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.

11. Chapter 11

The message, decoded on plain parchment, was stark.

Death Flight not pleased given information from agents within party, believes caught. Last five agents failed. Sending Rook because history, believes cannot refuse. Rook lady held ensure good behaviour hall strangers. Turn him. Spring Lord Lady executed. Daughters surviving. Death Flight remains not pleased. Further examples expectations.

There was a certain art to decoding Swallow's messages. Like all his spies in sensitive locations, she cut pronouns and words as much as possible, limiting the most common words that were likeliest to lead to a break in the code, and also just to keep things simple for herself.

Swallow's codebook was an etiquette guide, so half of her words were used out of context or in different forms. Executed, in her book, referred to documents; expectations, in her notes, was nearly always meant to be read in verb form, and not as a noun. Most names were constructions of other words, homonyms or constructed ideas based off whatever she could think of at the time.

Death Flight was Swallow's determined code name for Voldemort himself, an almost-direct translation of the man's name into English. Aldon couldn't help but find it somewhat amusing—there was something about the literal translation that sounded completely ridiculous. Neal said it was ridiculous in French, too, but as a non-francophone, Aldon only saw the ridiculousness in English.

There was no way that Voldemort was his real name. Absolutely none. It struck Aldon as an overly dramatic name that one chose for himself as a teenager, when one decided their own name was not good enough. The fact that Voldemort had kept it past the age of majority suggested that whatever his childhood name had been, it must have been somehow embarrassing. Or, possibly, boring. One or the other.

Hall Strangers, that had to be the Lestrange Manor—another almost-literal translation. Spring Lord and Lady, Aldon only put together with Vulture's report a day earlier. Vulture's codebook was an herb encyclopaedia and accordingly, he was actually able say Greengrass, so Aldon knew already that the Lord and Lady Greengrass were dead. Unlike Vulture, Swallow had noted that both daughters, Daphne and Astoria, were still living, which had to be of some relief to someone. Malfoy would know better than him, so he would assign Malfoy to carrying the word to whoever needed to hear it.

He was only avoiding the central point of the note, and he knew it.

Where had Swallow even found the word Rook? He picked up the etiquette guide, flipping back to the page in question: it was a wizarding chess primer, because wizarding chess was something that every noble ought to know how to play. He sighed, slamming the book shut and pushing it aside, then reached for his notebook.

His notebooks were full of critical information—everything that someone taking over for him would need to know to step into his shoes. There was a blood spell on it that would break only on his death, and he carefully made a note of the date of the message, the messenger, and the rough contents before tossing the original and his translation into the fire that burnt in his study.

Ed would be coming. And Voldemort was right, on at least one point.

Aldon would not refuse him. Even knowing that he had been sent as a spy, Aldon would never refuse Ed. It didn't matter how much he had changed, or how many new connections Aldon made, or even that Aldon now had a girlfriend—Ed was Ed. Almost fourteen years of friendship did not end in one instant, or even in a year of mostly silence, or even multiple years of secretive stress.

Ed would always be Ed: Aldon's closest childhood friend. Sometimes, when his relationship with Alice was unusually fraught, over many years before Hogwarts and even at Hogwarts, his only friend. Ed was the only one who Aldon permitted to see nearly all of himself, his only unspoken secret being his own amatory feelings for his friend, and Ed knew Aldon better than anyone else in the world.

Ed was the one who dragged him through the classes he hated, from Defence Against the Dark Arts to Herbology. Ed was the one who kept an eye on his drinking, who kept him from embarrassing himself beyond the typical expectations of his family. Ed was the one who was always there, through the silence and coldness of Rosier Place, through Aldon's discovery of his own blood-status, even through the end when Aldon hadn't wanted to speak to anyone and Ed had interceded to send Alex after him. This was Ed, and no one could replace Ed.

Thinking back to his school days, it felt like he had replaced himself with someone else. He was not the Aldon that Ed would have recognized, and he couldn't even be sure that Ed's place beside him still existed. Or, maybe, it was the other way around—he didn't fit in the spot he had always occupied beside Ed.

He stood up and walked to the window, where he could watch the dhampir training in his makeshift training yard. He had been out there that morning. If he had to train, and in the middle of a war, he deemed it sensible to do so, it was easier for him to force himself out there shortly after six in the morning before the rest of his brain caught up to what he was doing. He wouldn't feel the misery of training until the first time either Alex or one of his men or women put him in the dirt. That still happened with alarming frequency, though he was getting better. It helped that most of the women preferred using guns, and while the men tended to tease him about it, the women did give him more advice than he knew what to do with. If Rosier Place was attacked, Aldon felt like he might actually be able to contribute in some way. A distant way, as much as possible, but neither was he likely to just keel over and die.

He had changed, and the changes weren't just skin-deep. On the outside, he had not shucked the Muggle-style formalwear that he had preferred when living in the Muggle world—by the time he had taken his title, they were at war. Whatever else one said about Muggle wear, it was easier to move in than robes, so he had simply kept the waistcoat and trousers. And, if he had to confess it to himself, the clothing was a symbol.

Even aside from his newfound minor ability to defend himself with wand and gun, he was very different from the Aldon that Ed once knew. He had lived in the Muggle world for a year; he had eaten a range of foods that Ed had never shared with him. He had ridden the Tube at rush hour, and outside of rush hour. He had shopped for himself in the Muggle world, seen the occasional film (though he'd never understand the passion that Archie had for the medium), read and considered and experienced a thousand things that his oldest friend never had.

That didn't even touch on Francesca. Ed had met Francesca at the Ministry Unity Ball, where she had even been introduced as his girlfriend. And Francesca was…

Frustrating.

But she was the sweetest kind of frustrating. He wasn't entirely sure what it meant that she was his girlfriend, and he didn't like how little value she seemed to place on their intimate relations—kisses, primarily, but he wondered if she would treat everything intimate they did in the same way, as something she did with him now because she was with him now, but nothing more. Her frequent references to Muggle culture, too, were close to incomprehensible. When Ed knew him, he could never have conceived of dating someone like Francesca, but now he couldn't imagine a life without her.

He had changed—in a hundred thousand ways, Aldon had changed. But his new world, as big and as bold and as bright as it was, was not a replacement for his old one. Not that he wanted his one world back, because Merlin knew he didn't, but there were things that only someone who had grown up with him could understand.

Aldon wanted Ed back. He wanted his friend, a connection to his past, beside him again. Archie, obnoxious and cheerful, did not have Ed's steadiness. Neal, dry and sarcastic, did not have Ed's calm. Even Alex, duty-bound and loyal as he was, did not have Ed's patience. Ed was the first to have figured out his secret, and he was the first to accept Aldon despite his blood-status.

Swallow wanted him to turn Ed. Aldon didn't know if that was possible, not with Alice being held for good behaviour at Lestrange Manor. In the continual war for Ed's attentions, Aldon could not help but feel that he had lost—he was only Ed's once-best friend, while Alice had become his wife. He had even sat across from Ed and Alice, a little more than a year ago, at the Leaky Cauldron while Alice had attacked his decisions, and Ed had said nothing. Ed was ever the peacemaker, but even he could not broker peace when Aldon was prepared to burn the world down for what he wanted, and Ed and Alice had only wanted to live their lives in the comfort and privilege into which they had been born.

Alice being a prisoner would be a very strong incentive for Ed to do whatever Voldemort wanted him to do. Turning Ed, as Swallow suggested, would probably be impossible unless Alice was no longer an issue. Then again, if Aldon managed to free Alice, he suspected that Ed and Alice would simply flee abroad. Not that Ed wasn't a fighter, but Aldon wasn't sure that Ed would have enough personal loyalty to him to remain. Not if Alice went abroad, and Ed would inevitably send her abroad given the opportunity.

For a moment, Aldon toyed with the idea of issuing a kill order for Alice. First, a kill order on Alice would be considerably easier to execute than a rescue mission—Vulture had easy access to her, and while Aldon wasn't sure the extent to which he could order Vulture to kill, Vulture also had no personal connection to Alice. Vulture might kill her on Aldon's orders, and if he didn't, Aldon could think of one or two of his other spies who would. Without Alice in the picture, Ed would have nothing to force his loyalty to Voldemort, and if Aldon could pin the death on Voldemort or his followers, Ed would also have a powerful motive for revenge that Aldon could use for his benefit. Another motive, if Aldon wanted to be exact; Voldemort had killed his father and his mother-in-law as well.

But then again, if he did issue the kill order and Ed later found out, there would be no coming back from that. He sighed, turning back to face his office once more.

He'd have to wait and see. Rosier Place would need to be put on alert, and Ed allowed onto the grounds. Aldon would meet with Ed himself, and Merlin only knew what would come of it.

Edmund Rookwood arrived at Rosier Place six days later.

Malfoy was giving him a report of the messages that he had decoded, mostly Aldon's spies in the Ministry and other offices. Aldon needed to be careful with Malfoy—the wizard hid it well, but there was a flux to him that Aldon did not like. Some days, often shortly after Harry had visited, his words rang true, and he went through his work without Aldon needing to press him on any point. Other days, his words would be flat, and there would be a slight whiff of a lie of omission about him. On these days, Aldon pushed. He had no choice but to push, because Malfoy now had more information than the guesses he had had previously, and any betrayal would be paid in blood.

Aldon paused, feeling a warning from his wards. He gestured for Malfoy to stop.

"What is it?" Malfoy asked, his words sharp.

