sacrifice it—we need to make it an opportunity. As for the Welsh, they're not centralized into a single safehouse, and there's nowhere for us to station our units. They have planned extensive escape routes through their territory instead. I can warn Diggory and some of the others, but without a time or a place, it isn't more than they already knew."

Aldon shook his head. It wasn't that he didn't understand Lord Potter's point, but they had information. They needed to act on it. He had already sent warnings to Neal and the Scots, and he was preparing himself, but they needed to do more. "Surely there is something more you can do."

Lord Potter sighed, reaching up to run his hand through his hair. "I'll pull one of the squads off Goldenlake, they're close enough to Queenscove to get support, for Grimmauld Place. I'll also ask Moody to stop teasing the Ministry guards so his people can stay well-rested. The Welsh don't have a Portkey Hub, so I can't send more forces to them without isolating them form the rest of our forces, but they can Apparate in at the first sign of trouble. Wales isn't too far from here, so Apparition drain shouldn't pose too much of a problem, but I'll task it to the units at Potter Place and the Naxens. They're the closest. It's the best I can do, Lord Rosier."

He wasn't lying, so Aldon nodded. He didn't know what else could be done, and even if it didn't seem to be enough, he didn't have any more suggestions. He rose from the table. "I'll let you know if I hear anything further, Lord Potter."

Despite that conversation, the next days were marked with an odd sort of restlessness. He had no issue with his usual work—indeed, if anything, he was more productive than normal. He reworked his wards for the dozenth time while Lina and the Stormwings mined his grounds with another dozen nasty trap spells, then he walked everyone at Rosier Place through the emergency escape procedures twice more. He sorted through his correspondence, decoding each missive in record time, looking for anything that could point to a definitive target. He even voluntarily went to Queenscove every day to train in the lists.

Neal glared at him suspiciously the first time he showed up. "Al… are you okay?"

Aldon shrugged. "Fine."

"You never show up to training without me going over there to drag your ass over here." Neal's eyes narrowed. "The attack is freaking you out, isn't it?"

"Why would it?" Aldon pulled out his gun, fishing in his pockets for the paintballs that he used instead of bullets in the lists. Neal's lists were too crowded of late—Aldon didn't have anything comparable at Rosier Place, but he probably would need to get on that soon. The gardens, he supposed, could be sacrificed for it. It wasn't as if they grew anything in the winter anyway.

Neal followed him towards the lists, where Keladry Mindelan and three others were already engaged in a mock battle with Neal's older brother and cousin. "Because it's something that you got forewarning for, so you feel like you have to be prepared?"

"I've spoken with Lord Potter, and we're as prepared as we can be."

"But you're worried anyway." Neal paused. "Sometimes, Al, waiting is a trial of its own. You need to sleep more."

Aldon hadn't felt any spell, but Neal could have cast a diagnostic charm at him behind his back. The man was nothing if not nosy. "Yes, well, if I could sleep more than four hours in a night, I would, but clearly it isn't happening. You're always telling me to train more, so here I am."

Neal studied him for a moment, then he sighed and shook his head. "Fine. Maybe we'll tire you out enough that you'll sleep better, at least."

They made a valiant effort, Aldon had to admit, but it was never enough.

The Patronus found him mid-morning, decoding a new stack of information—much of it was from the Ministry of Magic, including alerts from Robin about what news laws were up for passage, and one from Magpie about the most recent orders issued to the British delegation at the ICW. It was a flash of silver, blinking in the corner of his eye, and Aldon, one ineffective coffee into his morning, took a few seconds to notice it.

At first, he thought it was just tiredness. But it lingered, and the moment he turned to look at it properly, he was on alert. A white-tailed deer, not a Patronus that he knew. It was flickering, which was nothing that Aldon had ever seen before—Patronuses glowed with a soft light, but they were either there or they were gone. He had never seen one this pale, as if it were barely holding on.

He stood, his hands flat on his desk, his heart pounding and beating erratically. The attack wasn't at Rosier Place, because he felt nothing against his wards, the manor found nothing untoward, and he heard nothing outside his doors. It couldn't be Grimmauld Place, because Sirius' Patronus was a great dog, and he thought Archie's was also a dog of some kind. It probably wasn't Queenscove, because Neal's Patronus was a leopard seal, though he supposed it could have been anyone else at Queenscove.

"Aldon—" The Patronus snapped out of view, then with a bright surge, came back. "—escaped. An absolute mess. I don't—"

The Patronus was gone, and Aldon waited. It had said close to nothing, and Aldon hoped, almost against hope, for the Patronus to reappear again. He had never seen anything interfere with a Patronus before. Any Dark spell that tried tended to be annihilated, any Neutral spell tended to glance off them, and any Light spell tended to be subsumed.

A minute. Two minutes, and Aldon shook his head, buzzing adrenaline filling his veins, and drew his own wand. Two tries, and his merlin was cocking its head at him.

"Lord Potter—it's Wales," he snapped. "Limited information. Cedric sent me a Patronus, but the message did not come through cleanly. I only heard that it was an absolute mess. I will be at Peverell Hall anon."

Then he flew out of his office, searching for one of the Stormwings. Lina was always his preference, but he would settle for any of them.

"Nothing interferes with a Patronus," Moody growled, frowning at Aldon with a hint of suspicion, when he at last found Lina and Moody in a conference in the formal dining hall. "It's why they're so useful for messaging."

Aldon spread his hands helplessly. "I did not say that it was explicable, only that it happened."

"I don't like it," Lina muttered. "I don't like new things, unless they're our new things. One of us has to go and investigate. What was the rendez-vous point for the backup units for Wales?"

"There wasn't one defined," Aldon replied, shaking his head, hoping that his own worry and uncertainty was not obvious. His own gift was telling him that his calm and even voice was a lie, but neither of the Stormwings seemed to have noticed. "By default, the Diggorys, but we relied on a message coming through with more information than we currently have."

Lina cursed under her breath. "Lord Potter's squads are going to be running around like a lot of idiots."

"I'll go meet them." Moody rose from the table, his electric eye spinning around the room. "They are likelier to trust me faster than you, Lina. I'll send a message when I track them down."

The old Stormwing stomped out of the room.

"I'm going to Peverell Hall," Aldon said, terse, when the woman he formerly called his mother turned her eyes on him. "I need—there's no telling what else might have happened, if the Patronus did not come through cleanly."

"Close to noon is a stupid time for an attack." Lina's lips were pressed in a thin line. "And the Welsh are the weakest of our allies. If you're going to Peverell Hall, go alert your girl. I will ask the trainees to be on standby and go with you myself. It could be a diversion—it does not take the entirety of Voldemort's forces to hold down the Welsh."

"Francesca is not my girl," Aldon snapped irritably, even as he strode out the door.

Fortunately, he found Francesca in the library, deep in a discussion with Aman about the best spells to adapt and the ideal ACD specifications for combat use. From the few times he had stopped in previously, it seemed that they had found a way to load three separate spells into a single ACD.

"Francesca, a word?" he asked, aiming for an apologetic tone. "It is rather urgent."

She glanced at him, and the light, engaged expression on her face dropped instantly. "What is it?"

He tilted his head, searching for an explanation which wouldn't be unnecessarily alarming. "I've had a report—Lina and I need to go to Peverell Hall to discuss it with Lord Potter. I need you to watch the wards while I am away."

"Watch the—" Francesca fell silent, her hands trembling as she set her notebook down. "You've never asked me to watch the wards."

"There's been an attack, hasn't there?" Aman cut in her, her voice sharp.

"I'd rather not unnecessarily panic everyone," Aldon replied pointedly, glaring at the woman, but he didn't deny it. "There's been something. Francesca, please."

"Yes, um." Francesca piled her materials into a stack, picking them up, her voice trembling. "I'm—I'm coming. I'm—can Aman come with me, too?"

Aldon glanced at the other witch. He had never seen Aman in action, other than the night of the Fiendfyre attack, but the slight, brown-skinned woman did have a Defense Mastery. Further, she had been working in new magical technologies and consulting for almost two decades, specifically in spellwork relating to Defense. "Yes, of course. Aman, by chance, would you know any spells that might interfere with a Patronus?"

"Interfere with a Patronus?" Aman straightened, both of her well-manicured eyebrows rising as she crossed her arms over her chest in thought. "Terminating a Patronus, yes, there is a spell for that—but what exactly do you mean by interfere with a Patronus?"

Aldon gestured with his arms. "It flickered—in and out. Some of the message did not come through. Similar to a poor Muggle wireless connection?"

Aman paused, looking at him. "Flickering."

"Flickering."

Aman shook her head. "I've no idea. I can do some research, if you'd like, but I've never heard of such a thing."

"Please," Aldon replied, aiming for gratefulness rather than worry. "Francesca, I should not be more than a few hours, and I should know if anything happens to Rosier Place in my absence. Aman, if you stay with her, it may be best if you stay nearby—Moody is also gone, though Lina is putting the trainee Stormwings on alert.

Aman nodded, serious. "Will do."

A twist of his mind showed him that Moody was stalking across the grounds, heading for the wards to Apparate. Aldon adjusted the distances for the old man, figuring that whatever the man found, he could likely benefit from preserving his strength. Lina was already waiting for him outside the Portkey Hub, a retrofitted reception room on the second floor near the front of the house.

"Ready?" she asked.

Aldon didn't reply. Instead, he wrenched open the door, walking inside to rest one hand on the glowing, humming, silver ring.

