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.

9. Chapter 9

Aldon woke with a pounding headache.

His mouth was dry and tasted like the night after he had finished his Potions NEWT exam. He had breathed too much of his own disgusting concoction, the taste of salamander blood and too many ingredients he didn't want to think about coating the back of his throat, which he hadn't even been able to drown with the taste of Firewhiskey.

Firewhiskey. Had he even had Firewhiskey last night? He didn't have any in the manor, he didn't think. Since the night of Voldemort's reappearance, and Harry's escape, he had never been able to drink Firewhiskey, hadn't even been able to sniff it without a visceral twisting of his stomach that told him, abruptly, that he needed to vomit. But there was his father's port and brandy collection…

He sat up, his head spinning violently. He was still wearing yesterday's clothes, which were wrinkled and reeked of sour alcohol and sweat. Looking around, he could see that at least he hadn't been sick all over his covers—though, maybe he was speaking too soon. He swallowed the bubble of vile-tasting bile that came up in his throat.

Get up, he ordered himself. Clean up. He had things to do, even if he didn't fully remember what they were currently. There were no doubt a million things he needed to do, but he couldn't imagine doing any of them without a shower and a Hangover Cure, and probably a breath freshening potion of some kind. Looking over towards his bathroom, he winced—the walk there seemed far too long, and he just knew that the lights would probably make him throw up.

Aldon hated throwing up. He hated feeling so uncontrolled, being unable to breathe as his body took over and rejected the contents of his stomach.

Nothing for it, he reminded himself sharply, feeling his head pound. If he threw up, he threw up, and maybe it would be a lesson to him about drinking.

He only retched twice in the bathroom, nothing coming up, thankfully. The Hangover Cure he ended up Summoning from elsewhere in the Manor also helped, ten awful minutes later, which was when he finally felt able to stagger into the shower and let the hot water wash away the last traces of his last night.

Cedric was dead. He remembered that, and bits and pieces of the last day began trickling back into his memory. He needed to reach out to his informants in the Ministry, see if someone could find the records for the number of witches and wizards who had lived in Wales. This wasn't Robin's area, but Hummingbird likely had the access for it, as well as the credentials to be able to make the request for information itself disappear. He would also need to reach out to Magpie in the Wizarding British delegation in Geneva—if he could make a few key orders disappear, it could make all the difference in terms of international reception.

Counter-intelligence efforts, Aldon remembered. He needed to step up his counter-intelligence efforts. Previously, it had been somewhat less of a concern—their only major action, the Malfoy Manor strike, had happened so quickly after the coup that they could be reasonably certain that Voldemort, still securing his hold on the Ministry, wouldn't yet be at the point of planting spies into their organization. Since then, any action up until the Welsh rescue had been small and constrained, with no more than three or four people involved in planning. At this point, however, if Voldemort didn't already have a spy within Bridge, he would certainly be looking to putting one in.

He would have to interview everyone within the organization, if he could. He could foresee problems already with the former Light faction, who would be offended at the demand and would seek exemptions, as well as with the Clans. He would also need to interview every new recruit their side received. Counterintuitive as it might seem, he would likely have to let a few spies into the organization eventually—Voldemort would become suspicious if he couldn't get a spy into their side. The key would be remembering who they were and limiting the information they would receive, turning them into as much of a liability for Voldemort as they were a benefit. But at the same time, as a known Truth-Speaker, he couldn't make planting a spy very easy for Voldemort and would need to send back anyone who failed too obviously.

He still needed to expand his own network if he could, too. More spies within Voldemort's ranks would be better for him, but he would take more from within the Ministry, the major noble houses, the remaining areas of the Lower Alleys, the Daily Prophet, the Wizarding Wireless Network, and the Guilds.

There was so much to do. He sighed, rinsing the shampoo from his hair. He was tired, and the Hangover Cure left him with a persistent feeling of emptiness. It had been too long since he had had a night where he had needed it—not since school had he ever drunk to excess to the point of needing a Hangover Cure the morning after. He supposed that he likely would have needed one the morning after the Ministry Unity Ball, if Sirius had not forced him into drinking a Sobering Potion. The effects of the hangover had also likely been obscured by the punch to the face he had suffered that night. He had forgotten how awful this felt.

He organized his priorities for the morning—first would go the owls to Hummingbird and Magpie, coded. Then, any messages that had come in would need to be decoded and considered for urgency, and after that he would begin drafting formal invitations to everyone within their alliance for an interview with their resident spymaster and Truth-Speaker. He would need to consult Sirius and the Lord Potter for strategy on the Light faction Houses, potentially doing those interviews with both the Lord Potter and Sirius first so that they could set an example for the rest.

His head was full of his plans for the day when he walked out to his sitting room and his brain came screeching to a halt.

Francesca was there.

She was curled into a small ball at one end of his sofa, tucked under a thick, cream-white down duvet, her head resting on a fluffy pillow that Aldon knew his elves had to have dug up for her. The fire in the grate was low, and there was a book lying on the floor—one of the romances that Aldon had bought in the months after the Ministry Unity Ball, trying to work out what had gone so drastically, terribly wrong.

He scrambled, searching his memory for answers. What was he forgetting from the night before? He had no idea how she had gotten there, but the fact was that she should not be there. She had obviously stayed the night in his rooms, and while he doubted that he had done anything to compromise her—surely she would have woken in his bed, if that were the case—the fact remained that she had stayed the night in his rooms and that was, in the eyes of society, close enough. He searched in his empty head for any idea of what had happened the night before, anything that could lead to a reasonable explanation, anything that might exonerate him.

The feeling of her lips against his, warm and sweet and gentle when he was anything but, her body pulled flush against him so that he could feel every one of her modest curves. She had fit in his arms, her body molding perfectly against his, and he remembered slipping one hand underneath her soft, cotton nightgown.

Merlin. He started there, before launching into a dozen other profanities, nor only wizarding but Muggle and French and Quebecois French.

He had no idea what had happened after that. What did they say? Had they said anything? Where had they stopped?

He swallowed hard, collapsing on the sofa beside Francesca's slumbering form and putting his head in his hands. He wished he could remember what had happened, but in some ways that mattered less than the fact that she was here, having spent the night with him. Even if, based on her location on his sofa, he guessed that they had to have stopped somewhere before ending up in bed.

Leaning over, he rested one hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently. She stirred, made a soft noise of discontent, and rolled over. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his face.

Some people, he thought, were supposed to look sweet when they were asleep. Beautiful women, in particular, were supposed to look dreamy and vulnerable and delicate in their sleep, but instead Francesca's hair was a tangled mess, her face was scrunched into the corner between her pillow and the sofa back, and her mouth was open. There was a wet spot on the pillow under her chin from where she had been drooling. Overall, it was not an attractive look, but he found her attractive anyway.

He leaned over and shook her again.

"Five more minutes," she muttered, her voice a plaintive whine, burying her head farther into the crack between her pillow and the back of the sofa.

"I'm sorry," he replied, keeping his voice low, reaching over to brush a strand of hair off her face. "You do have to wake up, if only because we need to discuss..." He paused. "We need to discuss what comes next."

Aldon knew exactly what he thought would need to come next, though a quick wedding in the middle of a war was not ideal. Still, even if it wasn't the route he would have liked to take, he would not deny that the end result was one he very much liked.

Regrettably, he somehow suspected that Francesca would not see it that way.

Francesca stirred, blinking. It was a couple minutes before she sat up, slowly tugging her woolen sweater tighter around her shoulders. There was a flash of uncertainty in her dark eyes.

"How—" she started, then she paused and took a deep breath. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"I've been better," Aldon admitted lightly. "And I've been worse."

"I—I'm glad." Francesca looked down at the duvet in her lap. "What, um—what do you remember about last night?"

Aldon looked away. He remembered very little—only the flash of kissing her, holding her, touching her. If they had gone any farther than that, he could hardly say that he didn't remember it, but neither could he lie outright. Without knowing what had happened the night previous, he could not convincingly pretend that he did remember.

"Enough," he hedged. "I remember enough."

The expression on Francesca's face said clearly that she didn't believe him.

"Er, I remember kissing you," he elaborated quickly. "And—and what came after that."

Her pointed, unimpressed stare said that she still didn't believe him, so he rushed ahead, brushing a few extra strands of hair from his forehead. "And as such, my dear Francesca, we really ought to discuss what comes next."

She looked away, her hands folding the blanket underneath her, still thankfully covering her legs. One of the few things Aldon remembered somewhat clearly from last night was her dress: a pale blue nightgown, delicate lace hem falling just barely to her knees, her sweater pulled tight over her chest as she shivered slightly in the cold. He clearly remembered the feeling of her bare skin, smooth and a little chilly, an enticement to for him to press his warm hands against her.

"What comes next?" Francesca asked, her fingers tracing a line of stitching. "Um, I suppose—what do you want to come next?"

Aldon hesitated. "A quick, small wedding that no one may question either my honour or yours?"

"No."

"It seems to work in your novels, Francesca." Aldon leaned over, picking up the one that was on the floor beside the sofa. The Viscount Who Loved Me, the title screamed in white, curly text against a background of heavy red drapes framing a suggestive red velvet chaise. He held up the book, considering the phallic implications of the rapier on the cover, before showing it to her. "This is no different than the Viscount Bridgerton being caught with his mouth on Miss Sheffield's neck. I may not be a viscount, but—"

He stopped talking as Francesca's fingers stilled, and she looked up at him with another unimpressed glare. "This is not a book, Aldon. We are not characters in a romance novel."

"I would think that—"

"No."

Aldon sighed heavily, setting the book down on the side table. It looked like she was halfway through it before she fell asleep, but he assumed that she would be able to find her spot again if she were to finish reading it. "Then, Francesca, what do you propose? After last night—regardless of what may have actually transpired between us, the assumption will be—"

"It is 1996, Aldon." Francesca straightened in her corner of the sofa. "Almost 1997. I can—the sexual revolution was in the sixties. Condoms, birth control pills, and, even better, contraceptive amulets exist. I can sleep with whoever I want to sleep with, and people can say whatever they want about it. It doesn't matter."

"In America, that may be true—"

"I'm an American." Francesca moved as if she were about to stand up, annoyed, but Aldon caught her by her wrist and shook his head, his cheeks heating. She sighed. "If it—if it makes you feel any better, Aldon, there was nothing after the kissing. You went to bed, and I thought—I decided to stay, in case you needed anything. I'm not—I'm not surprised that you don't remember."