Aldon ignored him for the moment, demanding Rosier Place show him an image of the edge of his wards, where the disturbance had been. It flashed him an image: Ed, looking far older than he should, waited at the edge of the Rosier Place wards, frowning and touching the invisible barrier. Aldon blew out a slow breath, steadying his nerves, and mentally altered the wards for a moment to allow Ed to enter.

"A gift from Voldemort," he replied slowly, looking at Malfoy. "Edmund Rookwood. Would you mind telling one of our resident Stormwings or trainees to go to the library and keep the researchers there until the coast is clear? I do not want Edmund seeing any of them."

Malfoy nodded. "I will. Shall I stay there, as well? What is my cover?"

Aldon tilted his head slightly, thinking through the slow worry and tension that was creeping through his veins. It was possible that Voldemort had heard that Malfoy scion was with them previously, and even that Malfoy had attempted to join the military branch. But that had been weeks ago, and there was no reason why things couldn't have changed.

Given a choice, Aldon would prefer if he had more surprises up his sleeve than fewer. "You're not here," he said, looking Malfoy in the eye. "You were sent to Geneva to be with your mother early in December, and you remain there under the sanctuary of Wizarding Canada."

"And then, if I'm sent on a mission later, I won't be expected," Malfoy said, with another nod. "I will stay with the research division once in the library."

"Good." Aldon was already stacking his notebooks away on the shelves, the dark-bound volumes barely distinguishable from the other books surrounding them. He hesitated a moment, before deciding to leave the rest of his study as it was—Ed would hardly care about the Muggle fountain pens sitting with his quills, or the pads of paper piled on one side of his blotter. It was only the notebooks that held his secrets.

He took a moment grab his shoulder holster, holding his sidearm, and checked to ensure that his ACD had full batteries. With a second of hesitation, he turned it on—Swallow had implied that Ed could be turned, and therefore that this wouldn't be a simple assassination mission, but if any person on Voldemort's side had the ability to gain access to Aldon for the purposes of assassination, it would be Edmund Rookwood. Swallow didn't know everything, though Aldon could hope that Ed would have to, if he did want to kill him, do it the old-fashioned way. Ed might have chosen Alice, but Aldon could not believe that Ed would ever want to kill him enough to form the intent for Avada Kedavra.

With that, he left his study and strode halfway across his grounds.

Aldon stopped well before meeting Ed, mentally examining the defenses on his grounds. Unlike Queenscove or Potter Place, Rosier Place had no physical defenses. They relied solely on a series of magical defenses, several of which were set to give him physical defenses should they be attacked.

At that moment, the ground that he was standing on was spelled to collapse into a spiked trench twenty feet deep on his signal—his, or Francesca's, or Lina's, since it was Lina's blood-spell. Over the past six months, she had soaked a complete circle around his manor for this trench, which had become one of their primary physical defences. There were also two lines of explosive runes, tied to otherwise non-descript stones by a technique that Aldon didn't recognize, four spells that would release poison spells for an aerial attack, and six fire-spells. There was also a single flood-spell, meant to be used immediately after the trench was blown—the water would keep any open wounds bleeding, increasing the risk that the enemy would bleed out, it would distract them from doing any first aid, and it would likely drown anyone who was injured enough not to be able to flounder out of the trench.

Lina was not joking when she said that she intended on bleeding the anyone who dared to attack Rosier Place.

His grounds, though, showed no signs of the intense magical defenses that had been put in place. Even the explosive stones were hidden under a layer of turf. Aldon couldn't help but wonder how much Ed could sense of his defences—Ed had never been very interested in magical theory, but Aldon himself was evidence that people could change.

Harry had mentioned, the last time she had visited, that she could sense the magical residue, though she hadn't been able to distinguish the spells. Aldon himself, were he not the Lord of the manor, would have needed to cast several scry-charms to even begin picking apart the magic. Without magical theory, and therefore without Curse-Breaking and Ward Construction, Aldon suspected that Ed might have, at most, a sense that there were magical protections but that he would not know their extent or nature.

He turned to watch his oldest friend, who moved much slower than Aldon remembered, with a pronounced limp. Not that Ed had ever moved quickly—no, quick and fluttering movement had always been Aldon's purview, while Ed had always moved with calm deliberation. There was Ed, and there was Aldon flitting around him saying everything and nothing all at once. The limp, however, was completely new, and Aldon could see no hint of a lie around it. With quick hand movements, which he hoped would be concealed somewhat by their distance, he threw together a magical sight screen and examined his friend.

The limp was not a spell, and it was entirely real. Lina had seen Ed at the Malfoy Manor strike, though Aldon had heard nothing since. He wondered vaguely whether the injury was from the first strike, or from Wales, or something else.

Aldon picked out a number of sight and listening spells imbued on Ed's robes. He would need to wipe those spells before they spoke, but he saw no other magical items on him. No runecatches, nothing he could use to create a gap in Aldon's wards, not even a wand. It must have been taken from him, considered too much of a risk.

Ed was looking around as he walked. Aldon knew perfectly well that his friend had seen him, but Ed didn't hurry. Perhaps he couldn't.

"Aldon," Ed said, as he drew closer. Aldon looked him over for one long minute. Ed's dark hair was longer than Aldon had ever seen it before and tied back in a short, low tail, and he had two or three lines of silver stretching from his temples. He had lost weight, his broad shoulders seeming much less broad without the muscle that Aldon was accustomed to seeing, and his height gave him an unnatural, almost gaunt effect. His eyes lacked their usual warmth, but were filled instead with wary caution and more than a hint of desperation.

"Edmund," Aldon replied, his voice even, as he drew his wand with slow movements. Ed froze, but all Aldon did was cast Terminus, a stronger spell than Finite Incantatem, on the listening and sight spells that he could identify. Six of them—more than necessary, Aldon thought.

There was a long moment of silence when it seemed like Ed was taking him in. Aldon was still dressed in Muggle clothes, which he knew would be easier to move in than Ed's robes, and his sidearm hung at his side. His personal ward was up, and he was ready to move the second it seemed like Ed might go for him, or for another weapon, though Aldon didn't see one. The tension hung in the air, palpable, then Ed cleared his throat.

"I need help," he said, and his voice was filled with a mix of pain and desperation.

Aldon swallowed. "State that you mean no harm to me, to Rosier Place, or to anyone staying within Rosier Place." His words were quiet, and he was glad to hear that he only sounded a little strained and stern, rather than winded or choked.

There was a flicker of surprise, or perhaps it was more pain, across Ed's face. "I mean no harm to you, to Rosier Place, or to anyone within Rosier Place," he said, his voice slow and measured.

It was a lie. Of course, it was a lie, and even with Swallow's warning, Aldon felt a lurch in his stomach. Edmund did mean them harm—or rather, he knew well enough that the actions he would take would lead them to harm.

"You're lying," Aldon replied, and this time Aldon could hear the disappointment in his own voice. "I should escort you off my grounds."

"I need help," Ed repeated, and those words were both simple and true.

Ed had never asked him for help. In more than a decade of friendship, Ed had never gone to Aldon for help. Aldon, indeed, had typically been the one to need help, and Ed the one pulled along and present to provide help. Aldon had been flippant, flamboyant fluff, and Ed steady, serious substance.

"Come on, then," Aldon said, gesturing for Ed to go ahead of him. Once, Aldon would have simply led Ed back to Rosier Place with him. Indeed, he had a hundred memories where he had done exactly that. But they were at war, and by now, a combination of Alex, Neal, and Neal's family and friends had taught him never to turn his back on an opponent, not even an opponent that used to be a friend. No matter how sorry that friend seemed to be.

Ed hesitated a second, but he limped on ahead.

Looking towards his manor, Aldon could see one of the dhampir patrols covering the grounds, backed up by Acimović, one of their trainee Stormwings. Although Rosier Place itself would warn him or Francesca if there was anything amiss on the grounds, Aldon had no power past the edges of his territory. It was his physical patrols, eight times daily, that monitored the edges of his grounds, tracking the movements of the Ministry officials on sentry at his official Apparition point and keeping surveillance for any other unusual activity. Magic was, as Lina, Moody and Alex had impressed, no replacement for a physical eye.

Indeed, had Swallow not warned him, the fact that Ed had been able to Apparate to the edges of his grounds at his official Apparition point should have been clue enough that he had been sent.

Ed was looking over his grounds—he had been from the moment he had crossed over, Aldon imagined, reviewing Rosier Place's defences. Acimović and the two dhampir spotted Aldon and nodded at him briskly, a gesture that Aldon returned, but he left them to their duties. They would report to Alex later, and Alex would talk to him if there was something he needed to know.

Rosier Place did not look any more defended than his grounds did, though it was imbued with as many defensive spells as his grounds. If anything, the spells in his manor itself were even more destructive, because if anyone ever gained the house, the plan was for Aldon to destroy the manor as they retreated and escaped—in their case, to Queenscove. Queenscove was distant, but with Francesca being at Rosier Place and with the knowledge that he would carry out in his head, or more likely that she would carry out the form of his notebooks, it was critical that they evacuate to one of their strongest fortresses.

But Ed wouldn't see that. Ed, Aldon suspected, would only get the impression that Aldon's defences were primarily magical in nature, and he would know from the patrol that Aldon had soldiers stationed at Rosier Place. From the fact that he didn't know anyone in the patrol, Ed would probably guess that Aldon's units weren't local and that the alliance therefore had additional support, but Aldon didn't know whether Ed could spot a dhampir on appearance alone. Aldon could now, but that was a matter of exposure.