"I suppose you are," she muttered, following him in and grabbing the bar. Aldon reached for the configuration panel, waving his hand through the runic short-code for Peverell Hall, and the electric buzz of waiting magic filled the air. No Portkey Hub transit worked until someone at the destination activated and allowed the transit, and it was three minutes before Peverell Hall accepted the request. There was a tug at the back of his neck, a whirl of colour as the room disappeared around them.

His feet slammed into the wooden floorboards of what had to have once been one of Peverell Hall's formal dining rooms, judging by the glass-and-crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and he wasted no time heading out the door into Peverell Hall itself. Harry met him, her face pale.

"There's a problem," she said, and Aldon didn't ask how she knew. As far as he understood, the Lord Potter was still at least perfunctorily attempting to keep her out of active combat, if not the war itself, but was having less and less success as time went on. He wasn't surprised—a whole pureblood establishment, including the Lord Potter, had not succeeded in keeping Harriett Potter out of Hogwarts, and there was no reason a war would be any different. Her green eyes were sharp as she led him towards the informal kitchen and dining room that the Potters usually used for meetings. "The two units here that were supposed to go to Wales couldn't get through—something's blocking the Apparition. Like an Anti-Apparition Ward."

"An Anti-Apparition Ward?" Aldon shook his head, not knowing what to say. "No one can do an Anti-Apparition Ward through the entirety of Wales. It would cost too much in magic—not even Riddle himself could have done it."

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. But they're not punching through. They've tried three locations thus far, and nothing."

Inside the kitchen, the Lord Potter was pacing, listening to the description that one of his unit captains was reciting for him. Aurel Phillips, if Aldon remembered correctly. "I can't describe it—we get into the squeezing sensation of Apparition, and then it doesn't complete. It just doesn't complete, and we end up back where we started."

"Like trying to Apparate into an Anti-Apparition Ward?" Lord Potter supplied.

"I don't know, because I've never tried to Apparate into an Anti-Apparition Ward."

"No one has the power to ward the entirety of Wales!" Aldon interrupted, and the two men looked at him. "Riddle couldn't have done it—not Riddle, not Dumbledore. Not even Merlin could have done it."

"Lord Rosier." The Lord Potter stopped in his pacing to face him, with an expression almost like hope, or relief. "Tell me you have more information. What do you mean, the Patronus did not come through cleanly?"

"It flickered, like a poor Muggle wireless signal," Aldon explained for the third time that day, making a bursting gesture with his hand. "The exact message was Aldon, cut off, escaped, an absolute mess, then I don't, and then it was gone. I recognized Diggory's voice."

"And you didn't cast a Terminus spell at it?"

"Why the hell would I cast a Terminus spell on a messenger Patronus that one of my own allies had sent me?"

The Lord Potter shook his head briskly, as if he was dismissing an idea. "It seemed unlikely, but I had to ask. Nothing interferes with a Patronus—as long as its within range, it should just be there, or not."

"Do you imagine that I do not know that?"

"My mistake, Lord Rosier." The Lord Potter's head snapped towards the front door. "Moody's here."

"Moody was to have gone to Wales to rendez-vous with our support squads," Lina said, her head turning in the same direction, her brown eyes sharp. "He's not one to quit with the mission incomplete—he's a stubborn old man."

The Lord Potter laughed, though it sounded like he was laughing out of habit, as though he thought he should, rather than out of any genuine happiness. Aldon heard the front door slam, and caught sight of Harry doing a very good imitation of being a wall furnishing. To avoid being dismissed, he guessed.

"Anti-Apparition Wards." Moody stomped into the room, his magical blue eye whirling furiously around in its socket. "It is exactly as if the entirety of Wales has been warded with one massive Anti-Apparition Ward. I tried a dozen locations within Wales, and no luck. I can Apparate just outside of the Welsh border, but within it, blocked."

"But no one has the strength to ward an entire country!" Aldon repeated, feeling very much like a broken Repetition Curse. "We're only able to set up and sustain Anti-Apparition Wards at our own manors because of our imbued keystones. Even if we took that approach, it would require…" he stopped, trying to compute the numbers in his head. "At one keystone per square mile, a minimum of 8000 keystones, all of which have to be magically imbued!"

"What about amplifiers, though?" Lina's voice was sharp. "Amplification Charms or devices…"

"Or power stones." Sirius added, sounding grim. He and Archie must have arrived during the arguing. "Keystones are just stones imbued with magical power to help sustain magically warded zones, but power stones include an amplification effect. Black opals, for example, are by size and weight some fifty times as powerful as a keystone for general uses. Rubies and sapphires, too, have particular strengths for amplifying Charms, while diamonds have an affinity with structured magic, such as Light magic and wards."

"Even so," Aldon replied, somewhat sharp. "That would be a hundred and sixty opals the size of keystones. It would require thousands of gemstones."

"But how many gemstones do you think there were in the Malfoy vault?" Lina asked quietly, and the room fell silent.

"Not just the Malfoy vault," the Lord Potter added, blanching in realization. "The family vaults of anyone now with Voldemort. The Lestranges, the Selwyns, the Crouches… who knows? Even the families known to be impoverished. Jewellery tends to become a family heirloom, kept even when everything else is sold off."

"That's true," Sirius agreed gruffly. "Even when we lost the Black manor, we kept over fifty pieces of jewellery—mainly black opals but there are a few other gemstones. And our collection, James, was nothing compared to the Malfoys, or many other Dark families. Cissy could tell us more about the Malfoy vault."

"It would still be thousands of gemstones," Aldon repeated weakly, though he was thinking back already to the Rosier vault. Over a hundred pieces, including diamonds, opals, pearls, and more, and their collection had started only a few centuries ago. Families in the Book of Gold would have collected far more. "And jewellery is sentimental. I can hardly imagine that families would be willing to hand over their treasured family heirlooms to Voldemort to be used in spells..."

Except that he could. He had enough information from Vulture and Swallow to know that Voldemort ruled with a certain amount of fear, and he could perfectly imagine Ed, for example, handing over the Selwyn family heirlooms to protect Alice. If it was a question of the Rosier vault jewels or Francesca, he would do the same and have not a single regret about doing it.

"Yeah, that expression there," Moody grunted, with a dark sort of humour. "Boy gets it."

"It could be combined with a spell to limit contact—has anyone heard from anyone within Wales, today?" Lina looked around the circle. "Not only Patronus, but by owl, by Floo call, by comm orb, another messaging spell, anything."

They all shook their heads, but Aldon wasn't sure the lack of contact necessarily proved anything. There was nothing unusual about not receiving an owl unless one was expecting an owl. Most of the Floo access points into Wales had been cut off, and as far as he knew, the only comm orb connection in Wales was between Cedric and Cho Chang, and he wasn't in contact with the latter. There were also no messaging spells other than Patronuses commonly used.

"The Weasleys live close to the Diggorys, just past the Welsh border," Sirius supplied. "Percy lives in London, the twins have relocated into Glasgow, and Ron and Ginny are at school. We can see if any of them have heard from their parents today, but… it would take time."

"I don't like this," Lina growled, slamming her hand onto the table with loud crack. "Why the Welsh—and why so many resources against the Welsh? Yes, they're traditional casters, and their magic is a lot like the Irish, but there's no provocation that Voldemort can rely on for a strike, and they're a poor target if Voldemort is trying to make a display of strength. You do not need these tactics against the Welsh. Forty trained Aurors would be enough."

"Does he know that, though?" Moody asked, blue eye spinning in thought. "Maybe he doesn't know that."

"Or these tactics themselves are the show of strength," Harry offered quietly, from near the wall. "The ability to pull together this much power—he might be making an example. We know that he likes examples from the coup. He can always invent a provocation later."

"My sources inside Voldemort's camp do state that he is not stable at the best of times," Aldon agreed, his nose wrinkling. Vulture, in particular, seemed to enjoy trying to find new and more creative ways to describe Voldemort's madness, while Swallow's missives were painfully short and to the point, including only critical information and limited details.

"It could be a diversionary tactic." The Lord Potter sighed, running one hand through his hair. "He doesn't need his entire force against the Welsh, regardless of what else he's doing. He doesn't even need half his forces to hold down the Welsh. Tactics like this..."

"He could be trying to draw us out." Lina tapped at the table. "In which case, blocking the border and a massive Anti-Apparition Ward makes no sense. He's blocking us from whatever is happening in Wales—even the Patronus interference, whatever he wants to do in Wales, he wants it kept secret."

"Or, he's trying to make it look more interesting so that we go investigate." Moody's nose, or the scarred remains of it, was scrunched up in distaste.

"But he doesn't need to—the Welsh are our allies, and he can assume that we would come to their aid anyway. He doesn't need to make it more intriguing to draw us out," Lina countered, but she didn't sound convinced.

"Can he assume that?" Moody shook his head. "Consider: we never once came to the defense of the Irish, and they were formally our allies. Instead, when they acted, we released a wishy-washy statement saying that we would tolerate their independence but condemning their methods. As far as we know, he doesn't have a spy inside our forces, and he knows that he hit us hard in the summer. Maybe he thinks he needs the intrigue to draw us out. There is also a risk that this is all a diversion from his true target."

"Diversion or not, we need to go. The Welsh are our allies. The only question is, how are we supposed to get there?" Lord Potter shook his head again. "Are there Floo points still working?"

Aldon glanced at Harry, who would know best. She hesitated, thinking it over. "A few, but not any families we know."