Aldon cleared his throat, looking away, deep red with embarrassment and shame. "My apologies. I must have taken advantage of you."

"No, I was the one who kissed you first." Francesca pulled her wrist out of his grasp and stood up anyway, and Aldon averted his gaze. She pulled at the duvet, beginning to fold it. "If anyone took advantage, it was me. You just—you said some things, and—I couldn't help it. I—Sorry."

Aldon wondered what on earth he had said. Whatever it was, he should have said it months ago.

"Not at all," he interjected hastily, still trying to avoid looking at her legs. They were very nice legs. "I do remember the kissing. I am not—er, well, what would you like to come next?"

Francesca was silent for a moment. "Do we—why do we need to put a name to it? I—I like you. Can't we just—I don't know—take it day by day?"

Aldon was silent for a minute or so, considering what to say. "This is not in my upbringing," he said eventually, his voice low in warning. "This is—regardless of how much easier it would be for you, it does not sit well for me. I do not want to keep you like a dirty secret, Francesca. At minimum, I would be uncomfortable with anything other than an established relationship with a view to some permanence."

"It's not the same thing," Francesca muttered, setting her pillow on the top of her folded duvet rather harder than the stacking required. "Fine. We can date. I'll tell John, and Neal, and John will be annoyed and will have Neal threaten you on his behalf, and we can go out to one of the formal reception rooms in your crowded manor with everyone watching us because we're in the middle of a war, and—"

Her hesitancy stopped when she was annoyed, which he couldn't help but find endearing as he caught her by the arm and pulled her in for a kiss. It was a light, gentle and brief, nothing like what he remembered of their kisses last night. It was the sort of kiss that he wished he had been sober enough to give her the night previous.

"Thank you," he murmured, breaking away. "You won't regret this, I swear it."

The expression on her face said that she was skeptical, but thankfully she didn't seem to want to expand on her doubts. "You—have you thought about, um…" She searched her words. "You said a lot last night. About work, and the things you needed to do, and, um."

Aldon had no idea what he had said last night.

"Have you—maybe—thought about asking for help?"

"Er—" Aldon looked away, unsure what to say, especially because he didn't know what he had said the night before. It was true that he had a long list of tasks, but it wasn't something she should concern herself over. "It's fine, Francesca. I will get it done. You have no need to worry."

"It didn't sound like it, last night." Francesca pulled away, frowning at him. "It didn't, um—it didn't look like it, either."

Aldon's smile froze.

"It's just—" she took a step away, adjusting her rumpled sweater. "Is—um."

She fell silent. Aldon slid his hand down her arm to hold her fingers loosely in his grip, looking up at her. "Um?"

Francesca shook her head.

"Please, Francesca."

She sighed, squeezing his fingers lightly. "Is last night something that—that's common? Because—um. If it's, um, the stress, I think you should really think about asking someone for help with—with whatever it is you need to do. Both—both here, like maybe a unit, and with your, um, other work. Not that, um, I know anything, or that I can, um, really tell you what to do…" Her voice trailed off, before she took another breath. "We're at war, and I just—I don't want to see you like that again, Aldon."

Aldon's tongue tied itself into knots. "It's not—" he started, but his words failed him, and he fell silent, thinking over what he could say. Whatever he said, last night had happened, and she had seen the results of it first-hand. Worst, he didn't know what had happened last night. Try as he might, the last thing he remembered was his third glass of brandy, watching the fire burn down in the grate in the darkness of his parlour. He had been thinking about Cedric; about Cedric and the Welsh, about the many people who had died in the Lower Alleys, about their own troops that had died thus far. He had been thinking about how many more people were going to die as the war went on. He had been thinking that, regardless of how many people had died or would die, he wouldn't do anything differently.

It was better to die on his feet than to live on his knees. It was better to live on his feet than it was to die on his knees. Cedric had known that.

Still, it was not his best moment. Of the many times she could have seen him, it was certainly among the worst. "It won't—"

But he couldn't say it wouldn't happen again. It had been months since he had been so drunk—it had been months since he had had a drink. But every time he did drink, it was never in moderation. Whether or not he agreed that he had a problem varied by day, though Ed had gone so far as threaten him with admission to St. Mungo's if he caught him with another drink in hand. Even Neal, whether it was for his own comfort as a Healer or not, insisted on searching half of Rosier Place for drugs every week.

The last time he had gotten so intoxicated, he had promptly gone to Grimmauld Place and demanded to see her. And he couldn't remember most of last night. He couldn't promise that she'd never see it again, because the past showed that he couldn't keep that promise. The next time he was drunk, and if the past year was any indication, there would be a next time, there was no guarantee he wouldn't run right to her.

He could admit to his history, which judging from last night was perhaps not so much a history as an occasional but rare present. But, given that she had just agreed to date him, he hesitated to say so.

Dating wasn't his ideal, but it was something. He didn't want to give Francesca a reason to end their newly started relationship, particularly in less time than it had taken last time. A history of alcohol abuse with occasional but rare relapses did not sell him as a good and responsible husband.

And Francesca had given him an easy out. He could blame it on the stress of his position—but if he did, then the reasonable thing to do would be to ask for help.

"With my background, it is hard to know who to trust, Francesca," he tried, but it sounded weak even to his ears. He could rely more on Sirius—he had done so before, since Sirius had planned and executed multiple raids to disrupt Voldemort's supply chains and steal materials. He had relied on Harry and her friend for sabotage work, and he relied on many people for information. More obviously, he was a bloody Truth-Speaker, and in theory he was the one who should be least likely to be fooled.

"Archie and Sirius have a unit at Grimmauld Place. Neal has two units at Queenscove, and he didn't know most of them personally before they went in residence there." Francesca swallowed. "Just—think about it, Aldon, and you have so much more to do now, too. I—I think you need help, both to defend the manor and on your other work."

Alex was coming in next week. Alex and his unit of dhampir, and Rosier Place was the only safehouse without a trained unit yet. Rosier Place also had Aldon and his books, and the knowledge of more than a dozen spies littering the Ministry, up into Voldemort's inner circle. He had reasons to ask for the unit to be assigned to him.

It would likely also be most comfortable for everyone else for Alex and his unit to be assigned to Rosier Place. Lina had extensive experience working with the dhampir, and Aldon somehow doubted that most of the other safehouses would be comfortable with a group of, with the exception of Alex, non-magical part-vampires within their walls. Neal had already said that, with American policies on creatures, most of the residents of Queenscove would be decidedly uncomfortable with a unit of part-vampires in-house.

As for his own work, the counterintelligence work he needed to do now was enough for another person. Counterintelligence would have to go to him—there was no choice. He was the Truth-Speaker, and therefore their best chance of identifying and rooting out Voldemort's spies in their ranks. He could begin counterintelligence efforts and continue managing at least some of his usual responsibilities with his usual spies. But developing new informants, or any additional responsibilities that might arise, such as sabotage missions, or meeting contacts, or any surprises… there weren't enough hours in a day. He did need to sleep, and he was now dating someone.

Aldon let out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. "I will think about asking for help, Francesca. I will."

XXX

Something had happened over the past few days. The Daily Prophet had nothing, only endless articles celebrating Voldemort's new Ministry and warning the world of the dangers of the insurgents, including Black, the Lord Potter, Moody, and so many others. Including Draco himself, though mentions of him, his corruption charges, and his supposed treason had fallen off in the last few weeks.

Over the last month, the Irish had become a central and polarizing theme—the Irish, and their British collaborators. Draco had checked the statement in Bridge, from months ago. In June, at least, after the Lower Alleys had burned, the Irish had been part of Black's group opposing Voldemort, but it seemed from the more recent articles that they had broken off entirely to act on their own interests. Bridge hadn't been so clear, of course, but Draco could read between the lines as well as anyone else. Black had condemned Irish revolt, but it had been a condemnation of means, not of the end result.

But the last few days had been different. At first, he couldn't work out what was different; it had been quiet, quieter than expected from some areas of Rosier Place. Rosier and the former Lady Rosier had been absent, as had Moody, or otherwise locked in meetings—he hadn't seen any of them anywhere near as often as he had come to expect. Rosier was one matter, since Draco only saw him occasionally anyway, but he had become used to seeing the former Lady Rosier and Professor Moody walking the grounds at least once a day. Their usual rounds, he suspected.

Then, there was the tension. No one said anything to him about it, but he could feel it from the others at Rosier Place. The two new people, trainees or students or something of the like, radiated anticipation and interest, the group in the library exuded worry and concern, and even Rosier himself, when he saw him, gave off a suffocating mix of tiredness and intense determination.

There had been a meeting two nights ago, for which the Lord Potter, the Lord Black, and Archie had come, bringing with them a blonde woman that Draco only recognized from the newspapers—Saoirse Riordan, one of the Irish leaders, who carried herself with both confidence and well-hidden anxiety. He had hovered outside the door, trying to eavesdrop, but the door was thick and heavily warded. Instead, he had waited nearby in another reception room to pick up the emotions of the meeting members as they walked out.

Most of them had given off anticipation, nervousness, or fear, but all of it had been overlaid by an iron sense of determination. They hadn't said anything, but he had followed, watching as they disappeared through the Portkey room that Rosier was now using in his manor instead of the Floo. An hour after that, he had seen the former Lady Rosier and Moody walking across the grounds, but not on the patrol route that he had become accustomed to seeing from them and the two trainees they had following them around. They were heading to the wards, leaving the grounds.

The next evening, he had seen Rosier, the former Lady Rosier and Moody returning, this time from the Portkey room. They had looked like hell. The former Lady Rosier and Moody were wearing stained and dirty clothing, moving slowly with tiredness even if their eyes were uncommonly sharp, but it was Rosier who was the most disturbed. His expression was blank, but his emotions were roiling, suppressed anger and shock and heavy despair, punching him ten feet away where he sat in the blue parlour.

He examined the wall of information he had put together from the newspapers and from his own observations and information, feeling frustrated. Something had happened, something serious, but no one had said anything to him. Harry, his most reliable source, hadn't come by in the past few days, and he didn't belong anywhere in the resistance yet that would get him more information.