He directed Ed into his private study, gesturing for his friend to sit in the seat across from the huge, stone block that was both his primal keystone and his desk. Ed would not know that, not unless Aldon said anything about it—the stone wouldn't call to him as it did to Aldon, or even in the subdued way that he knew it called to Francesca. For Ed, the stone desk was only a massive granite block, black veined with gold and silver traces.

He clapped twice and asked Yeti, the house-elf that appeared, for a tray of tea before settling down into the seat behind the desk. Ed was silent, looking around Aldon's study, which he had changed very little from when it was his father's study. He had removed all the pictures, but most of the rest had remained, largely because Aldon didn't know what to do with it all.

"My condolences for your loss," Ed said suddenly, looking at Aldon. "For—for your father."

Aldon supposed, that in a time of war, it was best to clarify.

"It has been six months." Aldon nodded to the bust of his father that was still in the room. "And we were not close, as you know. I notice you limp, now."

"Malfoy Manor," Ed replied with a slight grimace. "I—a sword wound, courtesy of Queenscove. One of the Queenscoves. They look alike."

"And no Healers?"

"There were fewer of them among Voldemort's ranks than now." Ed looked away, back at the myriad trinkets lining the shelves of Aldon's study. "And they were focused on others with more serious injuries. They say there's little to be done about it, so long after my leg healed the way it did."

"I see." Aldon wasn't sure what else to say. Another time, he wouldn't have hesitated to ask Archie, or Neal, or any of their own Healers to take a look at Ed, but not now, and certainly not when Ed had said that Neal or his brother had inflicted the wound. "I am sorry to hear that."

"It is nothing." There was an awkward pause.

By the strictest terms of etiquette, they needed to make some sort of light conversation before they could get to business. It was impolite to proceed straight to the purpose of the meeting, abrupt and uncomfortable and rude. In theory, Ed should have been a close enough connection to him that the etiquette rules did not apply, but Aldon didn't feel comfortable going straight to the main point.

And yet, what was he supposed to ask? How Ed had been? How Alice was doing? Aldon could see from Ed's appearance alone that the past six months had been difficult, and he knew perfectly well that Alice was being held hostage at the Lestrange Manor. He suspected that Ed would be asking him for help on the latter point later anyway, and he was in no hurry to reach that stage in the conversation.

They were on the opposing sides of a war. What polite talk was there to exchange?

Aldon wanted a drink.

"How have you been, Aldon?" Ed asked, his low voice awkward.

"Fine," Aldon replied. "And you?"

"As well as can be expected." A short pause. "The injury—at least it has excluded me from active combat since."

He hadn't been involved in Wales, Aldon understood. Strangely, that was comforting to him, though Aldon wondered what Ed had been doing otherwise. Likely, trying to stay out of sight of Voldemort and outside of his attentions.

"I see," Aldon repeated.

"How is—" Ed hesitated. "Your girlfriend?"

Aldon threw him a sharp look, quickly running through his memories. Francesca had been at Rosier Place for the past six months, but her presence, and that of Blake & Associates, had been something he had tried to keep as quiet as possible. Voldemort's informants had been limited, and to his knowledge none of them had had any contact with her. Ed had said girlfriend, but then again, that was how they had been introduced more than a year ago. He had no real reason to believe that Ed would have known anything more than what Aldon had said at the Ministry Unity Ball, but at the same time, her presence was not, strictly speaking, a secret.

He chose to err on the side of caution. "She's fine. She's in America—at the American Institute of Magic. Sixth-year, now."

"She forgave you after the Ministry Unity Ball, last year?"

Aldon laughed, the sound coming out harsher, more discordant than he had intended. "She did. It took awhile, and more grovelling than I had thought myself capable, but she did."

A small smile crept across Ed's face. "And when can I expect the happy news, then?"

"Not until she's finished with school." Aldon looked away, the smile disappearing from his face as he scrambled for an answer. "I hope that she'll accept my proposal then, but her family is insistent that she pursue higher Muggle education as well. That lasts an additional four years, as I understand it."

"Surely that is not necessary." Ed looked around the study once more, not in observation but as an indication of all that Aldon had at his disposal. "You have enough, and there would be no need for her to have means of her own."

"That is true." Aldon smiled slightly. "But, in the current circumstances, I will not argue. There is no telling how long this war might last, and I'd rather her remain safe in America than be here with me. And, in the event that I do not survive this war, it would be best for her to have the education she needs to pursue a career of her own."

"I understand." Ed sighed deeply as Aldon's house-elf returned with a tray of basic Earl Grey, two small cups decorated in gold, a plate of sugar cubes and a small pitcher of milk. That meant that their interlude of lightness was over, and they could move on to the main event. Aldon busied himself for a moment pouring tea, adding a splash of milk only for Ed, and leaving his own cup black.

"You said that you needed help," Aldon prodded, sliding a teacup over to his friend. "But you lie about intending harm to me, to my manor, and to anyone at my manor."

His question, why should he help at all, went unspoken. This was a dance; Aldon knew well that Ed had been sent, and from Aldon's own lack of questions and reluctance to answer, Ed knew that he was suspected. But he was curious to see how his friend would play it—would he openly discuss the fact that he had been sent as a spy, or would that simply remain in the background?

"Voldemort has Alice," Ed said, with no further elaboration. "He holds her to ensure my good behaviour."

"Why not escape?" Aldon raised his own cup to his lips. "You said yourself—after Malfoy Manor, you were excluded from active combat."

"Voldemort keeps close eyes on Riddle's former inner circle—we are not permitted to leave. Lady Zabini tried, in September, and was caught."

Aldon had not heard that from any of his sources. The difficulty with his sources was that they reported to him what they considered to be important, a necessity when each and every message they got out could mean their lives. Lady Zabini's failed escape must not have seemed an event of any real importance, meaning that it was nothing more than the day to day for his spies. She had to have survived, else Swallow, at least, would have said something for Aldon to pass onto Blaise.

"Bellatrix was given her." Ed's voice was quiet. "A new toy. Voldemort's instructions were not to kill her, in case she could be used against the younger Zabini later, but we were forced to watch. All of us. Bellatrix did not kill her, but… there is nothing left of her. The only sympathetic thing one could do for her is kill her, and none dare."

"I would have thought that such a result would only encourage an escape," Aldon murmured. He would never have thought that Ed and Alice would be ones to be cowed by fear, and indeed he thought—or he hoped—that such a show would have only emboldened him on another plan of escape.

"With my leg—" Ed cut himself off, and his voice was bitter. "I don't move as fast as I used to. I can run hardly at all, and it—it pains me, Aldon, every day. I tried to convince Alice leave without me, but she refused. And we don't have wands. They were confiscated."

Aldon nodded, with mixed sympathy and understanding, though he was unsure what he was supposed to do about it. "And now you're here, with intentions of harming me, my manor, and the people under my protection."

His voice came out flatter than he had intended, and Ed glared at him. "Not willingly, Aldon. I hope you know that."

There was a curt silence, then Aldon sighed. "Yes," he replied. "I am aware. But what I cannot see is how you think I may help you. Do you honestly expect me to hand you my head on a platter, or those of anyone here at Rosier Place?"

"No." Ed looked down at his cup of tea. "Nor do I want you to."

That was true.

"Then what are you here for, Edmund?" Aldon pushed. "To examine or undermine my security? To find my weaknesses to hand to Voldemort?"

"That is what he hopes I will discover," Ed admitted, lifting his own cup of tea to his lips. "But I—if you can free Alice…"

"If I could free Alice, then what?" Aldon studied Ed, setting his teacup back down on the saucer with a small clink. "Would you stay and fight with me, Edmund? Would you flee?"

Ed hesitated for a minute, looking away, out the window. From this angle, Aldon knew that Ed wouldn't be able to see the training yards, but he couldn't help but be aware of anything that Ed might see, anything that Ed might hear, because he had to assume that it would all go back to Voldemort.

"If you freed Alice, I would try to persuade her to go abroad," Ed said finally, and that much was true. "And I would stay and fight with you."

The latter was a lie—but a weak one. It might be something that Ed didn't think would ever come to pass, or it might be something that he hadn't thought about or considered. Despite knowing that the lie was almost certainly unintentional, and that Ed might very well believe his words, he could not help but be disappointed. He could have hoped for more than his oldest friend.

"Even you don't believe that," Aldon snorted. "I do not know what you think I am, Edmund. I cannot create miracles, and even if I could, I cannot trust you not to report this conversation to Voldemort—whether willingly, or not. Why don't we speak plainly? I know you're here on orders, and more than that, I know that Voldemort knows that I will know that you're here on orders. You're here to bring information back to Voldemort, and I know you are. Voldemort sent you here because he knew that I would struggle to refuse you, and he was right. But what, in truth, do you truly expect me to be able to do for you?"

A pause. "I don't know," Ed admitted, and it was true. "But Voldemort expects me to be able to come and go. Please, Aldon. If you ever cared for me, or for Alice—"

"You want to turn on him?"

"Yes," Ed said, and that was true.

"Then, tell me what you have." Aldon leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk, and picked up his cup of tea.

Ed told him very little that he did not already know—he spent a long time on the atmosphere within Voldemort's ranks, but that came as no surprise. Aldon did receive confirmation that the magical barrier sealing off Wales during the massacre had been fueled by power stones, including the Selwyn family jewels, though Ed went on to inform him that more than a third of the stones had cracked under the strain. Voldemort could not try something like that again, or at least not on the same scale.

Any family whose members were within the Voldemort's circle was expected to give up their wealth and property to him. Most of them were, however, still permitted to live in their manors, but Ed and Alice, being both noble and not trusted, had been confined to Malfoy Manor.