"Not secure, then," Moody growled. "I hate Floo as a method of transportation in war anyway. Chimneys are bottlenecks, they can cut us down while we go through."

"We can go on foot, or by Muggle train."

That was Archie, taking a step forward and edging into the circle around the table. "I managed to speak to Hermione—she ran to the train station in Oxford to check, and the Muggle trains are still running fine, including the trains to Cardiff. Wales has three million people in it other than mages, and there's nothing in the Muggle news. We should be able to get on by train, or on foot."

"Searching the entirety of Wales on foot…" Sirius grimaced. "Like searching for a wand in a forest. And I'd be careful about the trains—there are ways that we can ward a place against Muggles, but not wizards, and it stands to reason that they can do the inverse. We did it with the Barrier Buttons, drove away anything with a magical core, but I don't think those would work on a Muggle. You don't want to be on a train, then slammed off when it crosses the border."

"On foot, then," Aldon said, looking around the table. The Lord Potter looked hesitant, while Lina and Moody seemed annoyed, or resigned. Archie and Harry were exchanging looks, and Archie shook his head. Aldon turned his attention back on Sirius. "I do not think it will be as impossible a task to search as you are imagining. Voldemort will be concentrating on magical areas and magical families, not Muggle cities."

"But he knows it. If he's there, waiting to draw us out, then we're going to walk into it." Lina crossed her arms over her chest, her mouth scrunched into a small, distasteful moue. "And we don't have enough units. We've been collecting recruits, here and there, but so has he. We can't afford to throw troops away on a possible suicide mission. We need more information."

"I'll go."

Lord Potter choked, but Harry's voice was firm and clear. She glanced at him, resolve in the set of her jaw. "Leo and I, we'll go. Between the two of us, we have an unusual set of skills, and I have enough magical power that—well."

"Harry can punch through more than most," Archie finished for her, sounding bleak. He slung one arm around her shoulders. "I think it's a good idea."

"It's more help than I'm being here," Harry continued, carefully looking around the table at everyone except her father. "We've stopped meeting with the old SOW Party families to try to garner their support, so I'm not helping there anymore. Brewing supplies—you have enough Protection Potion and other Healing Potions to last you at least a month, and Archie can fill in the gap on Healing Potions if there's anything else you need. For the refugees, Hermione is the one with the connections and the skills, and our international allies generally respond better to her than to me. With the Lower Alleys refugees gone, I'm not needed there, either."

"Absolutely not," Lord Potter snapped, his face pale, but everyone else in the circle was listening. Lina and Moody, in particular, were eyeing Harry with thoughtful consideration. Even Sirius, though his expression was worried, didn't look ready to jump in to support the Lord Potter.

"Leo and I are more useful in the field," Harry said firmly, still avoiding her father's eyes. "We're not being used effectively where we are right now. We'll go in and scout. You can leave the squads on standby nearby."

Lina was already nodding, but Lord Potter was shaking his head. "Harry, this isn't a game. This isn't exciting, it's serious and dangerous."

"So was breaking the law to go to Hogwarts." A small tilt of her lips as she finally looked up at her father. "So was being at Hogwarts, come to think of it."

Aldon laughed, but quickly turned it into a hacking cough.

"I don't think of this as a game, or excitement." Harry shifted on her feet, something going unsaid, but Aldon wouldn't know enough about this version of her to be able to guess what it was. She wasn't lying. "This is just what needs to be done, Dad, and Leo and I are the best ones to do it."

"You're sixteen," the Lord Potter said flatly. "You're not of age."

"You were willing to accept Draco into the regular ranks, and he's sixteen." Harry shrugged. "This is a war. I don't think age matters."

"She's right, Lord Potter." Lina shook her head, looking at the Lord Potter. "That is the logical tactic. We don't have the information we need, so someone needs to go in and scout. Harriett would do well with the former Rogue and King of Thieves."

"We can ask for a few shifters to go with them," Sirius added lowly, patting the Lord Potter on the back. "It would be a bit safer that way, and if people need to return, they won't be left alone. James, if Harry wants to go, I think we should think about it. She has as much, or more, to lose as we do, and like us, she'll never be safe in Britain until the war is won. Age is just a number. Harry is resourceful, and she's not like us—she has a level head on her shoulders."

Harry smiled at him, slight but warm in gratitude. "Thanks, Uncle Sirius. If you send someone with us, can you keep it to only a couple people? More than four is likely to draw attention."

"Should be fine, Harry. No more than two, and if you need to split up, keep it in twos, understand? Don't make a liar of me."

"I won't." Harry nodded once, understanding. "Whoever it is, we'll need to meet them, come up with a cover story."

"I'll handle that part," Archie volunteered. "And if you meet them at Grimmauld Place, I'll dress you—the Muggle world is safer than ours, so in a picky situation, you can try to move to a Muggle area, find yourself a crowd and lose yourself in it."

"Voldemort is still aiming at legitimacy, so he can't flagrantly break the Statute of Secrecy, not without drastic consequences," Aldon agreed, tilting his head. "If he did, he would have to consider that the ICW and other nations might become involved to protect the Statute of Secrecy—he doesn't even have control of us, and he certainly does not want us to have formal military support from any other nations."

Harry hesitated. "We'll keep that in mind, though I expect that whatever else is happening isn't going to be in a Muggle area. Dad?"

There was a long, drawn-out moment of silence, then the Lord Potter made a frustrated noise. "I can see when I'm going to be outvoted. Harry, reconnaissance only. No games, no tricks, no pranks. You're there to observe, not to interfere, no matter what happens, do you understand? Do nothing that draws any attention to yourself, and I want Patronus reports from you every eight hours."

"Will do." Harry nodded again and glanced at Archie and Sirius. "I'll go get ready and talk to Leo, and we'll meet you at Grimmauld Place."

She disappeared out the kitchen door, and Aldon turned his attention to the rest. The Lord Potter seemed shocked at himself, as well as distressed, while Lina was wearing an expression of supreme annoyance.

"As for the rest of us…" She blew out an annoyed breath. "I suppose we wait for more information. I hate waiting for more information."

Aldon agreed, his senses on a live wire. It felt like waiting was all they had done, and then something had happened, only for there to be more waiting.

XXX

Hannah ran her hands along the tough cloth of her new trousers. Archie had called them jeans, but she didn't like the way they restricted her movement, nor how cold they got as the shadows lengthened and the skies grew darker. She wrinkled her nose, her rabbit's heart beating with too much adrenaline, and she told herself to calm down as she slunk over the ridge.

She was in the lead—the one most likely to be able to hear something from a long way away, shift, and make a run for it while the others followed. She could feel Blaise's sharp attention behind her, with only a hint of discomfort at his own manner of dress. Harry Potter and Lionel Hurst were behind Blaise, fortunately a lot quieter than she was used to humans being. Even when quiet, without an animal's sharp ears or nose, humans tended to be loud.

It was later than any of them would have really liked. Hannah had been at the Warren when her father had asked for volunteers—two people to go into Wales and investigate with Harry Potter and Lionel Hurst, a strict reconnaissance order. No one was sure what to expect, but the call had implied that they needed to be prepared for anything. Hannah had volunteered, because there were few spies better than her in rabbit form, and because she had volunteered, Blaise had leapt to go with her.

She would have preferred her usual team. Blaise had gotten better at surveillance-type missions over the past few months, but it wasn't where he was suited. He found them frustrating, and he always felt the need to impose meaning, analysis, or interpretation onto what he was watching when his job was observation only. She had told him, over and over again, that there was a time for observation and a time for analysis, and imposing meaning or analysis too early could lead them to dismissing things that didn't match with their preconceived ideas. On surveillance, their job was to stay clear-eyed, to observe and to report accurate information, and it was up to people like Rosier to do the analysis.

But it was almost an instinct for Blaise to analyse, so Hannah didn't like having him with her on surveillance missions. He missed too many small things, and small things could and often did make a difference. Blaise was, however, quite a lot better at infiltration and sabotage missions; the exact analysis habit that made him a weakness in surveillance gave him quick judgement and reaction time in a high-pressure situation, and his form, a large Italian black wolf, was suited to fighting. She had heard that he had fought his way out of a tight corner a few months ago, though he refused to talk about it with her.

People talked about it, though. Blaise had effectively moved into the Warren, not having anywhere else to go to ground after the coup, and Christian had caught him that day most of his way through a bottle of wine. Blaise was never messy while drinking, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue enough for him to say something needing to wash out the taste of human flesh from his mouth.

Christian had handed him a package of Fisherman's Friend without further comment, and Hannah knew for a fact that Blaise had five packages of the extra-strong mints in his rucksack behind her. He expected fighting in Wales, or he was prepared for it, and so Hannah could not truly be upset to be with Blaise rather than her usual surveillance team.

Hannah didn't know much about Harry Potter, and she had never met Lionel Hurst at all. She knew as much as she thought most people did about Harry Potter, who had been Rigel Black at school. Her yearmate, she knew that Rigel Black was a smart but quiet boy who was always willing to lend her a spare quill, who he always seemed to be in the middle of whatever strange was going on at Hogwarts. She remembered saving Rigel from drinking acid, and she remembered that Rigel had saved her from a nasty fall and the Sleeping Sickness in first year, and she had heard the rumours that he had saved them all from much more. She had liked Rigel, in the vague sort of way that she liked most people, but Rigel wasn't Harry Potter. Or, rather, Rigel was Harry Potter, but Harry Potter wasn't Rigel Black, and Hannah still wasn't sure how she felt about it all.