The information he had worked out, just by keeping track of the news and his own observations, built him an idea of the structure of the resistance. The Lord Potter, the former Lady Rosier, and Moody were clearly in charge of any military action—between the Lord Potter's history as an Auror, the former Lady Rosier's own actions at the coup, and Moody being a former Auror and Defense professor, it was only logical. On top of that, Abernathy had specifically said that he would talk to Lord Potter about a new position for him. The Lord Black and Archie handled information, especially as it went out through Bridge and with their other allies—the Lord Black he knew because his mother had outright told him that he was her connection, and Archie because of his involvement with Bridge. Archie's girlfriend, Hermione Granger, had been listed in Bridge as the representative of the British Students Association, all chapters, so it would make sense for her to be another international link.

He wondered, offhand, what Voldemort would think of this information. Would it be worth slipping from Rosier Place to try to trade it all for Pansy's freedom? But if he did, he would directly be putting Harry into more danger. Harry, he knew, had been involved in at least one mission, to the Floo Regulatory Authority. But Harry was so powerful, and Pansy was so much more helpless. Harry could probably survive anything, she was nothing if not a survivor, and if Draco actually thought there was a reasonable chance that Voldemort would hear him out, he might have taken the information he had and tried to bargain for Pansy's freedom.

But it was too risky—too much of a pipe dream to hope that it would work, and even if it did, Pansy would despise him for putting Harry in more danger. If Rosier kicked him out, it might be worth it, but until then Draco was better off on this side. Here, if he could just find a place for himself, he might get access to the resources that would help him help Pansy.

There was a knock at his door and Draco, still thinking it over, went to open it.

"Do you have a moment?" Rosier asked, with a slight inclination of his head.

Draco stepped back from the door, welcoming him in with a wave of his hand. It wasn't like he really had much choice, but Rosier did always ask. No matter what else he did, the man was polite and knew the rules of pureblood etiquette.

Rosier walked in but didn't go sit in either the sofa or the armchair, as Draco had expected. Instead, he walked over to Draco's wall of information and studied it. One finger tapped at the list of names, and his eyes travelled over the threads that Draco had used to tie different pins together—red thread for blood-lines, white thread for known alliances. Draco used it to predict where people fell.

Most of the former Dark families or the SOW Party families fell on Voldemort's side. Even if Voldemort wanted to destroy their status and way of life, both their blood connections and their past alliances meant that they were more likely to stand by Voldemort than to switch sides entirely to the Light faction. It was a problem.

"This is a good analysis," Rosier said finally, turning around to look at Draco. Seen full on, Draco could see that Rosier's hair wasn't as carefully done as it was normally. His skin was too pale, and he radiated tiredness and something else. Sickness, maybe.

"I know." Draco crossed his arms over his chest. He couldn't read Rosier very well—aside from the tiredness, it could be sickness, it could be sadness, it could be resignation. "What of it?"

Rosier sighed. "Statement, please."

"I intend no harm to you, to Rosier Place, or to anyone currently residing at Rosier Place." Draco frowned, annoyed. It had been weeks since Rosier had demanded the statement from him. "What's this about, Rosier?"

"In a minute." Rosier sat down in the armchair, nodding at the sofa. "I need a few more answers, first. Consider this a job interview, Malfoy."

"A job interview," Draco said flatly, even if his mind was whirring. He knew that Rosier did something, because he was involved in too many high-level meetings for any other conclusion. But he had never been able to put a pin on it—Rosier was a Truth-Speaker, a fact that he flaunted everywhere, but his skill set otherwise didn't seem to fit easily into any particular role. He was terrible at duelling, and he had no international connections of note. As friendly as he could be at Hogwarts, his relationships to Draco had always seemed surface-deep, with few exceptions. Rosier had floated through Hogwarts with a flippant smile, rather than developing any deep connections like Draco and Pansy and Harry had.

Still, Draco needed something to do. "Go on, then. Ask your questions."

"What do you think of the current situation?" Rosier asked mildly, studying him, and Draco's mouth twisted.

He couldn't lie. He knew he couldn't lie.

"What do you want from me?" he snapped, narrowing his eyes. "Do you want me to tell you that it's good? My father is dead, Rosier; my father is dead, and so is Lord Riddle. So are a dozen people, including your father. Pansy is stuck there, beside Voldemort, and no one is doing anything about that. What do you want me to say?"

Rosier blinked slowly. "All right. What do you think of Voldemort, then?"

"I hate him," Draco hissed, stepping forward and putting his hands on the back of the sofa and leaning forward to look at Rosier. "He killed my father—Pansy might have cast the spell, but he forced it. He destroyed our lives, and he's destroying our country."

"Is he?" Rosier asked idly, leaning back in the armchair to look up at Draco. "What about our country do you think he's destroying?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Everything?"

"Be specific." Rosier half-smiled. "He hasn't changed everything. He kept the laws surrounding blood equality the same, for example. If we want to be extremely practical, other than the fact that we're at war, the primary change is that he has suspended, or eliminated, all noble privilege. If you look at what he says, he is not so different from Lord Riddle."

"He is completely different from Lord Riddle." Draco straightened, looking away. "Lord Riddle was reasonable, and he was never violent."

"Lord Riddle never needed to be violent." Rosier shrugged diffidently. "He was a pureblood and a noble, and he had been in power for a very long time. What about the Lord Riddle, then? Did you admire him?"

"Who didn't?" Draco stared at Rosier, trying to read him, but his face only showed mild interest, and his emotions hadn't changed since he had entered. Halfblood or not, Rosier had been raised as a proper noble, so he carried himself like one. "You were a Slytherin too, Rosier. You were in the SOW Party; how could you not?"

"My blood-status rather put a dampener on my admiration." Rosier's lips tugged in another half-smile. "I couldn't admire Lord Riddle—not when his laws so severely limited my future. So, what do you think of those, Malfoy?"

Draco fell silent. A few months ago, he would have had no hesitation in saying that he wholeheartedly supported them. They were necessarily to protect traditional wizarding culture, he would have said; Muggleborns and halfbloods were dangerous, he would have said. Their magic was wild, and they had poor magical control, so they needed to be kept separate and out of society for the protection of everyone else. Maybe the law needed a little more finesse, so that those like Harry were excluded from them, but overall Draco would have said that he agreed with them.

That was a few months ago. Now, there was Harry, and there was Rosier, and Draco wasn't so foolish as to think that the group of witches and wizards who met in Rosier's library weren't all lesser-blooded as well. He hadn't worked out what exactly that group did, but clearly it was something based on Rosier's own reaction only a few months ago. They were all intelligent and well-spoken, and he had never seen any of them lose control of their magic. He had never felt threatened by them.

He didn't know the blood-statuses of the people he had worked with on either his stint in basic training or with the remedial group he had helped Professor Lupin to train. If he had to guess, most of basic training had probably been purebloods, and most of the remedial group lesser-blooded. This should probably have worked in favour of pureblood supremacy, because the first group was so much more competent than the second, but it didn't.

It didn't work because the first group had a thousand more advantages than the second one, and they weren't nearly so much better as to justify it. Yes, the first group knew their way around a wand, but half the second group had never touched one and never would have without the war. The first group had been educated, and half the second group couldn't read. And yet, when they got over those difficulties, the second group learned just as fast and just as well and they had a better attitude.

Right now, he had no idea what he thought. He didn't think his overall beliefs had changed—with a few exceptions, purebloods were superior. They had a history, a culture, and except for outliers like Harry, they were more powerful, more controlled in their magic. They had gifts—halfbloods and Muggleborns didn't have gifts. And anyway, his father and Lord Riddle were both brilliant, powerful wizards, they wouldn't have believed something and fought for something so hard if it wasn't true. To say that halfbloods and Muggleborns were equal would be to say that his father had dedicated his whole life to something wrong, something unjust and unfair and unequal.

His father had loved him. His father had been good, and kind, and Draco had a thousand memories swirling in his head of his father teaching him how to fly, of his father soothing him when he cried, of his father bringing home gifts for him and his mother for no real reason, only because he saw something in Diagon Alley that he thought they would like. His father had been a good person, and his father wouldn't have promoted pureblood supremacy, something that prejudiced and excluded so many people, unless it was true.

Harry had to be an exception. It was the only thing that made sense.

But Harry said that she wasn't.

He shoved the thought away.

"I don't know," he said finally, looking up at Rosier. "I think those laws had a purpose, and I agree with them."

"Liar," Rosier murmured, but he didn't press it. "What about the nobility? I suppose you don't support the elimination of the nobility, either."

"No, of course not."

"Why not?"

"Because the nobility has been educated to govern the population," Draco replied, frowning. Rosier knew this—he knew that Rosier had had the same noble etiquette teachers that he had had, and this was standard material. "Noblesse oblige, Rosier. As nobles, we have rights, but we have duties also; and such duties thereby validate our rights. We are noble, so we govern in the best interests of all witches and wizards in Britain."

"One could argue that the principle of noblesse oblige obliges us to advocate for a future in which all witches and wizards in Britain have a voice of their own in our mutual governance," Rosier pointed out, leaning forward in interest and propping his chin on one hand. "All noblesse oblige states is that as the privileged, we have a duty to those who are less privileged."

Draco scowled at him, searching for an answer. He felt like this had been covered in his noble etiquette textbook, but all he could remember was the general statement. The nobility had additional rights and privileges because they had additional duties and obligations. One of those obligations was governance, and the nobility were specifically educated for governance; Draco and Pansy and even Rosier hadn't given up their childhoods to endless noble tutors if not in preparation for their later responsibilities.

He didn't have an answer. "You went through the same education I did, Rosier. You know why."

"The fact that I had the same education doesn't mean I don't question it." Rosier tilted his head. "What do you think of us, then? You have been here for months."

"Why are you asking me this now?" Draco snapped, walking around the sofa to sit down. "I've already tried out two different roles in your organization—isn't that enough?"

"In general training and then teaching the remedial group." Rosier glanced back over at the wall of information that Draco had put together. "Short stints at each. My work requires rather…" He paused. "More. So, what do you think of us, Malfoy?"

Draco couldn't lie. "What are you asking from me, Rosier? You want me to say that I've lost all the beliefs I held before and that I'm on your side?"

"Would you?" Rosier smiled, without a hint of true amusement.

"It would be a lie if I did," Draco snapped, annoyed. "I don't believe your alliance has the right of it. I don't agree with blood equality, and I don't believe in wide enfranchisement. There were many good things about the world we had before, and even if there might have been some problems, your side will destroy all the good alongside the bad. My only problem is that I don't have anywhere else to go. There's no side here trying to bring back the old world—there's only Voldemort, and there's you. You're better than the alternative."