Voldemort still kept the hub of his activity at Malfoy Manor. Whether it was because he didn't trust his followers, or because he preferred to keep his most loyal and violent people close to him, or anything else, Ed didn't know, but anyone with any power or influence stayed at Malfoy Manor.

Aldon asked for numbers. He asked for names. He asked for command structure, but Ed did not know. Ed would be expected to answer to Voldemort directly, bolstering Aldon's suspicion that, advisors or no, Voldemort remained a micromanager. If one managed to assassinate Voldemort, Aldon suspected that the rest of his organization would fall in short order. The only unfortunate part, from Aldon's perspective, was that Voldemort was alarmingly well-guarded by his fanatics and he was absurdly powerful even on his own. Aldon did not have so many spies that he could risk any of them on a suicidal assassination mission.

Over the course of two hours, Aldon paid attention to the image that Ed drew of Voldemort and his structure for him. It wasn't everything—no spy told him everything—but Ed's words would still tell him something. In person, Aldon could tell that Ed wasn't entirely sure how often Voldemort was present in Malfoy Manor. He could ask questions about details that didn't quite add up for him; he could ask for seemingly useless information that could be combined with the rest of his spies' reports to learn information that Voldemort might have been attempting to hide. And, of course, it didn't hurt that in person Aldon could be certain that Ed was telling the truth, to the best of his knowledge. Betrayal was always a possibility, and Aldon's gift did not work on the coded missives that his other spies provided. Based on his other information, Aldon guessed that while Voldemort did centralize his forces in Malfoy Manor, there were one or two other holdings that were important, likely the Ministry of Magic and Lestrange Manor.

"Is that everything?" he asked, when Ed seemed to be drawing to a close. As a possible, even likely, double agent, Aldon didn't think that Voldemort would tell Ed anything of use, so it was his observations that would be far more important.

Ed looked down at his now-empty cup of tea. Aldon had refilled him twice already, the pot long since empty, but his voice was dry and tired when he replied. "No," he lied, but Aldon let it go. Aldon doubted there was any way that this could be anything except a lie. Ed likely had a thousand things he wanted or even needed to say, but if he was going back to Voldemort, he couldn't possibly say them.

"Very well. I will walk you to the edge of the grounds," Aldon replied, standing up briskly, clapping twice for one of his house-elves to come and clear away the tea tray.

"Wait—" Ed looked up, his eyes dark and troubled. "Voldemort. I—I need to tell him something, Aldon."

"You gained access to my manor. Don't think I did not see you examining my defences." Aldon sighed, gesturing for Ed to rise and go ahead of him. "And yet, you are welcome to return. Do not ask me for more than that, Edmund."

There was another awkward pause, and Ed stood. "I understand," he replied, his voice heavy and slow.

"Oh!" A voice came from the doorway, the worst possible voice that Aldon could have heard at that instant. He cursed silently—she was to have stayed in the library, and of all worst times for her to appear, this had to be the absolute pinnacle. He scrambled mentally for a solution.

Francesca's eyes flickered between Aldon and Ed, suddenly cautious as she hovered in the door frame. "I was—I was coming to see you. I was worried. You—you've been caught up in here for hours, you missed our meeting."

"Edmund," Aldon said tightly, shooting Francesca a warning look to tell her not to contradict him. "If I may introduce my wife, Francesca Lam Rosier, the Lady Rosier. Francesca, Edmund Rookwood, a close childhood friend. You met him at the Ministry Unity Ball, last year."

"I—I remember." Francesca hesitated, then glided in the room and offered her hand to shake. Ed only bowed over it, and she gave Aldon a confused, wide-eyed look. "I—it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Again. Aldon speaks very highly of you."

Ed shot him a sharp look. "I see that congratulations are in order," he said quietly. "Surely you need not have hidden that from me."

"I think you can understand why I did." Aldon glared at Francesca. "I am just walking Edmund to the edges of the grounds. Remain here, Francesca."

To her credit, whether she was persuaded by his tone of voice or not, she only nodded and walked in to sit in his chair. Aldon gestured, again, for Ed to take the lead out of the manor.

They were halfway across the grounds before Ed mentioned it again. "Your wife is young. Sixth-year, you said?"

"She was here for a visit when Lord Riddle fell," Aldon replied, inventing quickly. Something short and realistic, nothing additional. "Out of concern for me, much like Alice's concern for you, she refused to return to America. We deemed it best that she have the full protection of Rosier Place."

Ed nodded, the movement slow as he limped across the grounds. "She wore no ring. And neither do you."

"I didn't say she was wholly pleased with the situation." Aldon sighed, annoyed. The story didn't make sense, but if Ed knew that she was here, it was best that he believed that Francesca had the full control over Rosier Place that she would have as the Lady Rosier, and which she did not currently have. "It has met with strong disapproval among her family and friends. Should we both survive, we will do everything over again formally."

There was a moment before Ed replied. "Congratulations, once again."

"Thank you." Aldon looked around—no patrols, this time, but another one would be coming through shortly. He could feel the edge of his grounds and he strongly suspected there would be a Ministry official on the other side. It would be best if he stopped here. "One final word, Edmund."

Ed stopped, looking down at him.

"How you feel about Alice, you can rest assured that I feel at least that, if not more, for my wife," Aldon said, and his words were icy in danger. "Strike at her, and I will make you wish for Voldemort's tender mercies. Are we clear?"

"Very much so," Ed replied. "I wouldn't do that, Aldon—not willingly."

"And unwillingly?" Aldon asked, but silence was his only answer. He shook his head. "Go. I'll see you next when Voldemort bids you to visit."

Once Ed was gone, Aldon turned on his heel, checked the wards thoroughly to ensure that there were no runecatches or anything else amiss and, finding nothing, stormed back to his study. Francesca was still lingering there, this time with a fresh tray of tea.

"I told you and everyone at Blake & Associates to stay in the library," he snapped, his eyes flashing as he set his hands on his desk.

"No, you asked Draco and Jukka to keep us in the library without any explanation," Francesca argued, standing up across the table. She had obviously been preparing this response while Aldon had been walking Ed out. "For hours! We talked about this, Aldon. If I'm—if I'm the backup for Rosier Place, I need to know things as they happen. Draco wouldn't tell us anything!"

"There are sometimes situations in which I will not be able to send you forewarning, Francesca!" Aldon straightened, the volume of his voice rising. "We are at war! That was a very sensitive meeting that you walked into, because Edmund is not our ally. Edmund is Voldemort's spy, and I had planned on misleading him to believe that you were in America, since you, my dear, are my primary weak point!"

She flinched. "I—I'm sorry," she stuttered, "but was that really one of those situations in which you couldn't send forewarning? You've been distracted and worried for days, and you knew enough to tell Draco who it was and to tell him not to appear, so was there a reason you couldn't forewarn me? If I'm—if something happens to you, I'm to be in charge of Rosier Place, so—"

Much to Aldon's distress, she sniffled, and one hand came up to wipe her eyes. He sighed, feeling the anger seeping out of him, and walked around the desk to tug her into his arms. What was done was done, and he could not take back the fact that Ed now knew conclusively that she was here. There was no real evidence that Voldemort hadn't known of her beforehand either, since Francesca's presence was not a secret and she had travelled between the different safehouses before. He would simply need to adapt.

"If something happens to me, you should be on your way to Queenscove, if not overseas," he murmured softly into her ear. "I'm afraid we'll have to be stricter with your safety, Francesca. No more trips to Muggle London, not even with a dhampir guard, and when Ed is here, you'll need to play the role. It's best he thinks you're the Lady Rosier, with all the power that implies."

"Okay," she said, burying her head in his shoulder with a slight sniff. "I can do that. I am—I am sorry, you know. Even if I think you should have warned me beforehand, or you should have told Draco to explain."

Aldon's lips twitched into a slight smile, though he didn't answer.

XXX

Caelum skulked at the back of the madman's throne room, out of the crazed dictator's direct line of sight. It was not truly supposed to be a throne room. Caelum thought it had once been the Malfoys' formal dining hall, but there was a massive, emerald-encrusted chair at the head of the table, so he had no qualms about calling it what it was: a throne room.

It had been such even when Riddle had been in charge. His mother had been very put out about the fact that the Lord Malfoy could afford the insane extravagance as some sort of absurd gift for their previous, less crazed but apparently still grandiose leader, Lord Riddle, and here the ridiculous showboat had sat for years. Perhaps Riddle had seen it all as a joke, but His Imperial Highness did not.

Maybe His Imperial Highness wasn't strictly accurate, though. Caelum happened to like the description, because that was how the man acted, but of course the official line was that there was no more nobility. No nobility, no princes and no kings, so that left the nutter as simply… the First Citizen. Just like Augustus Caesar.

If Caelum were ever caught thinking these thoughts, he would be dead. But it was these thoughts that kept him sane, so as long as he was out of Voldemort's direct eyesight, he kept thinking them. Death, or madness?

He had had a lifetime to consider this question, and Caelum would pick death every single time. He was lucky that Voldemort, for the most part, didn't care to keep him too close—the supposed life debt he owed to the Lord Rosier coming in useful, there. Caelum was nowhere near as powerful as most of the psychopath's followers assumed. While Voldemort enjoyed keeping him on hand to enforce discipline, Caelum followed orders only. He was not an advisor, he provided no input in any plans, and Voldemort kept him at a distance when he was not needed, a fact for which Caelum was grateful.