When they had arrived at Grimmauld Place, there had been a moment of awkwardness. They had met before, but not like this, and it took a moment for Potter to extend her hand to introduce herself as if Hannah had never met her before.

"Harry Potter," she had said with a small smile, an uncertain look in her green eyes. She didn't look at all like Rigel Black had looked—her hair was longer, almost shoulder-length, but half of it was tied at the back of her head. "Please, call me Harry."

A new start, Hannah guessed that meant, so she had taken Potter's hand with a cheerful smile. "Then, it must be Hannah."

Hurst had said nothing, only looking at her and Blaise like he was sizing them up. Hannah had stared back at him, wondering how someone so skinny could be the famed Rogue and King of Thieves, before Harry had made the introductions for him.

But both Harry and Hurst made for quiet and cooperative teammates, so Hannah didn't have any real complaints about being trailed by them either. They didn't know what they would be walking into, and if command thought that a mix of skills was best, then Hannah would accept it and work with whoever they told her to work with to complete the mission.

They just weren't who she was used to working with, that was all.

There wasn't enough cover. The grass clung to the ground, stubbornly resisting the wind that blew in their faces, as Hannah picked her way silently towards Wales. Harry and Hurst had Apparated her and Blaise about a mile away from the Welsh border, a few miles away from where the Weasleys lived, to avoid any monitoring or alarm spells. They had a long trek to get there, and the sun was already setting.

They would check on the Weasleys that night. Even if the Weasley parents weren't, for the sake of their younger children, formally part of the resistance, Harry and Blaise both thought that they would shelter them and provide whatever help they could without drawing attention to themselves. Once there, Harry had a passive scrying spell that they would use to identify any magical hotspots, or places of intense magical activity, and they would plan from there.

It wasn't a great plan, but Hannah was used to acting without a plan. The thing about specializing in surveillance work was that usually there was no clear plan—it was up to Hannah to bring back the information that others relied on to make their plans.

It was getting chilly. Hannah wrinkled her nose at the cold—the rest of her could be more than warm, but the tip of her nose was always cold. She touched it absently, looking down into the valley. Low scrubland, pocketed by small patches of trees and bushes, covered the hillsides, while the depths of the valley were dark. She didn't have the best night vision, but her hearing picked up only the wind. She turned, looking for Blaise to take lead—he had better night vision than she did, and his nose was far better than hers.

"There's something ahead." Harry had come close to whisper in Hannah's ear. Hannah took a step back, gesturing that she could hear her perfectly fine even without the physical motion. "My magic is reacting."

"Can you tell us anything more about it?" Hannah asked, keeping her voice low. "What do—do you mean, reacting?"

Harry shook her head. "It just says something is there—I get the sense of power, but that's all. Not good or bad. Just there."

"We don't have much choice," Hurst grunted, motioning forwards into Wales. "We have to know what's happening. Let's go."

"Blaise, take point?" Hannah asked, and Blaise slipped forward without reply, leading the way into the shadows of the valley.

It was even colder in the valley, and Hannah pulled her sweater more tightly around her. It was made of a thick, fluffy material, something that felt almost like her winter fur in rabbit form but was obviously man-made. Hannah would never wear real fur—while instances of shifters being caught in animal form and skinned for their fur were extremely rare, she couldn't help but imagine, every time she touched real fur, that it was one of her sisters, brothers, or cousins. Blaise, ahead of her in a black, canvas jacket over his own pair of jeans, kept a sharp eye on their surroundings.

There was a small creek running in the valley, barely deep or wide enough to even justify calling it a creek. The low-lying trees were a welcome sight, the bushes thick near the water. Hannah paused before her jump over the stream, just to breathe in the comforting scent of the trees, English holly and young oak and Scotch elm, listening to the comforting gurgle of water running over loose rock and stone.

Across the creek, Blaise choked, one hand coming protectively to his nose as he reeled. Hannah threw herself across, intent on her mate, and gasped the second she hit the other side. There was something, a magical wall, looming not far in front of them. If she was in her rabbit form, her fur would be standing up; in her human form, she could feel goosebumps rising on her arms, her shoulders, and her back. The comforting scent of woodland was gone, replaced with old magic and blood and power, and a curious chime was ringing in her ears. She shut her eyes, breathing in deeply, telling herself she needed to get used to it. Once she was used to it, it wouldn't bother her so much.

"Damn," Hurst said, his voice sounding like gravel, when he stepped across. Harry, beside him, had a tight expression on her face as she looked up.

"The Welsh border," Harry muttered, pushing ahead. "Come on. I doubt there will be anything between here and there—the wildlife will have been scared off, and I don't think he'll be bothered to have guards."

"Not a good sign." Hurst shook his head as he followed her. "A closer look?"

"I genuinely hope that Wales is not this bad," Blaise grumbled, taking in a breath and shuddering. "Are you all right, Hannah?"

"Could—could be better." Hannah nodded in the direction of Harry and Hurst. "I'll manage fine. We should go with them."

Old magic, blood, and iron. The scents hung in the air, strong enough for even Hannah's nose to pick up, strong enough that she saw Blaise pause by the riverbank to consider a Bubble-Head Charm. She shook her head in warning, and he grimaced: the Charm would blind his senses, and if anything happened, they needed every forewarning they could get.

The discordant chime rang in Hannah's ears, louder with every step she took towards the Welsh border. Neither were Harry and Hurst unaffected—while they didn't have the sharp animal senses that she and Blaise had, they didn't need them as they approached. The scent, the sounds were too overwhelming, the jingle in her ears sickening. As she approached, she could feel the oppressive heat of the wall against her core, pressing and making it hard for her to breathe.

Harry and Hurst were crouching down, examining the magical wall. Neither of them was unaffected by the magic—Harry's face was pale, while Hurst's jaw was clenched. Harry bit her lip and pulled out her wand, carefully poking at the spells.

"Anti-Apparition Ward," she heard her confirming. This close to the magical wall, Hannah could see it, dozens of magical sparks concentrated near the ground. "Concealment charms, those might be what are interfering with the communication spells? I'm not sure. There's also a bounding spell here, or something suggesting limitations, or containment? I don't know what it is, I'm not a strong magical theorist. My magic is just giving me impressions of what they feel like or do."

"Like something you'd find in a prison," Hurst added, his voice quiet.

"Can we get in?" Hannah interrupted, fighting her instinct to put her hands over her ears to block out the magical ringing. It wouldn't help. "Is—is it going to keep us out? Or are there alarm spells set to go off when we cross?"

Harry shrugged, twisting her wand to summon her Patronus, a lioness. "We can get in. Let me send a report, first. I think Voldemort wanted to leave it open for his followers to get in and out easily. The spellwork is complex enough that he likely can't put it up and take it down easily. I didn't feel anything like alarm spells, but I can't make any guarantees."

"Alarm spells or not, we don't have a choice," Hurst said, but he pulled out his wand anyway to check. "I don't see any of the main ones. Let's get going."

With that said, he stuck one hand through the barrier, and stepped forward into Wales. Harry shot him a worried glance but sent her Patronus off with a short message about the barrier and followed.

Hannah exchanged a look with Blaise, who only shook his head and followed.

The discordant chime fell away the further Hannah walked from the magical barrier, much to her relief. Aside from the magic, there was little differentiating Wales from England—the landscapes were the same, hills and valleys sparsely spotted with bushes and trees, all too far apart to provide more than any momentary cover. The sun was below the horizon now, and she picked her way after Blaise carefully, her senses on high alert.

Blaise paused in front of her, his nose flaring as he breathed in. "Burning," he snapped, changing directions. "That way."

"Ottery St. Catchpole is that way." Harry grimaced.

"That—That's a wizarding village, right?" Hannah whispered to Blaise, trying to keep her voice quiet enough that Harry and her friend wouldn't hear her.

"More of a hamlet," Blaise replied, similarly quiet. "Just a few houses and an Owl Post office, nothing like Hogsmeade or the Alleys."

Hannah nodded, her heart dropping. She couldn't hear anything unusual, but the silence was, in its own way, a threat. There should have been noise—the rustle of noise in the undergrowth, wildlife waking up to begin its nightly routine, even the sound of people on the wind. "We should—should go look, then."

Harry nodded, changing directions without further comment.

Ottery St. Catchpole had burned to the ground.

There had once been five buildings, Hannah could see. Of those, three were still standing, but they were burned out shells, husks of what they must have once been. The flames were gone, only the hint of red coals glowing in the darkness, but the scent of burned wood and human flesh hung heavily in the air. Blaise had already thrown up once approaching the village, and Hannah was hard-pressed to hold back tears. There was no smoke in the air, no sound, only grim death.

A young family had lived in the first house. A mother, a father, the burnt remains of a small child that couldn't have been older than her brother Luke. They had been tossed, discarded like rags, in what had been their sitting room. She couldn't make herself go on, she couldn't just leave these poor bodies there like that.

She stood, frozen, for what had felt like an eternity looking at the scene, just breathing through her tears. If it had just been her and Blaise, she wouldn't have worried about the tears—Blaise was shifter, Blaise knew that what appeared on the outside didn't always match what was on the inside. Blaise would be able to sense the resolve underlying her tears.

But Blaise was throwing up in what remained of the bushes outside.

"Leo and I will look at the other houses," Harry murmured, resting one hand on her shoulder. "You and Blaise can stay here, do what you need to do."

