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.

13. Chapter 13

Aldon woke slowly, his mind automatically checking the wards for any sign of trouble. There was nothing—the wards purred slightly under his mental caress, humming, telling him that none had crossed since yesterday at dawn. Another mental brush through his grounds, and his manor cheerfully reported that things were getting back to normal. Fifty-six runic landmines were back in active status, but there were several other defensive spells that would need to be reworked and fed back into his keystones. He'd begin doing that today.

His bed was warm, and there was a rustle of movement beside him. Francesca rolled over, nestling into his side, and he smiled as he gently pulled his duvet over her. She fit nicely beside him, her small curves molding to him, and he ran one casual hand through her long hair. She made a small, soft, happy sort of noise against his chest.

There was a part of him, louder today than it was last night, telling him that he had done a very bad thing. The rest of him simply felt satisfied, like he was a cat rolling around in a patch of sunlight. He wondered, vaguely, whether Francesca would be up for another round, or if she might be sore from the night before.

He'd already done the worst he could do by her by the rules of his upbringing. Twice, even. It had been fun. Why not again?

"What time is it?" Francesca murmured, her lips moving softly against his chest. "The sun is up."

"So it is," Aldon replied, realizing that there was, indeed, sunlight streaming into his bedroom. He hadn't woken up past dawn in months, and he reached for his wand to cast a Tempus Charm.

Just before eight in the morning. He winced, his vague, half-formed morning plans of a round three disappearing into the aether. "I'm sorry, darling. I need to get up—I'm already going to be late for my morning debrief with Alex and Lina. And I need to put some work into the wards today."

Francesca whimpered slightly as he sat up. "Time?"

"About five minutes to eight," he said, realizing he hadn't told her. "You may, of course, stay in bed as long as you like. I can make your excuses to my mother."

"No, no." Francesca sighed, then she sat up herself, the duvet falling away to reveal that delicious, wonderful nightgown that she had pulled back on after the first round, that he had told her to keep on for their second because he liked it so much. She swung her legs to the ground, looking around and picking up her underwear from where they had fallen on the floor. "It's just—no, I mean, I'll work, of course I'll work. I just would have liked to lounge in bed awhile longer, is all."

"They say that, err—" Aldon paused, pulling on a fresh shirt and trousers. "They say that women can be sore the morning after."

Francesca giggled, a bright little burble of laughter, then she walked over to him and touched his hands where he had pulled a tie around his neck. "I kind of like the soreness, actually. It makes me feel—I don't know. Well-loved."

"I have a dozen other pieces of jewellery that could make you feel well-loved too," Aldon tried, banking on her good mood. He could have the entirety of the Rosier family collection presented for her perusal with one word to his house-elves, and it would be nice to see one of his traditional family pieces on her. Preferably on her finger.

She laughed again, pushing him away. "Don't push it, Aldon," she said, a wicked sort of look coming into her eyes as she walked out to his private parlour and picked up her dressing robe. "My first walk of shame, can you imagine?"

"Er—" Aldon blinked, following her out with his tie half done around his neck. "Walk of shame?"

She looked back at him, the smile disappearing as she thought about it. "It's a joke, Aldon. I don't—it's just what we call it, when people come home in the morning after a…" she cleared her throat, showing her meaning. "Night out. John says it's a rite of passage."

Aldon paused, uncertain of how he was supposed to respond. A walk of shame didn't sound like a rite of passage at all, but rather like something that Aldon should be trying to prevent her from needing to experience. And yet, Francesca's expression held nothing but an eager sort of curiosity, and she slipped on a pair of plain slippers and headed for the door.

The door to the rest of manor, that was.

It was past eight by now, and the manor woke early. People would be up and moving—Alex's dhampir were all expected on the grounds for their first round of training at dawn, the one that Aldon usually attended, but by now they were all on their first break and would be flooding the common areas. Lina and Alex were waiting for him, because Aldon was certainly late by now, and his manor helpfully told him that Archie was waiting with them for some reason. Malfoy was awake, already eating breakfast, and most of Blake & Associates were either getting ready in their rooms or in the formal dining room with the breakfast spread.

Francesca's rooms were on the other side of the manor from his rooms. She would need to cross the common areas to get back to her rooms, and at this hour, in her current state of dress—

"No," Aldon snapped, grabbing her arm. "Didn't you bring other clothing with you, last night?"

She shrugged. "Why would I? It isn't that far from my rooms to yours. And it was late."

"You can't go out like that, Francesca," Aldon said, trying to sound commanding. "Not—everyone will know."

"That is kind of the point of a walk of shame, Aldon," Francesca said with another small laugh. "A rite of passage, like I said. Are you ashamed?"