Caelum spent as much time as possible outside of Voldemort's direct view—he had his lab at the Lestrange Manor, and even when Voldemort required his presence at Malfoy Manor, he had found that the ancient, subpar Malfoy Potions Lab was equally good for avoiding people. He was only rustled out if Voldemort needed a torturer, and one with a finer hand and more control than any of his others. Maybe Caelum didn't inspire the same sort of robe-wetting fear that his mother did, but he had developed a reputation of his own.

He would have given much to be mouldering away in any Potions lab, rather than waiting here holding Alesana Rookwood under his wand.

He hadn't hurt her. Not yet—His Majesty the Psychopath had said he wanted her under arrest at Lestrange Manor, and that didn't include hurting her. So, he had simply locked her into one of the moldy, damp guest suites in his childhood home, told the Dementors to watch her door and the house-elves to feed her, and promptly forgotten about her. But with her husband paying a visit to Rosier Place today, First Citizen Crackpot wanted her close to hand. And Caelum, her gaoler, was forced to wait attendance on First Lunatic with her. For hours.

It was mid-afternoon by the time that Edmund Rookwood limped into the hall, and he knew his reprieve was over.

He looked around the room, looking for something, anything, to trigger his emotions. His favoured target, his mother, was nowhere to be seen, nor were his uncles; more recently, the Ice Bitch had been a good substitute, but she hadn't made an appearance that day. Instead, he fixated on Edmund Rookwood. The elder Rookwood had been his godfather; Edmund Rookwood was therefore close enough to him that Caelum had once asked him to be his second for a duel. Not that Rookwood had been of any use whatsoever there, which really ought to have been a forewarning. All Rookwood had done was glare at him, and let his mother dictate his terms. Completely, utterly useless.

He glanced down at Alesana Rookwood, still bound under his wand, and felt his lip curl in disgust. He hadn't locked her very strongly in Lestrange Manor, not truly. He had only used four layers of standard Slavic lock-charms, and he had heard that she had worked for a runic magazine for a year or so before her marriage. She could have broken them, had she tried, even without a wand. And yet, she had not even attempted to escape her bonds, just like she and Edmund had never attempted to run from Malfoy Manor the four long months before Voldemort remembered they existed and turned his eye on them.

They should have known. They both should have known that there was nothing for them here, and that any reprieve from Voldemort was only temporary considering their longstanding relationship with Aldon Rosier. They were idiots to have stayed, and what for? The comfort of Malfoy Manor, with Voldemort flitting in and out at his leisure and where they only managed to stay out of his sight because he had forgotten about them? Or was it simply fear that his mother's act with Lady Zabini, who admittedly was now a drooling vegetable, might be repeated on one of them?

They were either stupid, or they were cowards, and Caelum grabbed onto that thought, that feeling, and held onto it. Stupid, or cowards, and he hated them, and they deserved whatever Voldemort told him to do to them. Blyade-mudinniy pizdo-proyob.

Caelum Lestrange was hate. He was hate, and he was potions, and he was anger and rage and a need for revenge. He hated everything and everyone, and there was nothing in him at all except overwhelming hate. Nothing at all.

"Rookwood," Voldemort said, his voice amused. "How was your visit to the Rosiers?"

"Aldon allowed me entry," Rookwood replied, his face blank, though he glanced over at his wife, being held under Caelum's wand. "We… talked."

Caelum felt his lip curl again in disgust. Rookwood would simply hand everything over, without question, because Caelum had his wife under his wand. How weak. Caelum hated weakness. Khuyevo.

Voldemort laughed, high-pitched enough to be ridiculous if it weren't him. "And you told him everything that you knew, isn't that right?"

"Exactly as I was instructed."

"What did you receive in return?"

Edmund hesitated.

Voldemort looked at Caelum.

Caelum needed no further instructions. He pointed his wand at Alesana, muttered a curse, and broke a finger.

She screamed, and Rookwood talked. He was so simple, it was disgusting.

"Rosier Place has no physical defences that I could see. I believe that Aldon has extensive magical protections on his property, but I do not know what any of them are—I could feel their power, but I am not versed in this area of magic. He has soldiers defending his manor, but none that I recognized. His soldiers are likely from abroad, and with most of the enemy alliance being Light faction, I believe most of his soldiers are likely from abroad. They may be paid mercenaries. I didn't see anything else about them, Aldon kept me from them and from the others in his manor."

"Sensible of him." The sound of Alesana's breathing was loud in the room, and Caelum rolled his eyes. It was just a finger. She acted as if she had never been tortured before. Utterly pathetic, k pizde rukav.

"That is everything. He invited me to return." Rookwood looked away, a sure sign of guilt. Blyat, he was the worst liar that Caelum had ever seen. What an absolute, idiotic fool.

"That isn't everything." Voldemort smiled, and there was nothing friendly or inviting about it. "Caelum."

Caelum broke a second finger, and Alesana's cry split the air. Then, after a moment of silence, he broke a third. And a fourth.

"Aldon married," Rookwood said hastily. "An American Muggleborn girl. Rosier Place is magically at full strength, with both a Lord and Lady in residence. I know little about her."

"But?" Voldemort drew the word out, but Caelum didn't need to break a fifth finger before Edmund replied.

"She's a magical theorist of some kind, I believe," Edmund spat out, his own voice betraying his disgust at himself. "Aldon has always been attracted to magical theory, and she was a part of the Triwizard Team for the American Institute of Magic that carried into the games a new magical technique. Aldon was interested in it even before meeting her in person. I believe that she is the person behind the invention, which created a Fortis shield in less time and with less magic than a wand. With her as the Lady Rosier, we might expect more of her new magical technique against our forces."

Voldemort leaned forward, and Caelum could see that Rookwood had hit paydirt—he and his wife would be leaving without any further injury, tonight. Voldemort was a stupid pizda vonchukaya, to be so easily predicted. He hated it, he hated Voldemort, he hated Rookwood, he hated everything and everyone and he hated that Voldemort now would not give him an outlet to channel his anger and his hate. Not today.

"What more do you know?" Voldemort pressed, and Rookwood looked away.

"Magical theory is not my strength," he murmured. "I know nothing further."

"Then, I suppose you ought to learn." Voldemort looked over at Caelum. "Lestrange, return them to your manor. Do not let Bella play with them. I have other plans, but I would like more information about this new magical technique."

"Comforts?" Caelum asked, cold and angry, casting a levitation spell on Alesana. He didn't bother being gentle about it, and she gasped as the movement shook her injured hand. "Should they have any?"

Voldemort shrugged. "I care not. Do as you will, but ensure that Rookwood has whatever magical theory books he needs. You may unleash Bella on them if they escape, but only then."

"As you command." Caelum nodded, tugging Alesana behind him. Neither of the Rookwoods had wands, and he fully expected Edmund Rookwood to follow, as indeed he did.

They were at Lestrange Manor, right as Caelum was directing them into a guest suite, before Rookwood spoke to him. It was only one word.

"Lestrange…" he said, and it was possibly the worst thing that he could have said at that instant. Caelum was hate, and if there was one thing that topped his list of hates, it was his family. He was not a Lestrange, he did not want to be a Lestrange, and he was not here of his own free will. He could feel Rookwood about to beg him for mercy, and he hated it. He absolutely hated it. He was not their friend. He was no one's friend.

He spat on him. "Yebalnik zakroy. Be glad that I'm not handing you to my mother and that I will feed you, but I will do no more. I'll have all of the magical theory books in our library transported to you tomorrow."

He slammed the door behind them, locked it with the same four standard Slavic lock-charms, and stalked off to his Potions lab. Rosier, he was sure, would enjoy knowing how easily his friend had turned on him.

XXX

Aunt Lily had left at the beginning of January, Addy with her, on a Muggle flight bound for New York City. With her had gone the light feeling that Archie had carried with him throughout the holidays. It wasn't only him—Uncle James had turned more serious, Harry had gone practically silent, and even Dad's smile had become rarer these days.

Who knew that wars would have so much paperwork? Their kitchen table had permanently been taken over by papers: missives from the other safehouses and allies, a pile of letters from Geneva, the reports that he and Dad tried to put together for other people containing vital need-to-know information. One end of the table was stacked with the past two weeks of the Daily Prophet, which he and Dad read cover to cover every day in an effort to see where Voldemort was going.

Someone had to do it. Their spies didn't tend to report on the content that was actually going into the newspaper, since they assumed everyone would read it, and most people at the Prophet only knew the area they worked in anyway. When they reported, they tended to try for forewarning of the big articles only, or they shared news from the ground about who was talking to whom, odd things they had seen their editors and co-workers doing, or the movements of Voldemort's known followers. But there were things that they could put together from the daily papers, signals they could use to guess a direction that the Ministry would go. It just required a lot of reading and analysis, and it was better for someone like Archie and Dad to handle it for everyone so that the others could focus on what they did best. And just one hour watching Hermione deal with refugee logistics was enough for Archie to know how much of a muck he would make of that.

Voldemort's controls were tightening. There was already a curfew, and most shops had been closed except for limited hours. Rather than simple registration, people were now required to carry new Ministry-issued identification cards with them when they left their homes, and they could be stopped and required to show their identification at no provocation at all. The cards carried locator charms for the Ministry to track people's movements, and whole neighbourhoods had been placed under Anti-Apparition Wards so no one could get in or out without crossing an identification checkpoint. Aldon had someone in their research and development unit investigating the locator charms and devising a false trail spell to feed the cards without raising any suspicions.