"I'll—I'll only be a few minutes," Hannah replied, taking another deep breath. She sniffed, just once, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Just—I need to find something to cover these bodies. And I'll look at the one—the one next door, too."

Harry hesitated, but she nodded. "Leo and I will look at the others, then."

It took Hannah only a few minutes to find a chest with barely-burnt blankets in it. There had to have been fire-proofing charms on the upper floors—much of the master bedroom had been almost untouched. She pulled out two, then found a blanket that had a picture of a Common Welsh Green on it for the little boy. Or girl, but probably a boy, based on what was in his bedroom.

She didn't even have a reason. It was all so needless—there were no reasons written in dead bodies and ashes, nothing to explain why this family, why this house, this hamlet, or this community was targeted. This close to the Welsh border, families were a mix of Welsh and English, and to Hannah's knowledge, none of these people here had been part of the resistance. This was just an innocent family, caught in the crossfire. She went downstairs, taking the time to whisper a short prayer for the dead as she draped the blankets over the burnt bodies.

Next door was an elderly couple, again thrown in a careless pile in the front room. There was only one floor to this house, and the roof was mostly gone. She cast around, looking for a blanket to cover them, but this house hadn't fared anywhere near so well as the last one.

"Blood," Blaise choked out, staggering to her as Hannah finally decided that the other family wouldn't care if she used one of their blankets or sheets to cover their neighbours' bodies, and went back to the first house. "There's too much blood, everywhere, Hannah. I smell it in the air, on the ground. They didn't die here. They were killed, then dragged here and burnt with the village. There's too much blood, it stinks of it. We need to go—we need to get out."

"No. I haven't seen—seen any bloodstains." Hannah shook her head, firm. "Why is that? We can't—can't go yet. We need more information, we have barely—barely anything. We need to know more."

"This isn't our role," Blaise growled. "They need a military unit for this, not us."

Hannah shook her head again, ignoring him as she trod upstairs, found a plain, pale blue sheet, and walked back next door to cover the elderly couple.

Harry and Hurst were waiting on the street when she finished, their expressions closed.

"Survivors?" Hannah croaked, her voice trembling, but Harry only shook her head.

"Seven dead," Harry reported instead. "You?"

"Five."

"Dementors were here." Hurst's voice was low, but the words came without any inflection. "Someone tried to get away—we found one body outside, still breathing but soulless. I… dispatched them. That makes eight, for us."

Hannah grimaced, her eyes filling with tears again. Without a soul, there was no afterlife. That was why it was among the most brutal of wizarding punishments.

"Those poor people…" she whispered, swallowing the thick lump in her throat. One tear threatened to spill out, so she turned way, trying to wipe it away discreetly.

"We need to go," Blaise repeated to the others, putting one arm around her protectively. "Harry, they didn't just kill the people here—they played with them, and then they threw the bodies in piles before setting everything on fire. There's blood everywhere, as if they killed by bleeding them all out and draining them dry. This isn't just execution or murder. It's sadism."

There was a pause, but Hannah turned back to the main group with a deep breath. "We—we can't, yet, Blaise. We don't have enough information. They're counting on us for good and complete information, and we don't have enough yet. Why—why so much blood? I didn't—didn't see any stains?"

"The scent of blood is everywhere," Blaise repeated stubbornly. "This is outside the scope of our mission brief. We're a surveillance and scouting unit; we need one of Lord Potter's units for this, if not several units."

"Whatever happened here, it happened at least half a day ago." Hurst looked around the circle, but Hannah couldn't read his expression. She didn't know him well enough. "It should be safe enough, for now."

Blaise turned to Harry. "Harry, surely you agree with me. We're four people—going forward, in these circumstances, isn't just stupid. It's idiotic and possibly suicidal. Whoever massacred these people, we're outnumbered. We know enough."

Hannah only shook her head, glaring at Blaise. "I'm not—I'm not going. Not yet."

Harry hesitated, glancing between Hannah and Blaise, then turning to look at Hurst. "Leo?"

Hurst shrugged. "A military force big enough to make a difference isn't going to pass unnoticed."

She grimaced, then looked around at the burned village around them. "I think we continue on. It looks like the danger is passed for now, but we should be careful. I'm sorry, Blaise—if you want to go back, you can, but I want to look at the Burrow at the very least. Let me send another Patronus."

"Remember the barrier," Hurst added roughly. "Might be good to send more than one."

"I'll send three. Hopefully they'll be able to reconstruct the message." In so saying, Harry drew her wand and summoned three Patronuses. "At Ottery St. Catchpole. Burned to the ground, thirteen dead, no survivors found. Signs of Dementor activity; found one person missing his soul among the dead. Blaise says there is blood everywhere, bodies tossed in a pile for burning. We're moving on to the Burrow."

The silver lionesses disappeared into the night, leaping towards England. Blaise looked supremely unhappy, but Hannah ignored him, taking one last, shaky breath and following Harry down the dirt road, presumably towards the Burrow. It felt wrong to just leave the bodies on the ground, covered only with blankets and sheets, but there wasn't much else that she could do. They had a mission, and she knew that however he felt, Blaise was bringing up the rear behind her.

The Burrow was another twenty-minute walk away, nestled in another valley between two low hills. It looked like it had once been a barn, or even a pigsty, but it had so many buildings stacked on top of it that Hannah couldn't be sure. The house was tall, at least six levels, leaning at a precipitous angle and threatening to topple.

She couldn't tell whether that was pre-existing or not. Someone had obviously tried to burn the building, but it was in better condition than the village. Harry picked up her pace, almost running towards the building, and Hannah shifted to keep up. She didn't like the signs, but the house visible from the village so maybe, maybe, the Burrow had not been so badly hit. It was a mile out of town, tucked away, and maybe there would be no bodies.

Let there be no bodies, she prayed. Let them find nothing at all, or better yet, clues to what had happened but no bodies. She didn't dare hope for more, judging from dark streaks marking the outside of the house.

The body of a red-headed man, balding, lay in the front entrance. Hannah shifted back, leaning over him. He was still breathing, and for a moment, Hannah dared to let herself hope—but his blue eyes were glassy and empty, and Hannah took two steps back, stunned.

She had never seen a Soulless before, but it was unmistakeable. He would breathe, but there was nothing left in there, nothing driving him.

Hurst crouched down beside her. "The Dementor's Kiss," he said succinctly, but Hannah didn't need the explanation. "I'll take care of it."

"I'll—I'll go farther inside," Hannah said hastily, clinging to the wall. She didn't want to hear this, she didn't want to see this. "Maybe—maybe inside…"

Hurst didn't reply, but she heard the Killing Curse ring out behind her a few moments later.

She didn't know the Weasleys—she had run into the five younger Weasleys, in one way or another, at school but she had never had any real reason to speak to any of them. They were all in Gryffindor, and Gryffindors generally didn't have much to do with Hufflepuffs. But someone would need to carry the news of this back to them. Someone would need to sit them down and tell them about the death of their father, and Hannah knew enough about the Weasleys to know that they were a close-knit family. They would be absolutely shattered.

The sitting room was empty, but there was a yell from the kitchen, and Hannah went running. She almost tripped over the first body, intent as she was on Harry, crouching on the floor beside a red-headed woman. Harry's wand was out, moving in a Healing spell, and Hannah left it to her as she turned around to look at the body she had almost fallen over.

"Vampire," she gasped, recognizing the signs immediately. If the stake driven through the heart were not clue enough, the canines were too long, hanging almost an inch over the lower lips. A vampire's jaw would distend, snake-like, to bite or swallow its victim as needed. This vampire's eyes were still open, wide in shock, and Hannah could smell the stink of blood hanging in the air.

That was what Blaise had been smelling in the village, she realized. Not blood itself, but vampires, who reeked of it no matter when they had last fed. There was probably not a hint of blood anywhere in the village, but it was a vampire ransacking. As far as Hannah knew, there had never been a vampire ransack on British grounds—the Dark creatures were native to Eastern Europe, where they stayed.

Then Blaise was there, yanking Hannah away from the dead vampire, a hissing noise coming from his lips.

"Molly is still alive," Harry said, standing up from where she was crouched. She gestured to the line on the floor, a curious circular watermark. "It looks like she was injured, but she got away and used a Protection Potion to defend herself. From inside the barrier, she could spell the wood to stake the vampire. Someone needs to take her back to England—I don't think she was supposed to be left alive."

"They trusted the Dementors and the vampires to take care of her," Hurst said from the doorway. The man's face was pale, and he was gripping the doorframe hard enough to leave fingernail marks in the wood. "Neither of those groups are easily controlled, and that one is not one that I recognize from the Alleys. They're planning on massacring the Welsh—they're not making a distinction between people supportive of Bridge or not, they've just decided to make the entire magical population of Wales their example for losing the Irish."

"Vampires," Blaise repeated, his grip around Hannah's wrist too hard. "Is this enough information? We need to go, and we need to go now. We don't have the manpower to handle a vampire and Dementor rampage."

Harry's mouth was a thin line. "You and Hannah go back. Leo and I are better equipped to handle any attacks, and someone should stay here and keep collecting information. I'm worried about what this means for messaging, too. Vampires can't go out during the day, and Aldon received the first Patronus mid-morning—the barrier might be delaying the messages as well as interfering with them. If we can get you across the barrier, you might get back faster than my Patronuses."

Blaise was silent for a moment, then he shook his head and sighed. "If it was anyone except you, Harry, I would argue more. But I can see that you're set, so I won't. Hannah and I will take Mrs. Weasley back, and we'll send assistance as soon as we can."