"That's true." Rosier hadn't moved much in the last few minutes. "So, where do you stand, Malfoy? Between us and Voldemort, where do your loyalties lie?"

Draco glared at him. He couldn't lie. "Not to Voldemort, but not to your alliance, either. I want to get Pansy out, and I care about Harry and Blaise, but aside from that—I don't know."

"You've collected a lot of information on that wall." Aldon stared at Draco, his bright eyes unnerving. "What do you plan on doing with it?"

"Using it for my protection." Draco looked away.

"Liar." Rosier sounded amused. "Or, more accurately—half-truth."

"Fine, I thought about using it to buy Pansy from Voldemort." Draco scowled again, shooting Rosier a look that dared him to comment. "But I have no plans on doing it right now."

"It wouldn't work anyway." Rosier straightened, looking back over at the wall in question thoughtfully. "Voldemort and his followers would likely kill you as soon as they saw you, and even with this information I do not think that Voldemort would release her. She is a prize for him, you must realize."

"She is a prize for anyone," Draco retorted, crossing his arms over his chest again. "Which is why we should be trying to get her back."

Rosier stared at him a moment, unblinking. "Unfortunately, she is very closely guarded. It would likely be suicide to attempt it right now."

Draco glanced at the wall, his expression tightening. "We should still be trying."

Rosier inclined his head slightly, which Draco suspected was all the reaction he would get from the man. "Do you have plans on betraying us? Sending an owl to Voldemort with the information you have here? Any plans to cause us harm?"

"Not right now." Draco looked away. "But that could change."

There was a very long moment of silence, one that Draco didn't try to break. Rosier would get to what he wanted sooner or later, and it wasn't like Draco had anything else to do. Instead, Draco stared at his wall.

He wanted to know what had happened, over the past few days. This visit had to be related—something had happened, and it had been bad. Based on the questions that Rosier had asked, he wondered if someone had betrayed them, and if he was now testing everyone. But then again, he had called this a job interview.

He frowned, glancing at the wall. He had always known that Rosier had to occupy some high-level position. Was he in charge of espionage?

It would make sense. He was a Truth-Speaker, and better able to identify enemy spies in their own organization. His gift probably made him better able to select spies from the outside as well, and between a childhood spent within the SOW Party and his year outside, he had had the opportunity to develop a lot of connections that others hadn't had. Surface-deep most of those relationships might have been, but he was still well-known, still someone that a person in trouble might think to contact. Unlike the Lord Black, he also had a certain reputation of seriousness that the elder Black lacked, and the network within Wizarding Britain that the younger Black had never developed.

"You want me to be a spy for you," Draco said, looking at Rosier. "You're in charge of espionage and you're interviewing me to be a spy!"

Rosier snorted. "Of course not. You would be useless as a spy—you're too identifiable, and Voldemort already hates you and suspects you. I can't slip you into another major family because Voldemort has put a price on your head, and with everything you just said, I can't embed you into a Light faction family either. They'd never trust you. No, I was interviewing you to see if you might be a fit to be my assistant. You have a good grasp of the politics, but, as you said yourself, even if you don't have plans to harm us right now, that could change. You might think we are better than the alternative, but that only means that if you find something you think might be better, you'll betray all of us for it."

"So, I failed, then." Draco sighed, looking away. He couldn't help his beliefs.

He loved his father, and he couldn't believe that his father had been wrong. Not about pureblood supremacy, not about the nobility. His father had contributed his whole life to the cause of pureblood supremacy, as had Lord Riddle, and Draco himself had been educated for a world with the nobility. If those beliefs were wrong, then what had his father been fighting for all this time? What had his father been protecting him and his family from? Why did Draco spend his childhood in endless lessons, and why was the nobility still the governing system if it was wrong?

"You are fortunate that I am rather short on candidates," Rosier replied dryly. "Anyone else with your extensive knowledge of the former nobility and other major families is already occupied. I'm satisfied to accept your lukewarm, better-than-the-alternative loyalty, though you can rest assured that I will be checking you regularly to see whether your intentions have changed."

"What happened?" Draco's voice was sharp. He could not believe that this had come out of nowhere—nor could he believe that Rosier would so easily accept his answers. If he were the spymaster for the alliance, he would not have accepted his own responses, so the fact that Rosier did accept them meant that whatever had happened, it had to be more serious than he had thought.

"Voldemort massacred Wales in retaliation for the Irish rebellion," Rosier replied, and for all that his expression and voice were calm and emotionless, Draco felt a small flare of anger from him. "Cedric Diggory is dead. We have twenty-three known survivors, though many of the undocumented Muggleborn and halfblood witches and wizards living within the Muggle world were likely spared as well."

"The Greengrasses—" Draco said, then he cut himself off, feeling gaping shock stretching underneath him. They hadn't been his friends, and Daphne Greengrass had been a bitch of the highest order, but—but—

He couldn't believe that they were dead. Astoria Greengrass had just turned fifteen last year, and she was terrified of Thestrals.

"The Greengrasses are not on the survivors list that I received." Rosier hesitated, then sighed. "But with their pureblood and noble background, it is possible that Voldemort would have accepted them into his ranks instead of killing them. I am waiting for further information."

To Draco, being forced to join with Voldemort's side didn't sound much better than death.

"What would I be expected to do, then?" he asked finally, looking at Rosier. Assisting the alliance's spymaster would get him access to more information, including more information that he could use to persuade them to put Pansy higher in their priorities. More information, too, would give him more to bargain with generally.

"I need you to assist in decoding messages, first," Rosier said, leaning forward, his hawk-like eyes intense. "I will also need you to consider who might be responsive to becoming an informant, and then coordinate the outreach to them on that point. You may also need to take on other, more active, responsibilities such as meeting with informants."

"You would trust me that much?" Draco stared at Rosier, somewhat suspicious. It did sound a little too good to be true.

Rosier half-smiled. "You are a better dueller than I am, Malfoy. You're better able to escape from any difficult situations away from the safehouses, and in the event you don't, you're more expendable than I am. You'll understand, too, that I won't be giving you free and ready access to everything—in the event that you are captured, I don't need you giving everything up to save yourself. In fact, should you be captured, the only thing you should expect from me is a quick death. That goes doubly if I find that you have betrayed us. So?"

"What's my alternative?" Draco asked.

"Continue sitting here." Rosier shrugged. "We can still smuggle you to Geneva to be with your mother. You can make another attempt in Lord Potter's general forces or return to Professor Lupin and his remedial training group. Wait for another offer from another group to come around, though I think with your admissions today, I will be keeping a closer eye on you than I did previously."

There was a long pause, while Draco thought his options over. On one hand, it was something to do, and it was a good position that would put him in a better place to help Pansy. He would have access to more information than he did currently. It was also considerably more dangerous—not just from the other side, but from Rosier himself. From Rosier's demeanour and his emotions, Draco had the sense that Rosier would do exactly as he said. His words weren't stated as a threat, only as blunt fact.

Harry was out doing dangerous things already. She had broken into the Floo Regulatory Authority, and Draco knew her well enough to know that what her father had her doing, brewing potions and helping the refugees, would not satisfy her long-term. She was too used to acting on her own, whether as Harry or as Rigel, and he had no doubt that she would find a way to the centre of the war without help. Pansy, too, was in a position of danger, and she was there because she had helped Draco.

If they could withstand danger, so could he.

"Fine," he said. "I'll do it. When do you want me to start?"

"No time like the present," Rosier said, standing up with a sigh. "Come. I will at least walk you through the book codes today."

Over the next few weeks, Draco set himself to decoding messages while Rosier began the lengthy process of interviewing every person within the alliance to identify any enemy spies. Half of the Light faction was, predictably, highly offended that Rosier, a Dark, former SOW Party noble, had dared to question their loyalty, and Rosier was simply not willing to engage in a game of assuaging their hurt egos while he performed his duties. Only the willing submission of both the Lords Potter and Black to the same questioning encouraged them to comply. Draco himself was questioned every few days, which he figured was understandable considering his admissions.

Draco didn't want the world envisioned by Rosier and his alliance. It was only better than the alternative.

Most of the messages he was set to decoding weren't critical in and of themselves, but as a whole they painted a better picture of the war than he had had before. There were fewer notes from within Voldemort's camp than Draco would have expected, though Rosier always took those messages for himself to decode. Too sensitive, Draco guessed, for someone with his lukewarm loyalty. Instead, Draco received about half the messages from within the Ministry of Magic, other enterprises, and the former noble families. He learned that the Ministry was frozen in a state of fear—people were still attending to their jobs as per usual, but the atmosphere had been permeated with a thick, pervading sense of anxiety, so things simply weren't getting done.

There had been two thousand, two hundred and seventy-two witches and wizards registered as living within the Welsh borders. That did not include some two hundred undocumented witches and wizards, all of whom had been living as Muggles in one of the Muggle cities and had managed to report in somewhere—more than half took off to Ireland, which was reported in to Black, and the rest reported directly into the British International Association. Rosier reported from his own spies that several prominent families, including the Greengrasses, had survived; they had bartered their knowledge of Wizarding Britain and Wizarding British politics to buy themselves their survival. Aside from that, there were twenty-three survivors.

Two thousand, two hundred, and thirteen witches and wizards were presumed to have died in Wales. Of those, perhaps two hundred had worked for the Ministry of Magic in some form or another.

Being a Ministry worker was no longer safe. Being loyal to Ministry meant nothing in the current administration and was not a protection against being murdered if Voldemort's whims demanded it. Everyone within the Ministry knew someone who had been killed in Wales. And for every person who had been killed in Wales, two other Ministry employees decided that working at the Ministry wasn't worth it, and quietly abandoned their posts. Maybe more.

Within the other nobility, there were whispers. Finch sent reports that his family, and many of Light-sided families who were not formally on either side, were deeply worried. His father and mother wanted to open negotiations to join the treaty alliance, but his grandmother was too proud. His parents had left their work at the Ministry, and their estates had been fortified. He also reported on the atmosphere at Hogwarts School—many of the students were confused, and there was more conflict than usual. The Scots and their clan-kin were carrying themselves with more pride, with Ernest MacMillan in particular walking around with a certain pomp, but there were dozens of students mourning the loss of their old world. As distant as Dumbledore and the other professors tried to keep the war, a version of it was creeping into the school.

Word from every corner of the wizarding world that Draco collected news from was worried, confused, or afraid. People were afraid of Voldemort, but many of them were equally afraid of Rosier and his alliance.