According to Dumbledore, about a third of students had not come back to school after the winter holidays, and the missing children were mostly from families that had aligned themselves with Voldemort. Archie had sat in a meeting with Uncle James, Moody, Dad and Dumbledore himself, in which they had discussed the risk that Hogwarts had become a target—while Dumbledore had never publicly declared himself one way or the other, it had to be clear from his past allegiances and the fact that that Hogwarts was in Scotland that he was, and indeed he had to be, sympathetic to the alliance. Before the holidays, there are been enough of Lord Riddle's former supporters that Voldemort almost certainly wouldn't strike at the school, but now…

They couldn't be sure, so a team of their best former Aurors, led by Moody and with the support of Lord Dumbledore and the Clans, descended on Hogwarts on the first weekend of term and started installing a new set of defensive wards. Hogwarts was well-warded to begin with, the equivalent of any noble manor, but when it came to children the remaining parents needed reassurance.

The Ministry had carried out more raids. They hadn't touched the noble houses yet, though Voldemort had finally managed to shove through the laws repealing noble privilege and dispensing with most of the due process requirements of criminal law. Half of the alliance had been convicted in absentia by the courts of sedition, advocating for sedition, fomenting sedition, treason, conspiracy to commit treason, terrorism, conspiracy to commit terrorism, murder, attempted murder, and about three dozen other offences. The problem, according to Dad, was that whatever the law said, noble Lords were bound to their lands in a way that posed a problem to Voldemort regardless of the laws. A noble Lord was their land, and taking a Lord on their lands required more than the usual Auror action. Thus far, Voldemort had primarily struck at their non-noble collaborators, including the Tonks, the Jones, the Whitefords, and the Flynns, as well as at a number of unassociated families who simply had the misfortune be caught in the crossfire.

The Scots were still discontent. With the Welsh gone, mostly dead, and Ireland independent, more and more of them were inclined to an open strike for their own independence. Uncle James didn't like it, and Archie didn't think Lina liked it anymore than he did, but he knew that they were both preparing for a Clan decision to strike for independence. There were problems—as Lina had said, there were far more problems with Scottish independence than with the Irish independence, beginning with the land border and continuing to the high number of locations within Wizarding Scotland that were shared with those supportive the former Ministry, if not the current one.

Cameron said that at least four of the Clans were in support of a strike for independence, modelled exactly after the Irish model. They would take the Ministry outposts in the outer, northern, regions first: Shetland, the Orkneys, the Hebrides, Skye, and then sweep from the Highlands down, leaving Edinburgh and Hogsmeade, the two centres of Ministry power in Scotland, for last. Of the outstanding Clans, the MacMillans and the McKinnons were still considering, while two, the MacLeods and the MacLaggens, remained opposed.

They were all waiting for the decision of the Clanmeet, at the end of the month. Dad and Archie planned on being there to watch the deliberations, while Uncle James, Lina and Moody were talking through all possible scenarios—whether the Scots split or not, and what their position should be if the Scots did in fact choose to split from Britain. If they did, the current plan was to support independence and position their forces to guard against a retaliatory strike; if they didn't, they planned on a series of small-scale strikes to secure the public Portkey Hubs at Heathrow and Edinburgh and the Wizarding ports at Weymouth, Southwold, and Holy Island to isolate Voldemort's ranks even further from international supply routes and outside assistance. Success there would build troop morale and demoralize the enemy, which they hoped they could build to larger victories later.

Archie, aside from paging through half the Daily Prophet each morning until he was ready to scream in rage and frustration, had taken to visiting each of their safehouses—about a dozen within England, and another handful within in Scotland. Morale, briefly boosted over the holidays, was back down and it was good for him to walk among their troops, talking to everyone and reassuring them where he could.

He met people. He learned names, and he shook hands, and he smiled and laughed and regaled everyone with highly embellished stories from the other safehouses. He told everyone about how Neal's sentient castle loved to switch doors on people, hoping to put people in compromising positions; he talked about the ingenious prank products the Weasley Twins had developed to trick their Ministry surveillants. He regaled everyone with stories about how Harry and Leo were heroically tricking the Ministry and their Aurors on their supply runs and occasional rescue missions in Diagon Alley and Craftsmen's Alley, which Harry always said were "embellished to the point of untruth, if not completely fabricated." But this was about troop morale, so Archie couldn't say he cared. People needed to believe that they could win, and if that meant making Harry ten feet tall and sassy, complete with parting pot-shots every time they were almost caught, that was what it meant.

There was hope, he said. They were in a much better position now than they were before the holidays, and soon Aunt Lily's efforts would come to fruition, too. They'd have money coming in for supplies and more international support, and they were ready now for whatever came. It was better to stand together against tyranny than to bow down out of fear, and things were turning. Good would triumph over evil, freedom and love over authoritarianism and fear, and it was only matter of time before their smaller successes turned into bigger ones, before the sacrifices they and so many other people had made started paying off.

He just hoped, every time he spun a new story, that his words would start coming true. And fast.

XXX

Draco was sorting and decoding messages, as was his usual duty first thing in the morning. Rosier had given him most of the spies in the Ministry and other related enterprises, code-names only, so that he could focus on the information coming from the handful of spies directly in Voldemort's camp, counter-intelligence policies and procedures, and the defence of Rosier Place itself.

Having work was good. It was far better than staying in his rooms, staring at his wall of useless information. For, most of it was indeed useless; information seemed to change every few days, and his wall was, while still good in its basics, hopelessly out of date. The blood ties that so many noble families used to rely upon were a poorer predictor of alliances than he might have guessed, while chosen connections tended to do better. The work was useful, and it was interesting, and it gave him something to do.

Things to do meant that he could push his more disconcerting thoughts farther away. Draco was unequivocally opposed to Voldemort and his government, there was no question of that, because Voldemort had killed his father and held Pansy captive and so many other things. But there were days when there were other thoughts that bothered him.

Just as Rosier had said, Voldemort was closer to Draco's own supposed beliefs than Rosier and his alliance. Like Lord Riddle, Voldemort was a pureblood supremacist. Like Lord Riddle, he valued Wizarding British culture, and he would push to ensure that their traditions were protected, preserved, and continued. Like Lord Riddle, he fought against the influence of the other Wizarding nations, as represented by the ICW. On beliefs only, the only area in which Voldemort truly differed from Lord Riddle, and therefore Draco, was on the role of the nobility and noble privilege.

He ignored it by arguing that Voldemort was different in other ways. He was violent, and Draco knew well enough that discipline was enforced in Voldemort's ranks by violence. Lord Riddle had never been so heavy-handed, had never used his substantial magical power so bluntly—other than when he had nearly killed Draco in his first year through the Sleeping Sickness, that was. But that had been an accident, and Lord Riddle and his father had never meant for things to spin so wildly out of control.

The excuse sounded weak even to him.

It was easier for Draco to see it as a simple black and white: Voldemort was bad, evil, and Lord Riddle had been good. But then he ran into other questions. What was Bridge and the alliance, then? Were they also evil, and was he therefore evil by working on their side? Bridge and their allies wanted to and were destroying Wizarding Britain as Draco had known it, while Voldemort was trying to protect at least a version of the traditions and culture that Draco loved, and that his father and Lord Riddle had worked so hard to preserve. Where did that leave him? What did it make him, that he was now at least nominally standing with the alliance, rather than with the people among whom he had been raised and who would protect the things that he valued and found important?

There was the issue of pureblood supremacy, too. Draco had to believe pureblood supremacy, but there were counter-examples everywhere he looked. There was Harry, but even if Harry was an exception, there was Rosier. And even if both Harry and Rosier were exceptions, there was now Aleksandr Willoughby Dragić, who had gone to Hogwarts with them as a Ravenclaw, graduated in good standing, and was one of the most terrifying wizards and half-vampires they had. And if he, too, was an exception, there were the Muggleborns and halfbloods who formed the research division, Blake & Associates, who regularly argued about magic far beyond the level that Draco could understand. He could have attributed it to the fact that he hadn't completed school, but he had always been taught that the educations provided abroad, mixed with Muggleborns and halfbloods, were subpar—and if that were true, he should have at least been able to understand at least some of what they said, even if not all of it.

More importantly, however, the research division had made something. They had invented something beyond what Voldemort had, a new channelling method that they called the Assistive Casting Device, and as Muggleborns and halfbloods they shouldn't have been able to make anything like it. They shouldn't have had enough understanding of magic to do it, because they were at least half Muggle.

He hated these thoughts. He hated how they made him feel, discombobulated and lost, and he hated feeling like his father, the giant of his childhood, might have been wrong.

Working helped. The tedious work of decoding messages from their spies from book code required too much focus and concentration to let his mind wander.

One message, caught between two other scraps of parchment, caught his eye. It wasn't in code. He frowned, tugged it out and his breath caught.

BLOWN, it said. One word, rather than a number combination. He checked it over carefully—there was no easier way to try to fool intelligence than to send in false information, so every informant had a set of symbols and signs that they used to show that the message was genuine. The signs were unique for each informant, so he turned the parchment over.

Ragged edge on the right, and there were four taps of a quill dotting the top, as if the person was tapping off excess ink, as well as a line. There was also a faint impression on the bottom left, an arc with three parallel lines crossing it.

Robin. It was genuine enough, and that was bad. Draco headed for the door.

He didn't care what Rosier was up to at the moment because this was more important. Robin was their lead Department of Justice informant who, aside from passing information, also regularly misplaced paperwork, built in administrative delays, and caused fights over minor processes and procedures that inevitably ended up eating weeks of time. Robin had been, conveniently, both trusted and respected enough for access to sensitive information, but also low enough in the hierarchy that they were undetected when they made certain documents disappear. They were a huge loss—there was only one more informant in the Department of Justice, Eagle, but Eagle was too highly placed to mimic routine administrative incompetence.