Hannah looked up at Blaise. Despite his calm, almost exasperated exterior, she could feel that he was going to drag her out of Wales if he had to knock her over the head and Levicorpus both herself and Mrs. Weasley out. She looked around the kitchen, seeing overturned chairs and the broken table, the body of the vampire.

She specialized in surveillance missions, and this no longer even had a whiff of being a surveillance operation. She had no defensive skills of her own other than transforming and making a run for it, if that even counted as defense. "Okay," she said, letting out a breath. "Okay, we'll go, Blaise."

Potter was pulling four vials out of her bag—two white, two orange. "Take these Protection Potions with you. If you see the hint of an attack, use them. They'll hold twelve hours, until sunrise—I don't think Voldemort's followers, or the vampires or Dementors will return, but just in case. It's only two and a half miles to the border in a straight line."

"Done," Blaise said, accepting the vials as he pulled out his wand to levitate Mrs. Weasley. "Be safe, both of you. Hannah, take point?"

Hannah nodded again, drawing in a breath as she looked over both Potter and Hurst carefully. "The gods—the gods go with you."

XXX

Archie couldn't decide where he should be waiting. He thought about waiting at home, but if any place was under scrutiny, it was Grimmauld Place. Technically, all their homes were under scrutiny, but there were more holes for them to escape the Ministry watchers at the big manors. Grimmauld Place was in a crowded city, and it didn't have the extensive grounds that Rosier Place and Queenscove boasted, nor the walls and other, centuries-old fortifications that Potter Place did. Grimmauld Place only had convenience, since it was smack-dab in the centre of London.

They had thought about handling the Ministry surveillance issue creatively. It wouldn't have taken much to hide away all the most magical parts of the townhouse, remove the ward keeping it from Muggle eyes, and then sneak someone into the Muggle city records to include their property in the registers. Then, they could take the very logical step of calling Scotland Yard on the rotation of Ministry officials hovering just outside their front gates. Archie had passed a few minutes daydreaming about the possible results: they could be taken to the nearest station for questioning, or to the nearest hospital for mental delusions, or at minimum, there would be a very uncomfortable few minutes for whoever they targeted.

But it wouldn't work. The Muggle bobbies would probably just be Obliviated, if nothing worse happened, and they'd risk breaking the Statute of Secrecy for nothing.

If anything happened, Harry and Leo probably wouldn't be returning to Grimmauld Place first, Archie decided. Even leaving, they had taken the Portkey Hub back to Potter Place, then had Apparated from there.

He then thought about hanging out at Potter Place, hovering around playing with Addy, but there was also no guarantee that anything that happened would go there first. Harry and Leo would almost certainly Apparate back to Potter Place when they came back, but Archie didn't think they would be back that quickly. Technically, too, the shifters reported to him and Dad, but they would probably Apparate to their own headquarters before coming to Grimmauld Place. But before any of them got back, Archie expected that they would be sending Patronus reports, which suggested only one location.

Aldon was their spymaster. He was the one who was most likely to be able to put Harry's reports together with whatever he was getting from their other spies, the ones that he wouldn't refer to by anything except code names. The information that Harry would be putting together would be sensitive, and both Lina and Moody were at Rosier Place. Aldon had also gotten the first message out of Wales, so it was a good bet that he would be the recipient of any further messages. Dad would let him know straightaway if anything happened at Grimmauld Place, and Uncle James could be counted on to let Dad know straightaway if anything happened at Potter Place, so it was probably best that Archie hang out at Rosier Place bothering Aldon.

He needed to review the Healing protocols for Rosier Place anyway. Rosier Place had no in-house Healer, which meant that it was all the more important that Archie make sure they were stocked with the right emergency Potions and supplies, and that they have at least a few people who knew first aid.

"All four of the Stormwings have basic Healing training," Aldon commented, meeting him in the formal dining room. It didn't matter how many times Archie came to Rosier Place—it still seemed too large, less like a home than either Grimmauld Place or Potter Place. It felt like a higher-class, nicer version of the hotel that they had stayed at during the Tournament. "As well as Aman Kaur, the Blake & Associates Defense Mistress. I hardly think this is urgent, Archie."

"You knew this was coming, Al." Archie grinned, a little manic, waving his clipboard with his review checklist and a pen in Aldon's face. "Your manor is the last one on my list. I'm running a review of your Healing protocols."

Aldon shook his head. Everything Archie said had been the truth, but he still wasn't surprised that Aldon could see through him. "I will send you a message when I hear anything. You know that."

"I'd rather be here anyway." Archie let the smile disappear. "I feel like I should be doing something, and I might as well review of your Healing protocols."

Aldon sighed. "Very well. We have Potions stocks in each of this room, in the sitting room in family quarters, and in the hallway of the guest quarters. Each potion is labelled, and as I said, all four of the Stormwings and Aman have basic Healing training."

"You know I'll need to review that for myself, Al." Archie could see the problems already, though—all of those trained in basic Healing were fighters, those most likely to be caught in any conflict and be unable to Heal anyone at all. It had been a problem not only at Rosier Place, but at Queenscove and two out of three other safehouses.

Aldon shook his head again, clapping his hands twice. One of his house-elves appeared. "Dolly, would you mind accompanying the Heir Black? He is conducting a review of our Healing protocols here."

"Of course, my lord," the house-elf murmured with a curtsey, and gestured for Archie to follow her through the manor.

In retrospect, Archie realized, he probably should have just told Aldon he planned on hovering there waiting for information. Aldon would have been annoyed, but he probably wouldn't have refused him, and Archie couldn't concentrate as he sorted through each of the Healing potion stores. Aldon did keep his Potions stores well-stocked, though he didn't recognize the neat cursive marking each vial.

He was on edge the entire time he sorted through the store, slowly checking each potion off the checklist that he and Hermione had put together, with Neal's help, of what every safehouse needed to have on hand. Aldon had been thorough in his preparation, including several potions not in the list and more than was strictly required, all of which were neatly organized and easily located. This stockpile alone met the requirements Archie had put together, and Aldon had two more stores for him to go through.

For the size of his manor, Archie thought it was necessary. He would need to recommend that at least two more people at Rosier Place, preferably non-combatants, be trained in first aid. Aldon had a large estate, though unlike the others he had fewer people and relied more on magical methods of defense than any other safehouse.

As he moved from the first stockpile to the one in the guest quarters, he realized that he was listening, waiting for something, anything, to happen. His ear was always cocked, waiting for a yell, and he kept turning his head, looking for the flash of silver of a Patronus messenger. He knew he wasn't likely to see it, or hear it, but he was looking for it anyway.

Dad was at home at Grimmauld Place, he reminded himself as he sorted through the second stock, mechanically checking every label. Dad wouldn't leave him out of the loop, and neither would Uncle James. And he was here, at Rosier Place, and whatever he said Aldon knew perfectly well why he was here. He would hear about things when they happened, as they happened, and he had to resign himself to it.

He wished resigning himself to it were easier. He had tried to tell himself that no news was good news, but in this case, it really wasn't. He and Aldon and everyone already knew that something bad had happened—the only question was, how bad was it? A very small part of him wanted to dodge the news, because finding out what it was would make it real, but the rest of him said that whatever had happened was already happening and it would continue to happen whether he knew about it or not.

He wanted to know.

"Heir Black," the house-elf interrupted him primly, as he was studying the last basket. Unsurprisingly, the second stock of potions was identical to the first, down to the organization and labelling. "The Lord Rosier requires your presence immediately, in the first formal reception room."

Archie made a face at the elf. He had already tried to tell her to call him Archie, and tried to strike up small talk, but she had kept her responses short and proper. It stood to reason that Aldon's house-elves would be as uptight as their Lord. "Okay, just give me a second—"

"It is an emergency," the house-elf said, promptly pushing the basket back into the rack and grabbing him by the wrist. She twisted, pulling him with her in Apparition, and the first thing Archie saw when he nearly fell forwards was Molly Weasley, breathing shallowly in a magically induced coma.

"What the hell?!" He snapped, his eyes going immediately to Aldon who was standing nearby. Lina was there, her brown eyes intent, standing beside Blaise Zabini and Hannah Abbott, whom Archie only recognized from the treaty negotiations over the summer. Blaise's expression was half-fear, half-anger, while Hannah's eyes threatened to spill tears. "What happened?!"

"Despite how it looks, Archie, they just arrived," Aldon replied, shooting him a warning look. "Your father is on his way, as is the Lord Potter. I'd rather Zabini and Abbott give only one report, rather than having to repeat themselves."

Archie shook his head, pulling out his wand and going to kneel over by Mrs. Weasley. He had only met the woman once, and under a disguise at that. "Someone is going to have call Percy. And the twins."

"Master Moody is already on his way."

"Fine."

It had to have been Harry who set Mrs. Weasley in a magical coma, considering that none of the others had any in-depth Healing knowledge and the coma seemed to have been in place for about an hour. It looked like her injuries were mostly blood loss and a magical draining, but there was something odd about the wounds—they weren't very serious, with nothing hitting a major vein or artery, so they ought to have closed on their own. It was as if there was a poison or other drug keeping the blood from clotting, but he couldn't identify anything. He Summoned a Blood Replenishing Potion from Aldon's closest stockpile, spelling it into Mrs. Weasley with quick efficiency, then Summoning bandages. They would have to hold until they identified the poison.