Draco set himself to his new work. There was little else he could do—for now.

XXX

"I have an announcement to make."

Archie looked up from his dinner, a hearty plate of stroganoff noodles in cream sauce with meatballs on the side that could be added for him and the others and mushrooms for Harry. Harry wasn't as strict of a vegetarian as she used to be, but she still opted, when possible, to avoid meat in her diet. She, too, had looked up from her plate of noodles and sauce, her eyes wide in surprise.

Aunt Lily was looking around the table, a tired and grim expression on her face. "I—" She stopped and sighed. "I'll be leaving on a tour of the world just after the holidays. Addy will come with me. I managed to contact my old—my old publicist. He's arranging it all for me."

"Publicist?" Dad looked at Aunt Lily like she had grown another head, while Uncle James winced. Aunt Lily herself didn't look too happy about her announcement, only resigned.

"Publicist," she confirmed, glancing at Archie and Harry. "You need more international support. I can bring it. I…"

"I think you need to start from the beginning, Lil," Uncle James said, glancing at them and resting one hand on her back. "They don't know about your past."

Lily sighed again. "Well—as you may know, twenty years ago I was on AIM's winning Triwizard Tournament team. Harry probably watched the recording with the Hogwarts team, and if I remember AIM right, they would have talked about it endlessly. AIM hasn't won it since my year."

Archie glanced at Harry, who shrugged slightly—her way of saying that yes, she had seen the recording, but she didn't have anything to add at that precise moment. She was tired—still recovering from her jaunt into Wales. They had slept a little the first night, none at all the second night, and Archie suspected that she had been having trouble sleeping since she returned. He imagined that, whatever she had seen, it had to have been bad.

More than two thousand dead, if they calculated it correctly off the census records and the other cobbled-together reports.

"That's about right," Archie said, with a weak sort of smile. "All of fourth year, the past games were all anyone could talk about."

Aunt Lily smiled back at him, apparently grateful for the confirmation. "You remember what the games are like? From—from the North American League Banquet, the chance to meet so many people from around the world. The parties. And the media attention. Who was the star for your year?"

"Fei Long Lin, Neal's cousin." Archie laughed, and the sound was only a little forced. He knew he was having a conversation with Aunt Lily that no one else in the room could relate to, and in the current context, it felt out of place, awkward. "Quodpot Monthly published an interview with her and included a full page spread. I think a third of the guys at the school had it pasted on their walls, and maybe a fifth of the girls. Neal was so annoyed, kept yelling at people about how that was his cousin and that she was really not as charismatic as the interview made her out to be. Cleon asked Neal to introduce him to her; Neal decked him."

"Quodpot Monthly was one of the better ones," Aunt Lily said, her smile becoming nostalgic. "But those pin-up spreads—I wouldn't be surprised if a third of my schoolmates had me on their walls. The end of that year and the next year, they were…"

She fell silent, looking away. "They were wild. Interviews everywhere, especially after we won. People wanted me to sing for them, and then there were the concerts. It was—it was fun for the first six months, but afterwards… I was Lily Evans, the Siren. Everyone knew me."

Another long pause, then she blew out a breath, her smile disappearing. "Or, they thought they knew me. There was so much speculation. Who was I sleeping with? Who did my glamour charms? What did I look like naked? Did I cross the line on my last album, had I entranced the audience beyond permissible grounds, was I brainwashing people? Did I do Dark magic in the bathrooms between sets?" She smiled ruefully. "Esteban, my publicist, used to get a room next to mine when we were on tour, just so he could chase the tabloids off the roof and away from the windows. We had an ongoing argument—did we use a No-Maj hotel so the Aurors could cite them for using brooms, or did we use a magical one so that we could Apparate back afterwards?"

James moved his hand around to squeeze her shoulder. Lily turned to him with a sad sort of smile, and continued. "Trish would show me the poll results, you know. There was always a bump in donations to scholarship funds for foreign students whenever I mentioned how there were no schools that allowed newbloods in Britain, whenever I talked about how the Ministry was considering passing new laws so that we weren't even employable in the magical world. I was doing a good thing, raising awareness and fundraising. But I just—I couldn't live like that. I came back to visit my parents for a couple weeks, and it was like—it was like a weight had been lifted from me. No one cared who Lily Evans was, no one needed me to smile at them or sign something for their kid when they recognized me at the market. My parents asked me about Trish and my experimental charms, and I realized that—I realized that between her studies and my touring schedule I hadn't seen her in months. I hadn't touched my charms, at least as they didn't relate to the singing and stage scenery and so on, for even longer. Then, I bumped into James at Diagon Alley and… well, we started "stepping out", as he liked to call it, and there was an article in the paper about a private start-up specializing in experimental charms that was actually interested in recruiting Muggleborns, and suddenly… I could see a future for me, and not for Lily Evans, the Siren."

She sighed deeply, looking down. "I went back to America for a few months, just to wrap up my commitments before I returned to Britain. And that was it. I didn't look back. Trish was upset, and I'll always regret losing her friendship, but I don't think she ever understood how difficult it was for me."

Archie frowned and didn't reply, grappling with his own feelings. On one hand, he did understand. Aunt Lily hadn't chosen to be powerful, and she hadn't chosen to become famous. She was like Harry, who never asked for power but got it anyway, and just like Harry, she had wanted to focus on her own interests. She hadn't asked for fame, or power, and she hadn't asked for responsibility. She wanted to focus on her own life, just as Harry did. And just like Harry, because of her power, she had been pulled into something else.

And she had walked away. She had decided that she wanted a quieter life, which was something that she had a right to do. No one should need to let their power choose their paths for them, and she hadn't walked away completely. Archie had heard the arguments she had tried to use at the SOW Party Galas before. Hermione, too, had said something once about how the Potters provided both news and an annual donation to the British International Association.

But she could have done more. And she had walked away.

With great power comes great responsibility. John had said so more than once, when he talked about the ethics of being a Natural Legilimens. And while it came from a No-Maj comic book, Archie thought that applied here, and on some level he couldn't help but be angry. She could have done so much more, and she didn't, because she had chosen herself first.

But didn't she have a right to do that? Didn't they all have a right to choose themselves first? Where was the line between their freedom to choose their own lives, and their responsibility to others?

"I understand," Harry was saying, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "I'd—I'd like to do the same, one day."

Archie didn't understand. He had put his dreams of being a Healer on hold for the war, and while he couldn't say he had done it gladly, he had done it because he had felt a responsibility to do it. But maybe that was different, and he was different, and he didn't want to argue over choices made in the past.

"Yes." Aunt Lily's expression was sad, and she glanced at Archie's tight-lipped expression. "But you—we—need more help. I still have a lot of my old contacts, so I'm hoping that I can raise the profile of the war internationally, raise more support and put pressure for more military and humanitarian aid from the other countries. Maybe recruit among the British half-bloods and Muggleborns who stayed abroad."

"That sounds great, Aunt Lily," Archie said, letting a smile brighten his face and hoping that no sign of his inner feelings were apparent on the surface. They had needed help months ago. They had needed help before another two thousand people had died. "When do you go?"

"January 2nd." Aunt Lily smiled in relief. "I spent the last four months writing a new album, which I'm recording on the fourth, and then I'll be on tour promoting it. Most of the music is about the war, so I'll bring it back to our situation as much as I can."

Archie made his smile brighten a little more, to the trillion-watts that Harry used to tease him over. "We'll have a big send-off over the holidays, then, and maybe you can give us a private concert?"

"That sounds wonderful, Archie." Lily reached across the table for another serving of stroganoff noodles. "I'll do that."

Wales was a breaking point—not just for Aunt Lily, but for thousands of other people. With Wales, Voldemort had declared that no one was safe. No one could trust that they could simply keep their heads down, try to weather the storm unscathed. Hermione was inundated with refugee logistics, not just from those who came forward to the alliance but for those who slipped off with their own Portkeys, or even just took off to the south of England to Apparate across the channel into France.

Those refugees were a problem. Most of them were purebloods, or at least historically wizarding, and of that kind that had bought into decades of propaganda about halfbloods and Muggleborns. They didn't trust Hermione or the British International Association to get them out of the country, and instead took unnecessary risks of their own. There were multiple Splinchings in the south of England, closest to the French border, which they only heard about after the fact from Aldon's Ministry informants; those caught were charged with treason, though none had yet come to trial.

Hermione thought Splinching was one of the better outcomes. Those who tried to Apparate also ran into the risk that they would undershoot the Apparition and end up in the middle of the sea. For those who didn't want to risk Apparition, Portkeys were flooding the black and grey markets, and discreet advertisements littered wizarding communities. But there was a real risk that the Portkeys would either transport those who took them straight into Voldemort's hands or that they might just fail and dump a group in the middle of the Channel.

Even if everyone arrived relatively safe and sound, however, it was only the start of Hermione's problems. Simply put, the French were refusing to take more refugees. Their justifications were that they were taking on far too many refugees outside the normal routes, and these refugees were prone to causing trouble. They weren't accustomed to the No-Maj world, and the Ministère de Magique claimed a drastic increase in the number of breaches of the Statute of Secrecy. They were not happy.

The other wizarding nations were no different. The primary countries taking refugees, ranging from Wizarding America to Wizarding Australia, were becoming increasingly more hesitant. Most of the nations accepting refugees were closely integrated with the No-Maj world, so all of them were nervous about potential risks to the Statute of Secrecy. Hermione was hard-pressed to convince the other nations that the refugees would be perfectly fine, especially when France was screaming up and down that the refugees they had were breaking the Statute left, right and centre. Hermione had been in Geneva for the last week, trying to convince her partners about the need for more humanitarian aid. Aunt Lily's help would be sorely needed.

The witches and wizards that didn't try to run were starting to hunker down and fortify, or they were picking sides. Some, like the Weasleys and the Bones, quietly joined Archie's alliance. Others, primarily Dark families that had formerly been part of the SOW Party, had either through fear or inclination, pledged their loyalty to Voldemort's cause. The Prophet had run a whole series of articles on the Ministry's investigations into subversive cells, culminating in the discovery of a major rebel group in Wales planning a terrorist strike on the Ministry of Magic itself.

Archie thought it was a weak explanation. A Welsh terrorist plot did not justify the involvement of vampires and Dementors, or genocide against the entire nation. Nothing justified genocide, which was exactly what Voldemort had done.