"Rosier," he said, slamming the door to Rosier's study open. Rosier was deep in discussion with Willoughby, or Dragić, the head of the half-vampire command stationed at their safehouse. "Robin was blown."

Rosier's head snapped up, and Draco felt the current of panic and worry even if Rosier's face remained unruffled. "Let me see," Rosier demanded, holding his hand out for the scrap of parchment, which Draco handed over with no hesitation.

Rosier held it up to the light, checking for the same marks and indentations that Draco had already confirmed were there. He frowned, tilting his head thoughtfully, then set the note down with a sigh, and Draco felt his panic dissipate, replaced only by sharp concern. "The fact that she managed to get this message out is a good thing. She's safe. You'll need to go debrief with her—she's most likely gone to ground at Clan Cameron. If not there, check Queenscove."

"Clan Cameron?"

"Clan Cameron," Rosier confirmed with a nod. "She was a Clan Cameron Ministry informant before she became our informant, and her loyalties are still there. I don't expect that she will have much information to provide, because she was used more for sabotage and delay, but we need to debrief her. I have a meeting with one of the problematic Houses today, so I can't go, and this is urgent."

Problematic was Rosier's attempt at a delicate description of the noble Houses that sheltered an identified Ministry or Voldemort informant. As far as Draco had put it together, both Houses were, first, deeply offended that Rosier had marked one of their family members as an informant, and second, unhappy about the new counter-intelligence measures that they were being required to adopt.

"Who is Robin?" Draco asked, drawing his words out slightly. "If I don't know who she is, I can hardly ask for her, can I?"

Rosier gave a helpless sort of shrug. "Sealing Curse."

Draco frowned at him. "Try. Clues, then."

Rosier shook his head, reaching for a notebook that he flipped open to a page. A quick wave of his wand obscured most of the texted, and when he held it up, Draco could only read one name, and he frowned.

"Penelope Clearwater? The Ministry prosecutor?"

"A halfblood. Her allegiance—Clan Cameron," Rosier said, before he started coughing. Whatever the Sealing Curse was, it had to be powerful, since Rosier not only could not say the words, he was struggling around the other identifiers as well. Dragić beside him conjured a glass, filled it with water, and handed it to him. Rosier took a long drink, and when he continued, his voice was dry. "Apparently, clan fealty oaths are how Scottish halfbloods have gone to Hogwarts since the halfblood discrimination policy was put into place."

"I—" Draco took a steadying breath, pushing away the sudden reality that he had probably gone to school with many, many more halfbloods than he thought he had. "Clan Cameron," he confirmed, his voice equally dry. ''I'll be on my way. How, er—how do I use the Portkey Hub?"

Aldon blinked, rubbing his neck where Draco assumed that his Sealing Curse had tried to choke him, then put his glass of water down, flipped the scrap of paper with Clearwater's note on it, picked up a pen and drew a symbol. "This is the symbol for Clan Cameron. Inside the Hub, there is a wooden panel—it is unmarked, but looks a little out of place. Trace the symbol on the panel and imbue it with magic to send the transit request. It'll take a few minutes for someone on their side to authorize the transit."

Draco nodded, slightly embarrassed, and walked out. It wasn't as if Portkey Hubs were entirely new to him, because his parents had taken him to Paris several times by Portkey Hub, but he had never been the one operating the transit.

The Rosier Portkey Hub was in the central, common area, lying between the guest wing where Draco and most of Rosier's guests stayed and the family quarters. Based on the faded, forest-green wallpaper, criss-crossed by a cream diamond pattern, Draco guessed that it had been a reception room or parlour, set near the main doors. The wooden panel that Rosier spoke about took moment for him to find, hidden as it was behind a gauzy cream-coloured drape, but it was in easy reach of the humming silver wire ring. He grabbed hold of the ring and traced the symbol for Clan Cameron on the panel.

Pressure built, pressing in on his ears and chest and holding for a long, long minute, before it popped and Draco found himself in a freezing cold, pitch-black icebox. He swore, fumbling for his wand, stamping slightly as he shivered, before he managed to stutter out the Lumos Charm.

His wandlight revealed a stone room, clearly unheated. He swore again, stomping over to the wooden door set in one wall, a simple door that was curved at the top and clearly old. He pushed his way out, finding himself in a snow-covered courtyard. He looked around, spotting walls and a main keep. Clan Cameron, it seemed, still used their old castle fortifications. Their Portkey Hub was embedded in the walls—a former gatehouse or guard's shelter, Draco guessed.

He hurried across the courtyard, wrapping his arms over his chest for warmth. He hadn't anticipated needing to go outside, so he hadn't dressed for it. He cursed—couldn't Rosier have warned him to grab a cloak?

A man slipped out the front doors of the main building—middle-aged, forty if Draco had to guess, with red-blond hair shorn close to his head. He was tall and thin, and his dark eyes were suspicious as he looked at Draco. The man blocked the doors, and Draco guessed that his wand, while still holstered, would very quickly be out if Draco made any unusual moves.

"Transit from Rosier Place," the man said, his wariness hitting Draco like a cool breeze. "What's this about?"

"Clearwater," Draco replied, his teeth chattering a little despite his best efforts. Curse the man, but despite his lack of cloak, he seemed not to notice the temperature. "I'm here from Rosier. We got her message, and need to debrief her."

The man relaxed slightly, but his eyes were still wary. "You'll have to wait a bit, I'm afraid," he said, opening the door to let Draco in. The wash of warm air slapping him in the face was very welcoming, and Draco followed him gratefully. "She only got here a couple hours ago herself. She's having a kip—can you wait?"

Draco hesitated. He needed to debrief her, but a lot depended on what information she was carrying. If she didn't have anything critical or time-dependent, he would feel awful for waking her, but then again, he wouldn't know if she was until he debriefed her.

"Not for long," he said, apologetic. "I have orders. If I can just debrief her, I'd be happy to take my leave, and she can sleep as long as she needs."

The man sighed, leading him to a very outdated parlour, decorated in red quartered in green. It was a very Christmas-y sort of plaid, which Draco felt was a little gauche, but the colours did bring warmth to the chamber. There was a wool throw tossed over the back of his chair, which Draco surreptitiously pulled to drape over his lap. The man flicked out his wand, and a few waves had a tray of coffee and tea floating down the hallway onto the table. The breakfast room couldn't be very far away.

"Stay here. I'll fetch her," the man said, and Draco nodded in agreement. There was no fire in the room, but there was a grate with dry wood, so he pulled his wand out again and started one. Hopefully, by the time Clearwater appeared, the room would be warm enough for comfort.

He had to wait nearly thirty minutes before Clearwater walked into the room, in obviously borrowed Muggle clothing two sizes too large for her. Her sweater, a dark green, was knitted with large, looping cables, and she had pulled on a pair of thick, black stockings to wear under a clan red-and-green kilted skirt.

She looked exhausted. There were deep bags under her eyes, and her skin had the pale, translucent quality of someone who had recently been very sick. Her hair was lank, hanging around her face, and her lower lip had a red mark suggesting that she had gnawed on it for some time. Despite her appearance, her blue eyes were sharp. Draco could feel her emotions, ricocheting around the small chamber—bone-deep exhaustion and relief, but an overlying sense of paranoia and wariness.

"Draco Malfoy, right?" she asked, her voice slightly rough—she had just awoken, and probably from a deep sleep, too.

"Yes," he replied, leaning forward and pushing the tray of coffee and tea towards her. "Rosier sent me to debrief you."

"Why you?"

"Rosier is busy—counter-intelligence meeting."

"No, not that." She studied him, her eyebrows pinching together in a frown, and the sense of suspicion in the air heightened. "Why you? Draco Malfoy, son of the former Lord Malfoy, who stood as Lord Riddle's second-in-command—I wouldn't have expected that you would be Rosier's right hand."

"Why not?" Draco frowned back at her. "Voldemort killed my father. And he wants to kill me, and he has my fiancé."

"Because this isn't your fight." She paused, blue eyes looking upwards as she thought. "That was badly phrased. Because you have nothing to gain from this, Malfoy."

"What do you mean?"

Clearwater shrugged, the movement made larger by the looseness of her sweater. "Look, Malfoy. Everyone else with the alliance has something they want, something they can gain out of the war. The Clans want independence. Halfbloods and Muggleborns, documented or not, want equality; the British International Association and, by extension, the British Students Association, want the option for their members to come home and live in Britain without being second-class. Non-nobles living here want a voice in governance. You don't have anything to gain from the war, and as far as I can see it, you have more to lose with us than you would keep if Voldemort wins. If Voldemort wins, you lose your noble status, but you keep everything else. Even losing noble status—that doesn't seem to have made a difference for most of the nobles on his side."

"And he will certainly let me join him," Draco replied, his voice biting in sarcasm. "You have seen the warrants for my arrest, haven't you? Conspiracy, treason, fraud..."

"I issued them," Clearwater confirmed, leaning back in her seat to stare at him. "Which is how I know that they aren't Voldemort's priority right now, and if someone in the right spot put pressure on him, he would probably pardon you. You were underage at the time of the claimed offences. I'm not asking why you don't support Voldemort, I'm asking why you're supporting a side that is opposed to most of the things that your family, and by extension, you, have always supported. There are other options. You could have a friend or associate plead your case before Voldemort and join him. Or, if you didn't want that, you could escape abroad."