"What is it?" He heard Dad say as he came into the room, then a sharp intake of breath.

"Blood loss, magical stabilization coma, and magical draining, but the magical draining will heal naturally once we deal with the blood loss," Archie recited, standing up. "The issue is that there's a poison affecting the wounds—they should have clotted and closed on their own, but they haven't."

"Yes, vampire bites do that," Lina said, sounding almost delighted as she pulled out her wand. "They carry the poison in their teeth, to keep the blood flowing easily while they feed. If the victim gets away, it also marks them, leaves a blood trail for them to follow. There's an antidote, I have a few in my bags from my tour in Georgia—let me Summon one. We'll need a stock of them."

"Vampires," Uncle James snapped. A vial of potion came whizzing into the room, and Archie caught it and kneeled back down beside Mrs. Weasley, moving around her to where he could administer the antidote while watching the discussion. "What do you mean, vampires? There's only once been a vampire attack on British soil, and it was in the 1700s."

"I think we ought to allow Zabini and Abbott to report," Aldon interrupted, his voice sharp. "I can say that I've had no further word from Cedric but did receive a communication a couple hours ago from Harry when she was crossing into Wales. She stated that there was a magical barrier at the border, including an Anti-Apparition Ward, a mix of Concealment Charms, and some sort of physical limiting spell. I assume she was unable to identify it further."

"Her friend—Mr. Hurst—said it was like something they'd find in a prison, but they didn't know." Hannah drew a deep breath. "It didn't stop us going through, and there weren't any alarm spells."

There was a brief pause, and Aldon glanced at Dad and Uncle James, who had fallen silent. He looked back at the two shifters, nodding. "Go on."

"Crossing into Wales, we walked for about a mile before I caught the hint of burning in the air. We changed directions from the Weasleys and followed the scent to the main village of Ottery St. Catchpole." Blaise's voice was quiet as he picked up the narrative. "It was burned to the ground. I assume, Lord Rosier, that you didn't receive any Patronus from Harry from there?"

Aldon shook his head. "I did not, no."

"The Patronuses are being delayed, then—she sent three." Blaise stopped, gathering his thoughts. "In any case, at Ottery St Catchpole, there were signs of both vampire attack and Dementor activity, though I did not know the former at the time."

"What do you mean?" Dad asked.

"I could smell the blood, but I misinterpreted it as simply blood rather than vampires," Blaise replied flatly. "I ought to have reconsidered—Hannah even commented on the fact that she hadn't seen any blood—but I ignored her."

"Not your fault. Vampires in Britain are rare, and it's a logical conclusion." Dad nodded for him to continue.

By the expression on his face, Archie thought Blaise was puzzled by the response, but he didn't comment. "Harry and her friend found a Soulless in Ottery St Catchpole—not dead, only missing a soul. The town had only four houses and the Owl Post office, but there were no survivors. We also found no trace of the owls."

"We can't—can't guarantee there weren't any survivors," Hannah corrected, sounding a little numb. "We don't know the community well enough, it's possible someone did get away, but we didn't find any survivors. I located the bodies of three in the first house, and two in the second. Harry reported seven dead in the houses that she and Mr. Hurst investigated, in addition to the Soulless, for a total of thirteen dead."

"That's right." Blaise glanced around the circle. "Then we went to the Burrow. The Burrow was in better condition than the village—I suspect they were out of the way enough that only a few Dementors and vampires happened to go in their direction. Arthur Weasley had suffered the Dementor's Kiss—"

"Mr. Hurst… took care of him," Hannah murmured, looking away. "May he rest in peace."

"And we found Molly Weasley in the kitchen. Harry thinks that she was able to get a Protection Potion around her, then she killed the vampire coming after her from behind the shield. We also found the body of the vampire there, staked through the heart."

"I thought they exploded or disappeared when they died," Dad muttered.

"No, they combust in sunlight," Lina replied, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Dhampiri practice is to kill and drag into open for the sunlight to dispose of the bodies. Indoors, there's no reason the body would have disappeared."

"Why do you look so pleased?" Uncle James' eyebrows narrowed in suspicion. "If Voldemort has recruited vampires—"

"If Voldemort has recruited vampires, we have grounds to call in a group of highly trained military professionals who specialize in killing vampires," Lina retorted, leaning forward. "Do you have any idea how deadly a dhampiri war unit is? We need the help, and this is one of the best possible things that could have happened for us."

"Best," Uncle James repeated, sounding both angry and horrified all at once. "In case you've missed it, Lina, there are vampires on a rampage through Wales. People are dying."

"Yes," Lina straightened, looking up at Uncle James with a look of hard, cold calculation. "But this was a critical error on Voldemort's part. He needed to make a statement, but all of the other possible targets were too risky for him: the Scots are tightly bonded in their clans, they hold eight separate Clanhomes, and they fortified. Hogwarts School is also in Scottish Clan territory. He knows little about Queenscove, but even in a short time, the Lord Queenscove has managed to set a reputation for himself and his House as warriors, and there are those pesky international connections. Grimmauld Place probably benefitted from its location in London, where he would be risking a breach of Statute of Secrecy, and Rosier Place has Moody and I, and is a historically Dark house—many of Voldemort's followers hesitate to attack Aldon, much as they would any of their own. The Welsh were the weakest target connected to the Irish, but because they were the weakest, he had to do something else to create terror and set an example. Allying with Dark creatures like vampires are a symbol, as is this massacre. We need to use it."

"Use it?" Dad's face was dark. "What do you suggest?"

"Calling in the Order, for one." Lina looked up in thought. "Announcements need to be made, with as much evidence as possible, to the international community. This will boost our claim that he's a usurper, and a formal war crimes indictment in the International Criminal Court, even if it does nothing to him directly, gives ground for other nations to provide support beyond humanitarian aid. MACUSA, in particular, has a reputation for disregarding sovereignty under the responsibility to protect doctrine if they believe the population at large is at risk. Internally, if we can get the news out and people believe us, it could be a tipping point for recruitment and internal resistance as well. Voldemort thought that going overboard would terrify people into submission—but it often only does the opposite. If the Lower Alleys were not jus ad bello, this is."

That all sounded good, and Archie agreed with it, but it was all part of the bigger picture. The poison's antidote was taking effect, so he corked the remains of the vial, putting it aside to look at later. "And the Welsh? What do we do about the Welsh? We have to help them."

There was a long, drawn-out silence. Uncle James looked at Lina, whose smile had disappeared. Aldon was expressionless, though Archie saw that he was digging his fingernails into his palms. Blaise had his arm around Hannah's shoulders, and she was discreetly wiping tears off her cheeks. Dad's eyebrows had pinched together, heavy, an expression of foreboding.

"We likely can't take apart the barrier," Aldon started slowly, shaking out his shoulders. "At least, not in any reasonable amount of time. Based on the extremely limited description I have, no one would have the power to disassemble the barrier without tracking down his power source or sources—the keystones, or power stones."

"Is taking the barrier down necessary?" Dad leaned forward, thinking. "It leaves a bad taste in my mouth to do nothing. Even a few units…"

"No," Lina said. "Even a few of our units will not be enough to handle Dementors and a vampire rampage, as well the forces that Voldemort himself has clearly committed to the strike. If we wanted a fighting chance, we would need to commit a very sizeable portion of our forces into the defense of Wales, and I don't even know if that would be enough."

"Remember the delay in the Patronus messages," Blaise added roughly. "Whatever happened—much of it has already happened."

"But we still have to go." Uncle James' voice was hard. "We are not leaving the Welsh to die. Do we know where they are? We don't need to fight them head-on, but we need to do something to help. Anything."

"I can contact Saoirse and the Irish," Archie volunteered. "They aren't really talking to us, but this is clearly retaliation for their actions, and both Saoirse and Cedric acknowledged a connection at treaty negotiations. The worst they can say is no, but I'll do my best to guilt them into helping."

Lina shook her head, her mouth twisting into a grimace. "We would not be talking about a retaliating strike," she warned. "In these circumstances, it is just not good move. The best move would be to wait for information, collect evidence, then use it to our best advantage."

"We are not sacrificing those people, Lina!" Uncle James roared as he glared at her, and the air in the room suddenly felt heavy, primed to explode. "I'm in command of the forces, and I am going to order units to Wales. You can either help, or Sirius and I will put together whatever plan we can ourselves, and whatever happens, happens."

Lina stared at Uncle James for a minute, then blew out an aggravated breath. "Very well! With the forces we have, and what we know, this isn't going to be a war operation. This will be an extraction and rescue operation only for whatever survivors we can find. Lord Potter, choose your units—I recommend making the mission volunteer only and selecting for the most adaptable people you have. Archie, contact the Irish and say whatever you need to say to them to get them to help. Aldon, call your friend in Serbia, and get him and his unit in Wizarding Britain by the fastest means possible—I want them here yesterday, but it'll probably take them a week, if not two. And Sirius, call DCI Singh from Scotland Yard—we'll need a cover story to keep the Muggles out of the wizarding areas of Wales for the time being. We'll worry about the messaging and the ICW later. Moody, the trainees and I will talk over a reasonable-ish, only-moderately-suicidal plan."

"How long?" Archie found himself asking. "How long do we have? I can Patronus Saoirse right now, but it's almost eleven at night and I don't know how fast she'll answer."

"It'll be at least a day," Uncle James said, running one hand through his hair. "I'll need to meet with each of the units tomorrow, collect volunteers…"

"We meet tomorrow night then," Lina snapped waspishly. "Tomorrow night at 1800, here at Rosier Place. It may well be too late by then anyway, but at least we'll have tried."