More than two thousand dead, and their international allies, such as they were, were beginning to balk at the number of refugees. More than two thousand dead, and dozens of families were openly declaring their loyalty to Voldemort.

A week later, he was at Rosier Place in one of Aldon's many reception rooms, pacing. Aldon was watching him, hawk-like, from the sofa. Archie had been updating him on the international situation, including Aunt Lily's news, while Aldon provided a summary for him to take back to Dad and Uncle James about Voldemort's movements.

"I don't understand," Archie muttered, running his hands through his hair. "Voldemort just massacred the entire population of Wales. And people are joining him?"

"People are joining him because it looks like he'll win," Aldon explained calmly, watching as Archie paced. "I expect that they'll quickly regret their actions, because Voldemort is not stable at the best of times. They might be pressed into service, but they won't really be in it—they're likely to break and flee on the battlefield at the first sign of trouble. Or so Lina says."

Archie glanced at Aldon, raising an eyebrow. "That seems unusually optimistic of you, Al."

Aldon shrugged.

Archie shook his head, sighing. He doubted that Aldon accepted that explanation at face value, but Aldon had been caught up in counter-intelligence interviews for the past three weeks. Aldon probably simply hadn't come around to fully analysing the situation. "Honestly, though, I think if people knew how dangerous being close to Voldemort was, they would reconsider."

"In case you've forgotten, I'm a Truth-Speaker," Aldon replied dryly, looking over at him. "You hardly need emphasize your feelings with honesty. I know when you are lying."

"There has to be something else that we can do!" Archie stopped pacing, turning to sit in the sofa across from Aldon. "Anything else, to warn people. We put out that article in Bridge, and there were those condemnation statements from the ICW. The Irish Gales carried it, as did a few other international news sources—the American Standard, The New York Ghost. La Presse Magique."

"Bridge has a reputation for being a revolutionary's paper," Aldon replied clinically, watching Archie with a tilted head. "And most people have gone through half a century of misinformation about the outside world. They don't follow any international news sources. For most, too, the ICW has only issued trade embargoes against us for nothing worse than following our traditions—"

"You mean, discriminating on blood status," Archie interjected.

"Protecting our valued, pureblood traditions," Aldon repeated. "Whatever else might be said, Archie, the Muggle world has an incredible influence in the international sphere. Muggle technological innovations, their culture—many would say that Lord Riddle was right to shield our world from the influence of the Muggle world, including from halfbloods and Muggleborns who might carry that influence with them as they enter our world."

"Would you?" Archie raised an eyebrow, staring at Aldon. "And what about Chess?"

"In my wizarding culture, Francesca and I would be betrothed or married now, not merely dating," Aldon muttered, a touch scathing, then he shook his head. "We are not convincing anyone new within Wizarding Britain just by publishing in Bridge. If we want to make an impact, it needs to come from the Daily Prophet. Moreover, it cannot be anything that would be published in Bridge. It would need to sound completely independent, something that we could plausibly deny as having any involvement with us."

"An article in the Daily Prophet?" Archie repeated, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Something that comes from inside Voldemort's group, do you think?"

Aldon glared at him. "I hardly have any time to plan a raid. I'm only a third of the way through the counter-intelligence interviews."

"That's fine," Archie replied, waving his hand, his smile now set to maniacal. A raid—he could plan a raid, or rather Harry and Leo could help him figure out what to do. He pulled out his wand, Summoning paper and a pen. "Just give me the information we need to make whatever we do sound realistic—we'll draft it, plan it, execute it, everything."

"Very well." Aldon sighed deeply, leaning forward. He shut his eyes for a second to collect his thoughts, then opened them when he began. "First, Voldemort is a megalomaniac who rules on fear. In some ways, his methodology is very simple and straightforward. Succeed, and he rewards you. Fail, and he punishes you. It is what attracted those like the Lestranges to him first, because he provided a simple world that was easy for them to understand."

Archie nodded and started taking notes. Some of it he had already known before—he knew, for example, that Voldemort had split his followers into many small units, each led by one of Voldemort's inner circle. He knew that Harry's friend Parkinson, still behind enemy lines, was within Voldemort's inner circle. There were those who said that she had become Voldemort's lover, and that when Voldemort was in certain moods, only Parkinson was able to redirect him.

Parkinson never tortured people herself. Indeed, she never needed to—any insult to her, and Voldemort was prone to ordering any of his usual torture experts into handling it for her. Bellatrix Lestrange was the blunt instrument, the Cruciatus Curse expert, while her son Caelum Lestrange preferred time and far more physical methods that tended to leave the mind intact. Mulciber and Travers, too, were known to enjoy inflicting pain, and any Healers who were unfortunate enough to become involved in the organization were given strict orders not to Heal anyone who had been tortured.

Voldemort's inner circle was a three-ring circus, complete with jealousy and showmanship. Bellatrix Lestrange was deeply jealous of Parkinson's position with Voldemort, and there had been more than one skirmish between the two women, which on a good day simply amused Voldemort, and on a bad one, ended in punishment—usually of Lestrange. The younger Lestrange took every opportunity possible to torture his mother, as well as his father and his uncle, but otherwise did not engage in the game of winning Voldemort's favour; ironically, this only made him rise in Voldemort's esteem. He was trusted, as far as any of Voldemort's inner circle was trusted.

Mulciber, Travers, Dawlish, and McNabb were in a four-way struggle over control of the Ministry of Magic. Dawlish was out of favour, having failed to foresee the Irish rebellion or regain control over the territory, so McNabb was now in charge. The Ministry was shedding officials like a snake shed skin, but McNabb was said to be forcing through even more restrictive laws in the name of national security, and he was not afraid of using his wand to get his way.

The vampires and the Dementors, now called off their duties in Wales, were often included in punishments. The vampires were a frequent sight in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic, where the fact that they were underground kept them out of the sunlight and they were a terrifying encouragement for the remaining Ministry workers. The Dementors were allowed free reign in wizarding spaces and could often be seen patrolling Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. A few formerly noble families, the ones that Voldemort trusted least, had also been invited to host the creatures long-term. Archie didn't envy them.

But Voldemort was inclined to trust those who had been beside him the longest, so even the families playing host the vampires would be trusted further than the new arrivals. Those joining today would be likelier to see a death by torture than they were to win his favour, not least because Voldemort was sadistic and deeply enjoyed watching the performances put on by his inner circle. His veneer of respectability was barely skin-deep—and the more the alliance resisted, the more that veneer came off.

The Daily Prophet had spun the events as a rebellion, an issue of law and order, the side of the proper order against new and old insurgents—those that joined Voldemort now were also the ones likeliest to believe that the Welsh casualties were the result of putting down a rebel insurrection, and not the genocide that it was. New recruits would not expect the atmosphere of fear and terror to be as thick within Voldemort's organization as it was without.

"I think that's enough," Archie said finally, tearing the pages of notes off the pad of paper. "I'll put something together."

"Run whatever you decide to do by me, first," Aldon said with a nod. "I will want to ensure that whatever you do doesn't implicate any of my sources."

"Will do." Archie stood up, feeling, if not better, at least somewhat less helpless. "I'll come by when we have a solid plan."

XXX

Dating Aldon, Francesca thought, was a challenge. By comparison, Faleron was easy, even spontaneous. Faleron made plans that were cute but within a range of logical and sensible, and the conversation between them flowed easily. In the midst of war, Francesca understood that their options were limited—she knew that Aldon was busy, and it wasn't like she expected to go anywhere in particular, or even leave the grounds. And considering it was Aldon, even without the war, she wouldn't have expected anything like bowling, or a theme park, or even the classic dinner and a movie.

Really, considering the circumstances, his responsibilities, and his upbringing, Francesca was almost surprised that Aldon managed to fit in as much time for her as he did. There were always small things: a walk in in the sculpture garden for twenty minutes in the afternoon, or in the portrait gallery if he decided it was too cold to go outside, or a game of wizarding chess which she thought neither of them particularly liked apart from the excuse of being together. And they ate dinner together fairly often as well. None of this was a problem.

The chaperones were the problem.

At first, Francesca hadn't even realized that Aldon was quietly ensuring that they were chaperoned. The walks in the sculpture garden and portrait gallery were charming, and while they were in full view of anyone who wanted to look, Francesca never thought much of it. Even when Neal showed up at the first dinner, she hadn't suspected—actually, she had been delighted when Neal had shown up for dinner.

She would never have called Neal one of her closest friends, but between his general presence as an older member of the Duelling Club group that she had befriended and lived with at AIM and the fact that his older brother Will was engaged to Tina, Neal was something like an older cousin. She greeted him with a tight hug, exchanging traditional greetings, Neal in Mandarin and her in Cantonese, before spending two and a half hours catching up. Neal regaled her with Queenscove Castle's apparently irrational dislike of Kel, Graeme, and Fei, and its propensity to put them in multiple compromising and hilarious situations, then caught her up on their other friends back in America. They talked at length about Will and Tina's wedding plans—they were both expected to be in the wedding party, and they debated about the elements of a Chinese wedding that would need to be included, even if the wedding was Western in style. A tea ceremony was an absolute must, they decided, which meant that Francesca would need to teach Tina the appropriate etiquette.

Aldon had sat there, looking increasingly put out as the hours wore on. And at the end of the night, Neal turned to him and, with the biggest, shit-eating grin that Francesca had ever seen, said, "And this is why you shouldn't ask me to be a chaperone."

She had stupidly thought that Aldon wouldn't try it again, but the next night, Archie showed up.

He was worse. Aldon had apparently not informed him that he was to be present as a chaperone, but after ten or fifteen minutes looking increasingly confused, Archie figured it out. He collapsed onto the floor, rolling around bursting with laughter, then he announced between gasps that he would have nothing to do with any chaperoning, and, "Thanks for the invite, Al, but I'll leave you two lovebirds alone to your adorable dinner date."

They had had a perfectly lovely dinner after that, and Francesca had assumed, for no reason that she could now identify, that Aldon would now see that a chaperone just wasn't necessary and leave it alone. And yet, Hermione showed up to dinner on the third night.

Why had Aldon chosen to invite Hermione as a chaperone? Francesca had no idea, but she guessed that every other alternative had been exhausted. She couldn't see Lina agreeing to anything so outrageously silly, and Christie would have only done what Archie had done. She supposed that Sirius had probably refused, based on Archie's information, and yet Hermione had mysteriously agreed.