"Without Pansy, my fiancé?" Draco scowled, refusing to even contemplate joining Voldemort. Voldemort had killed his father, and even when he did think of betraying Rosier's alliance, he primarily thought about using what he knew to buy Pansy's freedom and going abroad. Blood before honour, and he would die before swearing loyalty to the monster that had ruined his family.

"Everything I have heard suggests that your former fiancé is perfectly happy where she is," Clearwater retorted, and Draco grimaced. "Are you with us for your own personal vengeance, then? Because I'd say good riddance for your father, and so would most of the alliance. Why should I trust you with this debrief? Why shouldn't I demand Rosier himself?"

"What makes Rosier so different?" Draco straightened, offended, fighting to feel his own emotions though the heavy veil of suspicion and wariness that coated him. "Rosier was raised in the same circles I was, and his family stood at Lord Riddle's side as much as mine did. And Rosier trusts me. He sent me, didn't he?"

"Rosier's different because he's a halfblood," Clearwater replied flatly, holding out her hand and pulling up her sleeve to show him. A narrow, jagged scar ran across her forearm—a fealty oath, Draco recognized, medieval and extreme. "As am I. Rosier's different because a year ago, he stood in front of Wizarding Britain and channeled Justice and got disowned for it. He has something to gain in the world we're trying to make. Even if we win, Malfoy, you personally are only going to lose. You'll have your life, if you don't die in the war itself, but you'll lose most of everything else. So, why are you here, Malfoy? Why aren't you hiding, or overseas, or doing any number of other things that you could be doing?"

"Rosier trusts me," Draco repeated, still scowling. He was here for Pansy, and Pansy only, but there was no reason for him to tell Clearwater that. He had his orders, and that should be good enough. "He sent me to debrief you."

"Knowing Rosier, he also needed help, and you were someone nearby that he could keep a close eye on," Clearwater said, shaking her head, and Draco felt a mild sort of disapproval radiating off her. "It was also probably comforting to him that you were raised in the same circles, with the same background, and he knew your connections. He's the Truth-Speaker, so he can ascertain for himself your loyalty from moment to moment, but I can't, and the information I have is sensitive. I don't trust you, Malfoy, and I don't want my information disappearing, understand?"

"It won't," Draco snapped. "Rosier sent me, and—"

"You don't even like Rosier, or you'd call him by name."

"Neither do you." Draco glared at her.

"I don't know Rosier personally, so I can't call him by name." Clearwater tossed a lank of blond hair over her shoulder as she leaned forward to pour herself some tea. "You don't like Rosier. You have nothing really to gain from the alliance other than your personal revenge. I bet you even still believe in pureblood supremacy, don't you? Pureblood supremacy, and noble privilege, and the whole lot of it. With your father being who he was, it would be hard for you to believe differently."

"My best friend is a halfblood. I don't—" He stopped, unsure of what he really wanted to say. "How could I?"

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing in thought. "You don't believe in pureblood supremacy?"

"I—I don't—" He paused again, looking away into the fire, picking his words carefully. Clearwater wanted a fight with him, and he wanted no part of it. "I'm just here to debrief you, Clearwater. Not to discuss my personal beliefs."

His words came out slow, bland, and even, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "Defend pureblood supremacy to me, then."

"Defend—" Draco sucked in another breath. "You know the arguments, Clearwater. You made them, in the Arcturus Rigel Black trial. I don't need to defend them to you."

"Humour me."

Draco glared at her, but she wasn't looking at him, and he could feel the stubbornness drifting in the air. She wasn't going to talk. She wasn't going to allow herself to be debriefed until he answered, and it was nothing she didn't already know, so fine. He would make the arguments, and they'd move on to the debrief.

"Halfbloods and Muggleborns are different from purebloods," he spat out, quicker than he thought he would. "They have less control over their magic, and they pose a danger to purebloods. It wouldn't be fair to school halfbloods and Muggleborns with purebloods, because they wouldn't be able to keep up. Halfbloods and Muggleborns also don't understand wizarding culture. I'm not saying they're bad. Far from it—the nature of magic isn't their fault. They just need a couple generations to develop control over their magic and assimilate into proper Wizarding culture."

It all sounded completely preposterous.

He didn't know why that was the case—these were the beliefs he had, these were the lines he had been taught, and it was nothing very different than what he thought normally. He could even swear that he had said these exact things to Harry, not even that long ago. Why was it that these arguments sounded so completely ridiculous said out loud, rather than kept in his head? Why was it that they sounded so awful now, when it hadn't sounded so even a few months ago?

Just a few months ago, these words had sounded so reasonable. Right now, he was cringing.

He had said these words to Harry, one of his best friends, and a halfblood. He had told her that she was different, that she had less control over her magic, and that she was dangerous to others. He had said that she wouldn't be able to keep up at school, which was clearly wrong, and that she couldn't understand wizarding culture, when she had successfully mimicked being a pureblood for four years among the highest echelons of society. Or, he hadn't said this about her, he had only said it about everyone who shared her blood-status, because she, too, was a halfblood.

And now he was saying it to Penelope Clearwater, a halfblood, a Ravenclaw, and the former Hogwarts Head Girl. Penelope Clearwater, who maybe wasn't magically exceptional the way that Harry was, but had obviously done well enough to be appointed Prefect, then Head Girl. He felt like an absolute heel as he allowed his voice to trail away, and he changed tactics.

"My father—the Lord Riddle and my father were trying to protect our Wizarding culture," he argued instead, and his voice sounded plaintive even to him. "They wouldn't have expended that much effort passing the laws unless it was the right thing to do. I'm sure there's a reason, I just—I'm not explaining it well enough. My father is—was—a good person, Clearwater."

Clearwater studied him for a moment, then lifted her cup of tea to her mouth, and he felt her relax from suspicion and wariness to plain tiredness. "If you learn anything as a lawyer, Malfoy, it's that people are complicated. A person can be a good husband and father while passing bad laws, being a good person doesn't mean that everything one does is always necessarily good, and good people can do bad things. Tell Rosier I want him to come in person, next time."

Draco sighed in relief, pushing her words to the back of his mind. He didn't want to think about it now. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about it ever, but he knew he probably would. He probably had no choice but to think about it, and he thought he owed it to someone—Harry, maybe—to think about it. "The debrief?"

"I got blown." Clearwater relaxed, leaning back in her chair, but Draco still felt an echo of intense fear and desperation sweep the room—Clearwater's feelings as she remembered what had happened. "I wasn't careful enough—I don't know what set them off exactly, but one of the judges I'm close with tipped me off on the arrest warrant before the Aurors could catch me. I stupidly thought I had time to go home to get a few things, but I was halfway through packing when they stormed in. I escaped out the window with just my identification and stashed money, and I Apparated in mid-air to an alley in Muggle London. Then I grabbed a train north to Glasgow. I couldn't sleep at all, was too scared about being caught, but I got to Clan Boyd all right and they let me use their Portkey Hub to get to my home clan."

"Did anyone follow you?" Draco asked, leaning forward.

"Not that I saw—I think I lost them by heading into Muggle London." Clearwater shook her head. "I had a nasty fall onto pavement, but I don't think anyone saw me. But that's not the important news."

"What's the important news?"

"The excessive force warrants are being issued." Clearwater's mouth formed a thin line. "This week, maybe next, for Rosier Place, Potter Place, and Queenscove. There's one for Grimmauld Place in the works, and for the Shacklebolts and the Shafiqs. I delayed them as much as I could—I dawdled on them, insisted that they get convictions on everyone and pushed everything through a full trial, then I wasted time writing four separate memoranda on obscure points of law about mostly imaginary problems getting the warrants. I think I was a little too obvious on the last two, but I was running out of ideas to delay them. Once the excessive force warrants are issued, I would guess a week for McNabb and Dawlish to mobilize, so you can expect a strike in probably two to three weeks."

Draco let out a long, slow breath, then he stood up. "Just one, or all three at once, do you know? Do they have the troops for a three-pronged strike?"

Clearwater shook her head again. "I don't know. My main role was to find a way to do what Voldemort wanted to do legally—I don't know anything about their troop sizes or actual plans. Sorry."

"No—it's fine." Draco hesitated, then reached out to touch her shoulder, fighting a bizarre, instinctual urge to flinch away. He had touched Harry, and she was a halfblood. He had touched Rosier, and he was a halfblood. Clearwater was no different. He forced himself to rest a hand on her shoulder, reassuring. "Thank you for the information. I need to get back to Rosier Place to warn the Lord Rosier, and we will pass the word onto everyone else. Please—get some sleep. I'm sure we will be in touch with you soon."

XXX

ANs: A lot of note this time for everyone! First off, special thanks to Tolya on this chapter, because the last time I tried to incorporate Russian swearing, he said "that is not how Russian swearing works", and now I have a Magic List of all the Russian vulgar language! Requests for translations must be made to Tolya directly, at the coordinates to be listed below. Further thanks, as per usual, to beta reader meek_bookworm, who works very very hard to keep things on track!

For those that want to discuss the fic between updates, lovelyingreen set up a Discord server! To join, because ffn is weird, you'll need to copy and paste this link into your own Discord with some amendments: https COLON SLASH SLASH discord DOT gg SLASH gXAvXRY, and insert the proper punctuation. Come join us-or come ask Tolya about those Russian swears!

Finally, rev arc is in the tagset for 2 exchanges on Archive Of Our Own, being Fic In The Box 2020 and the second Rigel Black Exchange! If you're interested in producing fic of rev arc (or of the parent fic, RBC!) I encourage you to check it out!