XXX

Pansy staggered into the copse of trees, gripping at the cold stone around her neck. It was a beautiful piece, one that Pandora had selected with a hard, vindictive sort of pleasure out of the Malfoy family collection. Voldemort had confiscated them all, of course, along with thousands of other family heirlooms, but Pandora, Pandora had been permitted to select a few key pieces for herself.

Bellatrix had been nearly blind with jealousy, a factor that Pandora had treated with mild amusement as she took her time picking through the prized jewel collections of two dozen noble families. She hadn't even blinked at her former Housemates or classmates, when they handed their family possessions to her for consideration.

A few people had tried to keep a few pieces, here and there. Alesana Rookwood had been one—just one ring, a prized wedding ring studded with rubies that had been worn by her mother. She had been caught, of course she had been caught, and her screams had echoed from the ceilings of Malfoy Manor. Edmund Rookwood had begged on his knees for it to stop, that Voldemort could take everything, if only the torture stopped. Voldemort had glanced at Pandora, who had only shrugged as she sorted through the other Selwyn family jewels. Mostly rubies, for them, which reminded Pandora too much of blood. Rubies were an ugly gemstone, with nothing like the clean and beautiful purity of diamonds.

"What have they done to deserve your indulgence?" she had asked, uncaring, then she hadn't blinked when Bellatrix subjected the former Head Girl at Hogwarts to another two rounds of the Cruciatus. As Pandora, she had found the whole scene vaguely distasteful, an embarrassing and shameful act, and had thought that Edmund Rookwood far too soft for trying to intercede. No wonder the Rookwoods hadn't earned any favour that they needed to climb Voldemort's ranks.

Pansy, far below the surface, had shuddered. Her heart had gone out to Edmund, her childhood friend, and she hated watching him grovel on his knees. She wished, whatever else had happened, that he and Alice were on the outside with Aldon. They had been best friends once, though they had fallen out sometime in the past year. She wished they hadn't, and that Edmund and Alice had split off with their friend months before—but she knew why they hadn't. Edmund had just married and was looking for stability to start a family, and Aldon was looking to remake the world into one that suited him better by any means necessary.

But if they had gotten out then, they would be safe now.

She finally managed to get the necklace off herself. It was a diamond, a stone the size of her thumb, well-carved and reflecting light in a dozen different directions. She wanted to throw it, toss it away in these calm, beautiful woodlands, but she couldn't. It was a symbol of Voldemort's favour, and he would be looking for her to be wearing it later. It was all she could do to take it off, leave it swinging for these few minutes that she was able to steal for herself.

She had done terrible things. She was the one who had handed Voldemort a list of potential targets, including the Welsh, for him to retaliate at instead of the Irish. She was the one who had thrown out comments on the advantages and disadvantages of each of her suggested targets. She was the one who had noted that the big advantage of the Welsh as a target was that they, unlike the others, didn't have a major stronghold to fall back to, nothing that could weather a stand-off. Pandora had also considered that to be both a disadvantage of the Welsh as a target, because Voldemort needed to show his power, and he could do better.

Voldemort had disagreed. There were other ways that he could shock and awe the populace to make a statement, and he had found them. By God, he had found them.

Pansy hadn't even been able to get away to send a warning. As the planning intensified, and as her own status in Voldemort's Ministry rose, she was less and less able to get away. Voldemort liked having her near, and Pandora was all too happy to oblige, but more than that, she was also watched closely by Voldemort's other followers. Bellatrix Lestrange hated her, wanting her position by Voldemort's side, and it was her eyes that tracked her the most. But her nasty son, Caelum Lestrange, also watched her, as did Dawlish, Mulciber, Travers, and half a dozen of Voldemort's other inner circle.

She needed to send a warning now, in these few minutes she had, and she fumbled for her wand. She didn't know if it would get through, but she needed to try. She was in the woods, alone for just a few, precious moments, and she couldn't waste the opportunity. Her group had captured one of the Welsh wizards, and on Pandora's orders, one of her more eager group members, DeLuca, had tortured a new location out of him. The Welsh were gathering, he swore, in Snowdonia. Snowdon peak was the most scared place for the Welsh, he said, and any survivors would be headed there.

Her hand was shaking. When she was Pandora, she could watch and even order torture with no feelings, but as Pansy, the images haunted her. The dead bodies, the dead children strewn around her, the blonde-haired man with a blunt nose like a chisel, screaming and writhing on the ground.

"Expecto Patronum," she whispered, flicking her wand.

Nothing.

She took a deep breath, trying to banish the picture of dead bodies, the man at her feet, the fires that sent smoke spiralling into the skies, from her mind. There had been screaming, so much screaming—mothers and fathers crying for their children, and little girls and boys wailing for their parents. It was too much, too loud, even if it was silent in this small grove of trees.

Home, she reminded herself. Parkinson Palace was across the island, on the eastern coast of England, and it had woods just like this. This was why she was doing this, so that her home would be safe. Her home, and her mother, and Draco. Her creatures at home, her unicorn herd, her Snidgets and the merfolk colony.

"Expecto Patronum," she said again, willing her swallow to appear.

A wisp of silver, then nothing.

She took another deep breath, willing the calm of the trees around her to fill her. She had only a few minutes—she had told her group that she needed to use the facilities, such as they were, and she had already wasted enough time. Aldon had to know, and she didn't have time for an owl. Nature had always had a calming effect on her before. Home. She was home, and her unicorns were just around the corner.

She wondered if her unicorns would ever come close to her ever again.

"Expecto Patronum!" she hissed, shaking her wand in desperation, but there was no surprise this time when nothing appeared.

"Parkinson!" she heard DeLuca yelling. He couldn't see her in her current state of presumed undress—Voldemort would kill him if he did—but he was too close. He had to have come looking for her. "What are you doing, throwing up in there?"

She was out of time.

"It would be none of your business if I were," she snapped, falling back into herself.

She was Pandora Parkinson, who had never quite fit in the mold that had been set out for her. She was Pandora Parkinson, who was overjoyed to live in a world where she could do as she pleased, where playing a soft game of lies and manipulation wasn't necessary, where her power was her own and not controlled by a man. She was Pandora Parkinson, Voldemort's trusted advisor and sometimes, his lover.

She was Pandora Parkinson, and she was on a mission to cleanse Wales.

XXX

Caelum had abandoned his unit. They had found another cluster of wizarding families, and his mother was having fun. Voldemort had set no limits, this mission, and the most violent corners of their organization were taking the opportunity to explore the depths of their cruelty.

Caelum had been assigned to go with them only for informational purposes. His orders were not to stop his supposed allies from going too far, only to ensure that whatever good information their victims spilled as they begged for their lives made it to Voldemort. Voldemort trusted his mother, Mulciber and Travers to torture and enjoy it—but he did not trust them to know good information when they heard it, nor to report it back to him.

Snowdonia, their last victim had screamed. It was only one word, and Caelum had no idea whether his mother had seen the echo of truth around it. People screamed all sorts of things under torture, a dozen different locations for their friends, their allies, and much of it was nonsense. He had heard Cardiff, Swansea, Aberystwyth, Holyhead, Caenarfon... but when the man had wailed out the word Snowdonia, Caelum had caught the flash of shame in his eyes before his mother cast another Cruciatus Curse at the man. Pizdech.

A person did not feel ashamed when screaming out random locations or nonsense. Shame came when they gave it up, when there was truth, and that was why Caelum had been sent with his mother's group.

He hated the man for giving it up. By giving it up, Caelum would now have to report it to Voldemort—if he didn't, Voldemort would find out another way, through another of the groups or from his mother, Mulciber or Travers if any of them had caught the look, and there would be questions.

Caelum could not afford questions.

He was close enough to the border—Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant was barely a league from Voldemort's wall, that madman's pride and joy, his way of preventing any aid from reaching the Welsh until it was far, far too late. The magic rumbled against his core, uncomfortable for only the few seconds it took for Caelum to pass over and draw his wand.

"Expecto Patronum," he growled, shutting his eyes to concentrate on the gurgle of a bubbling potion, the scent of ingredients swirling around his cauldron, the calm peace he felt as he reached out with his magic to check for completeness. He thought about afternoons in a clean, orderly laboratory, about the Potions Guild, about arguing with an annoying halfblood girl about magic and things that were and were not possible. He thought about serenity, and the serenity he could find in a Draught of Peace.

His spotted hyena trickled out of his wand, panting and waiting.

"Message," he said, his voice chilly. "To Aldon Rosier. The Welsh are collecting at Snowdonia. Voldemort will be waiting. Do not come."

XXX

AN: Well, that was a fun chapter, wasn't it? Kudos to the person who said "things usually get worse before they get better." I don't think truer words have ever been spoken, and I laughed like a madwoman when I saw it. Also, I actually had to dig out my notes from my Law of Armed Conflict class to write some parts of this, which is absolutely terrifying, and that was not what I thought writing this work would require me to do. Wow, I super hated that class, and also the responsibility to protect (R2P) doctrine is not really widely accepted (other than by the USA who will rely on it if they really want/need to intercede somewhere), because it basically ignores sovereignty entirely. And the law of armed conflict is kind of awful on civil wars anyway.

Thanks as per usual to meek_bookworm, beta-reader extraordinaire (no you cannot borrow her), and to the few of you faithful who always read and comment!