Francesca worked it out over the appetizer—Hermione was there to lecture Aldon, starting with a pointed comment that chaperones were completely unnecessary. Aldon's response, that it was necessary for Francesca's honour, was a springboard into a very lengthy rant about how Aldon's insistence on a chaperone was infantilizing and was actually incredibly disrespectful because it said that he didn't trust Francesca to know her own mind. Aldon had argued otherwise, of course, and the entire ninety-minute argument throughout which Francesca had said not a word ended with Hermione yelling, loudly enough that it could be heard down the corridor, "Francesca can sleep with whomever she likes, and I will personally provide her with all the contraceptive and protective amulets needed for her to have as much sex with as many partners as she wants!"

After that, Francesca put her foot down and promptly declined all dinner invitations unless reassured that they would be alone.

Alone, things were a little better. Aldon was solicitous, but it wasn't the same as what they had had when Francesca was across the ocean, talking by comm orb. He was too afraid of doing something wrong, struggling to balance what he wanted and what he believed was right with her own boundaries. On her good days, she found it all rather charming and sweet, especially the attention to detail and the flowers bearing notes that he sent to her if he was too busy to see her, but on her bad days she found it annoying and unnatural.

John wasn't happy about her new relationship, but there was little he could do about it from Geneva. She told him about the evening she had found Aldon drunk, and the morning after, and she learned more from his silence than from anything that he could have said. She didn't need access to John's mindscape, though it would have been nice for confirmation, to know that John had known that alcohol was a problem for Aldon. That meant that Aldon did, indeed, have a history of doing exactly as he had done that night, and that it was serious enough that John had learned about it, though John rarely did deep dives in anyone's head.

But that did explain John's change in opinion about Aldon, quite aside from the Ministry Unity Ball disaster. At the beginning, it had been John to encourage her to talk to Aldon at all, but he had switched off weeks before the Unity Ball, when Francesca realized that she liked him. There were different standards, Francesca thought, for people who only wanted to befriend her and people who wanted to date her.

John was also less than happy to hear about the dhampir unit now stationed at Rosier Place. They weren't human, he insisted on telling her—as far as American mages went, John was exceptionally open-minded when it came to creatures and part-creatures, going far out of his way to try to acclimate Francesca to them, but even that apparently had its limits.

Half-vampires pushed those limits. John was nervous about them, which meant that Francesca, being generally scared of creatures, found the half-vampire unit completely terrifying.

They were beautiful—every single one of them was beautiful, too beautiful. It wasn't that they looked the same, because they did each look very different, but there was a clarity about each of them, a crisp sharpness that Francesca didn't know if she could describe if she tried. They came in every skin tone, from light-skinned to dark, but all of them looked as though acne would never dare to blemish their faces. They came in every shape, from tall and lithe to broad-shouldered and strong, but they all moved with grace. Not a dancer's grace, which was more delicate, but a solid, dangerous grace that Francesca found both attractive and terrifying.

John said it was one of their creature attributes. Vampires had a different version of it—they had a certain lure to them, which worked on Muggles and mages alike to draw their prey to them. Half-vampires inherited a softer, slightly more human version of it which was adapted for sunlight as well as darkness. Therefore, as handsome as they all were, it was a predatory beauty that Francesca found more terrifying than anything else. They were beautiful because they were hunters, and Francesca was the prey.

The captain of the half-vampire troop, who happened to be a mage as well as half a vampire, was no exception. Rather, Francesca thought he was handsome even for one of the dhampir, and therefore proportionately more terrifying.

Light brown curls fell over his forehead, and his blue eyes seemed almost feverish in their intensity. His nose was straight, unbroken, though Francesca had certainly seen him take a hit to the face in the training yard that should have broken it. He rarely took his wand out while sparring, though he resorted to runic magic from time to time—among his unit, he kept to his sword, knife, and gun, but when any of the Stormwings or Aldon himself stepped onto the field, he would pull his wand alongside his sword.

With his looks, one could almost forget the fangs that Captain Aleksandr Willoughby Dragić had in his mouth. Francesca suspected that many people did forget, but she could not. Alex, as Aldon called him, was terrifying, and worst of all, he was stalking her.

It took her several days to stop second-guessing herself. She woke up in her own quarters every morning, stumbling out of her bed and getting dressed, but she would inevitably run into him either at breakfast or shortly thereafter. It seemed like he and Aldon went to the training yards early, and that around eight in the morning, when she was eating her fruit and yogurt, they would come in for their own breakfasts. After that, she would disappear to the library to work with the rest of Blake & Associates, but Alex would always appear in the library at some point before they finished for the day. The first two nights, she hadn't realized that he trailed her as she left, but the third night, she had paused in the hallway to talk to Christie about a point, and she had seen him pause coming out of the library.

After that, she paid closer attention. The captain of the dhampir guard didn't follow her absolutely everywhere—her rooms, for example, were generally safe—but she had no doubt that he was keeping tabs on her.

She raised it with Aldon, most of a week ago.

"Um, Aldon," she murmured while nibbling on her crème brulé, wondering how exactly she was going to broach the topic. "The dhampir unit—the captain. The—the one who was on your Triwizard Team."

"Alex?" Aldon looked over at her, his voice a gentle question. "What about him?"

"I think—I think he might be following me." She hesitated. "Not—not like, all the time, but um—he comes to the library every day before we finish work for the day, and I think he follows me out? And we always run into each other at, um, breakfast, and sometimes lunch, and if we aren't having dinner together, he's usually in the dining room when I'm there…"

Aldon frowned. "Alex was a Ravenclaw, so being in the library every day is hardly surprising," he replied slowly. "Ravenclaws do love knowledge, and Alex is no different. And the manor is not that large—Malfoy Manor and Parkinson Palace are larger—so it isn't surprising that you would run into each other often aside from that."

"I know, but this—I don't run into anyone else so often. Not unless they're with Blake & Associates." Francesca looked away. It sounded ridiculous even to her own ears, that the captain of the dhampir guard was stalking her around the manor. And maybe it wasn't really stalking, because merely keeping track of her was a little different than actually following her—

No, she told herself sternly. Don't second-guess yourself.

"Aldon, I'm worried," she said instead, looking back up at him. "Can you just—maybe tell him that he's being creepy? I'd—I'd appreciate it."

Aldon sighed, but he reached over and gripped her hand. "Yes, if you're worried about it, of course I will. I'll mention it to him tomorrow morning at training."

Francesca didn't know whether Aldon spoke with the captain or not, but it didn't stop. Two days later, she was still convinced that he was tailing her, which was when she raised it with John over comm orb.

"I'm not entirely sure what to do," she said, rolling the comm orb over in her palms. "I told Aldon, and Aldon said he would talk to the captain about it, but nothing's changed."

"Aldon is a tool," John grumbled, and Francesca rolled her eyes. Among the names that John had called Aldon over the past year, tool was relatively mild. "He didn't believe you, so maybe he didn't say anything at all."

"I think he would have, if only because I asked him to." Francesca chewed on her lower lip a bit. "I think that maybe the captain just didn't listen to him. Aldon—he thrashes Aldon in the training yard a lot, from what I've seen."

John's silence said more than his words did. They had argued enough over Aldon, and there was no need to rehash it yet again.

"Anyway," she continued, filling the pointed silence. "I don't know what more I can do."

"Set him on fire when you catch him following you." John's voice was entirely serious. "Vampires are sensitive to fire. Maybe half-vampires are sensitive too. Worth a shot, and you cast a mean fire rune. Call it self-defence. Whatever else I might think of Aldon, he'll back you up if it comes to you against anyone else."

Francesca glared at the orb. "I don't like it. I don't want to just, I don't know, set people on fire. Not without reason."

"Stalking you is a reason," John pointed out.

"I'll think about it," Francesca said finally. "Tell me about Gerry, and the ICW."

She didn't seriously think about setting the captain of the dhampir unit on fire. But he was terrifying; she had seen him pummel half his unit, thrash both of the Stormwing trainees, and trounce Aldon without breaking a sweat in a single morning. It couldn't hurt for her to take certain precautions. A few extra lightning spells, a few extra fire spells, charged and tucked under her bra strap were no extra effort for her, and they did make her feel a little safer.

But on Saturday, when Captain Dragić followed her from lunch into the third-floor blue parlour where she had planned on whiling the afternoon away in the cushioned window-seat over a copy of The Duke and I, it was too much. There was no reason for anyone to be trailing her for a lazy Saturday afternoon off, least of all the captain of the half-vampire guard. She had a fire-spell in hand, the single drop of magic she needed to complete the spell already soaking into the paper and fire launching towards the dhampir's face, before she could think.

His wand flashed out, and he batted her flames away like they were nothing. She had her second paper spell in hand already—lightning, this one. It cracked through the air, leaving the scent of ozone behind. The dhampir dodged, and her lightning left only a dark burn mark on the rug.

"Peace!" he snapped, the slight hiss hinting at the fangs he held in his mouth. Francesca had her shield spells out as well, four of them, and her book was dropped on the ground as her other hand flew up to trace another attack rune. "I only want to talk!"

Francesca glared at him suspiciously, though she dropped her hand—the one with the attack rune, not with the shield spells. "You—following me is not—"

The dhampir didn't deny it. Instead, he shut the door behind them and leaned against it. He didn't speak for a long moment, taking the time to look her over. When he spoke, his voice was only thoughtful. "Aldon cares deeply for you."

"That—" Francesca stuttered, gripping her shield spells tightly. She had seen the captain in the training yard. He was scary. He was fast, and he was strong, and even if he wasn't carrying his sword with him, his wand was still in hand. She struggled to find a response. "What—um, what of it?"

"Put your spells down," the dhampir said, glancing at them with contempt. "If I wanted to hurt you, they would do nothing. I only want to talk."

"But you were following me." Despite her best efforts, her voice trembled. "I wasn't—you were following me."

He snorted. "Yes, I was. I wanted to see what sort of person you were, that Aldon would care for you so deeply."

"Why didn't—couldn't you have asked him?" Francesca didn't lower her shield spells. They might be nothing, or maybe they'd buy enough time for her to launch herself out the window. "I hardly—why would I know?"

The dhampir shrugged, putting away his wand. He walked over to one of the chairs and sat down with a confident air that said very clearly that he did not consider Francesca, even with her dozen spells, to be any threat whatsoever. He was probably right. "Aldon, in case you didn't notice, is a fool. I doubt I would get anything other than lovesick fantasies. I also wanted to talk to you. Sit down, Francesca. You can call me Alex."

Francesca hesitated, looking between the door and the window. They were on the third floor, so no one would expect her to take the window as an exit path. As a dancer, of course, the height didn't frighten her. If she didn't use the air-hardening rune, she could probably fit a half-pike and a tuck before she had to roll into a crash-fall position.

"I can catch you before you make it to either the door or the window." The dhampir sighed heavily, evidently exasperated. "Please, just sit down."

It was the please that did it more than anything else. She didn't doubt that Alex could likely beat her to both the window and the door, or that he would have much difficulty restraining her if it came to it. She had seen him often enough in the training yard, and she wasn't so stupid as to think that she could match anyone there. Slowly, she lowered her shield spells, quietly refuelled her fire and lightning spells, and tucked them back under her bra strap. She stooped to pick up her book before sitting in the chair as far away from the dhampir as she could manage.

They stared at each other for a few moments. Even with the time for her to examine him closely, Francesca couldn't spot a flaw in the symmetry of his face—his lips weren't too plump, his eyes were neither too narrow nor bulging. Even pores seem to be absent from the surface of his face. She found it terrifying.

"What do you know about Aldon?" Alex asked finally, turning laser-bright eyes on her. She fought a shudder.

"That—that's a very general question," she said, setting her book on the coffee table in front of her. "He likes magical theory and is interested in new magical technologies. And, um—I like his mannerisms. Sometimes. I—he is kind. To me, at least."

"To you." The dhampir smiled slightly, his mouth closed. "What do you know about his past?"

Francesca shrugged uncomfortably. "I know—he's was raised as a noble. A pureblood noble. And, um, that the culture he was raised in is a lot more conservative than mine, more like, um, my books than real life. That—Archie taught me a bit, but his family didn't hold with—with the old wizarding culture. And what Aldon told me, of course."

"I have no doubt that Aldon told you a highly selective version of his own history." Alex's smile widened, showing tiny fangs that made Francesca tense. "I swore an oath, Francesca. I'm not going to bite you."

Francesca shrugged slightly. "Not—not with your teeth."

The comeback suffered under her stutter, but Alex laughed anyway. "True enough. I've known Aldon since school, though we were not in the same House. He has struggled to come to where he is now. Did he mention the alcohol?"

Francesca looked away. "He didn't, but—" She cut herself off.

"But you learned of it anyway."

Francesca didn't look at him. Alex had to have known Cedric Diggory as well—they were all on the same Triwizard team, him and Aldon and Cedric, and if the Hogwarts team was as close as the AIM team, that meant that they had been close. And yet, Aldon had rarely mentioned Cedric, though they had been on the same side of the war and his death had affected him deeply enough for him to turn to the bottle.

"The Welsh massacre," was all she said. "He was upset."

"The Welsh, and Cedric, were a loss." Alex's voice was meditative. "Aldon got drunk."

It was a blunt statement, not a question, but Francesca nodded anyway in confirmation, still avoiding his eyes. She picked up her book for something to do, something to look at that wasn't the dhampir sitting across from her—a bright pink cover, curly white text announcing the title and the author's name, the faded image of a horse and carriage in front of a stately manor that, if she had to confess, didn't look that different than Rosier Place. But Aldon wasn't a duke, nor was he quite as much of a coward as Simon Basset.

"Aldon used to drink a lot," Alex said, still calm and meditative. "According to Edmund Rookwood, who was Aldon's closest friend in childhood—"

"I know who Ed is."

Alex continued as if Francesca hadn't spoken at all. "Aldon was not raised to show emotion. He used alcohol to cope."

Past tense, Francesca noted, which wasn't surprising. She was sure that if Aldon was currently a raging alcoholic, John would have said something, and even Neal would have interceded. Neal was nowhere near as interfering as John, but that didn't mean he wouldn't say something if he thought he had to. The difference between John and Neal was that Neal would just say something—John would also do something, if words didn't work.

"And?" she asked, looking up at him, her voice trembling. "It's in—we all have pasts."

"He's just replaced alcohol with you." Alex smiled slightly. "Congratulations."

Francesca pressed her lips together tightly. "How is that my responsibility? I just—I like him. He's a lot like me. Maybe I shouldn't, but I do."

"It's not," Alex replied, waving a hand. "But I don't care about that."

"Then, um." Francesca took a deep breath. "Then why are you here?"

Alex didn't respond for a minute, studying her. When he spoke, it seemed like a complete non-sequitur. "The dhampir are known for having many short relationships. We don't practice monogamy, though serial monogamy would be more accurate. We are not selective about our partners, and most of us have children by multiple people. We have a reputation for being sexually promiscuous, and for leaving."

"I know." John had also regaled her at length about this aspect of the dhampir. It was one of the few things known about them.

He gave her a fanged half-smile. "That is because the dhampir know the power of love. It makes us irrational, more likely to disobey command in the interests of our lovers and our children, less able to act as a collective. But we also have legends of the things that we have done for love—incredible things. Killed vampire lords, wiped out vampire armies."

"And—and why are you telling me this?" Francesca demanded, her hand fluttering in a weak gesture. "I don't—"

"If you're here, Aldon makes different choices." The smile disappeared, replaced with a serious look. "If you're here, Aldon stays up an extra fifteen minutes to check the wards to make sure that you're safe. If you're here, Aldon goes to training every morning and doesn't complain nearly half as much about it. If you're here, Aldon doesn't reach for a drink when he's stressed or upset."

"That—that isn't—" Francesca shut her mouth, taking a deep breath. "Why are you telling me this? Is this—are you trying to guilt me? What Aldon does—his actions are not my responsibility. He should do all of those things without me involved."

"He should," Alex agreed placidly, nodding. "But he doesn't. Francesca, I have few people I can call friends, and Aldon is one of them. I want him to survive this war, and he has a better chance of doing it if he believes he has a future with you."

"So—so what do you want me to do, then?" Francesca looked down at her book, her thumb stroking the pink cover. "I don't—what are you getting at? Do you want me to lie to him? That—that's impossible. He's a Truth-Speaker."

"Not impossible, just difficult," Alex replied with a shrug. "He can be misled, usually by playing on his assumptions. You would have an easier time of it than most—he will see what he wants to see. But you said yourself that you like him. Is giving him hope for the future so difficult? Unless this is only a temporary fling for you."

Francesca's fingers froze on her cover, and she looked up at the dhampir with a glare. "I just—" She took another deep breath, struggling to find her words. "The war doesn't rest on me. The war shouldn't rest on me."

"Do you want him to survive?" Alex raised one eyebrow. "He'll kill himself in this war, if you let him. He will quite happily burn himself to ashes in his own revolution, unless he has something he can hope for afterwards."

She scowled.

This responsibility shouldn't rest on her. But as little as Aldon told her about it, Francesca knew well enough that Aldon was the spymaster for the revolution, as well as the Lord Rosier and the master of Rosier Place. Without him, the war would be very different, and she didn't think it would be a very good difference. Whatever else, Francesca did believe that he was good at what he did.

And Aldon wasn't a fling for her. Francesca was not the sort of person to have flings—she tried her best in any relationship she was in. She liked Aldon, and while she wasn't on the same high-speed rail that he was on that inevitably ended in marriage, two point five children and a fully staffed mansion, she could maybe see that as one possible end result. Maybe.

They were too young. They were both too young, and a breakup was, realistically, a more likely result. But she wasn't planning on breaking up with him, not now, and she probably wouldn't during the war. She couldn't see herself doing that during the war, not when Aldon had so much else on his plate.

Was it so much for her to give him hope for a future afterwards? She didn't have to make him any promises. Alex wasn't asking her for anything specific. She could draw the boundary lines on her own, and she didn't have to lie to Aldon if she didn't want to lie to him. She could just say nothing of her own doubts and let things happen as they did. Aldon wasn't cruel. Aldon was kind to her, and he sent her flowers and notes with sweet nothings on them and they had dinner and took walks on his grounds and talked about magical theory. She liked him, a lot. She didn't want to break up with him, or at least not right now.

And whatever else had happened or might happen, she did want Aldon to survive the war.

"Fine," she said, picking up her book and turning to the page she had left off on. A scene of Simon Basset's cowardice, and a duel with the Viscount Bridgerton over Daphne's honour. "I don't suppose—suppose you'd be willing to sneak me out to London, would you? I'll—I'll have to buy him a Christmas present. I just—I know he'll have something for me."

"Done." She heard a rustle, and saw Alex rising from his seat across from her, a tiny smile back on his face. "Enjoy your book."

XXX

ANs: Hey, look, it's the reason why the Aldon/Chess romance even exists! At the end of LL, I realized I had been so successful in radicalizing Aldon that he was quite literally the kind of person who would go suicide bomb the Wizengamot to make a political statement (likely shortly after his disownment, when he had very little else), so then I had to invent other characters to keep him in check. Extremism, your name is Aldon.

Which I suppose is a good time to make a few other general notes, which I would normally leave to the end of a fic. A couple people noted that Aldon/Archie/Saoirse/etc have taken more prominence over James/Dumbledore/etc in the war. That's true! It's because Aldon and Archie both had radicalization narratives in LL and FAWL. People don't just pick up a weapon and decide to go fight a war. At the beginning of Cataclysm, Aldon was already mentally prepared to burn down the world around him, Archie had already been arrested and stood trial and was ready to organize protest marches down Diagon Alley, while the Light faction was still mentally catching up to a reality that included a full-blown war. For some people, the question was "But is Voldemort really that bad?" How bad does the world have to get for people to take up arms against the state?

That said, Draco is coming along nicely. A few people have commented that Draco is slower than everyone else to get with the program, but Draco is the one character who only saw the good in the old world. He had status, and power, and his father was not just politically powerful but doted on him and his family. He never had a reason to look behind the pureblood and noble ediface, and one example like Harry is really only enough for him to say, "but she's special." Because Harry is special. She's super powerful, extremely smart and driven and hard-working. She's not like Aldon, or Hermione, or Chess, or anyone else. It takes meeting more halfbloods and Muggleborns for him to start prodding at the base of his beliefs (which he started getting only after the war started), and in this chapter he finally gets to the crux of why he can't let go (even if he doesn't realize it). Let's push him a little harder in a few more chapters.

Thanks always to meek_bookworm, best beta-reader ever, plus all of you who are still reading. Leave me and comment or review, and I'll try to have the next chapter out on time!