"No," Aldon replied, feeling as if he was being rather contrary by saying so. He wasn't ashamed, but he also didn't want everyone in the manor to know what they had been doing—a part of it was his conservative upbringing, yes, but he also thought that his personal life was none of anyone's business. "I'd rather keep our private life private, Francesca. As the Lord Rosier, certain standards of behaviour—"

She snorted.

"Well, I am still to observe certain standards of behaviour." He glared at her. "I'll summon one of the house-elves, they're discreet and can Apparate you back to your chambers with none the wiser."

She paused, then she pulled her arm from his grasp and sighed. "Fine," she said, and much to Aldon's relief, she didn't sound upset or angry. "I suppose—privacy."

"Thank you," Aldon breathed, not thinking about a rather large part of himself that also simply didn't want anyone else to see her in her current state of undress. That was something he would like to keep to himself, as much as possible. He clapped twice, not wanting to waste any time, and gave Francesca a quick kiss on the lips before sending her off with Ummi.

By the time he walked into the reception room for his meeting with Lina and Alex, Archie waiting there as well, he was well and truly late—fifteen minutes late, but at least it seemed that his elves were as efficient as ever and a carafe of coffee was already sitting out with a plate of pastries. They were already chatting, so Aldon could hope that they had been at least usefully occupied.

"My apologies for keeping you waiting," Aldon said, taking a seat and grabbing a croissant off the tray of pastries. "The manor reports to me that all of our runic landmines are back in place, but I did not reweave the fire-spells or the poison-spell yet. I will do those today if no one objects. We should also consider whether we want to vary our defensive spells, since those that ran yesterday will be reporting on those spells to Voldemort. Alex, the patrols last night and this morning?"

Alex studied him for a minute. "Have a good night, Aldon?"

"I'm sorry?" Aldon blinked, keeping his face clear of anything except polite confusion with the long practice of Slytherin House.

"You missed morning practice," Alex replied, a small smile coming on his face. "You also smell of sex. You didn't shower."

Aldon scrambled for an innocuous excuse, before realizing there really wasn't one. He'd simply have to brazen it out, so he pulled out his most disapproving, aristocratic glare and used it. "I hardly think we need to discuss this, Alex. It is my personal life, and I would thank you to stay out of it."

"Need to discuss? No." Alex's smile widened. "Want to? Yes. So, how was it?"

"Hey, we're talking about my friend, here," Archie interceded, his eyebrows fixed in a mock-stern frown even if his lips were tugging into a tiny smile. "I really don't want to know what Aldon and Francesca are getting up to—as long as everyone is consenting, and you're all using protection it's fine. Let's just move on. I was hoping you'd have a bit of time this morning to talk about what the former Dark Society nobility might be able to accept—"

"I didn't teach you any contraceptive spells." Lina interrupted, frowning at Aldon with a hint of concern on her face. "Did you learn one from Edmund? Or Queenscove? I know you won't have learned one from Alex, the dhampir don't use them, but tell me you did learn one somewhere and I don't care where because I do not want to be worrying about a new Rosier Heir right now."

"Wait," Archie spluttered, the half-amused, half-stern expression dropping from his face in an instant, morphing into horror. "Wait. You went and you slept with my friend and you don't know a contraceptive spell? And you—"

He stood up, turning to glare at Alex. "Your unit just doesn't use them?"

Alex leaned back, looking up at Archie with his eyes slightly narrowed and one incisor poking out from his upper lip. "Almost all dhampir are Muggle. I am an exception. As part-humans, we neither carry disease nor do our couplings result in children—"

"Don't give me that." Archie kept glaring at him, his grey eyes stormy. "I'm a Healer in training, I know how biology works. At least some of your couplings have to result in children, otherwise you'd go extinct. You're telling me, that you just don't use any form of protection at all?"

Alex's lip curled, showing a little more of his fangs. "As I said, we don't carry disease. As for the few couplings that we have that do result in children, that is an Order concern and you can trust that we take care of our own, Black."

"That is—" Archie spluttered, turning away and standing to pace an impatient, frustrated line on the other side of the coffee table. It was clear that he did not trust Alex at his word, and Aldon wondered briefly whether he should intercede to bring things back to the security of Rosier Place. Or to Archie's planned discussion about Dark society nobility.

But that would also draw Archie's attention back to him, and he had just spent the night with one of Archie's friends. Somehow, he didn't think that experiencing Archie's ire for himself individually rather than in a general sense would be much better. He glanced at Alex, who was looking increasingly offended.

Archie's voice was rising in pitch. "Have you people not heard of sexually transmitted infections? Gonorrhea ring a bell? Chlamydia? Herpes? Syphilis?! What is this, the eighteenth century? Do I have to worry about disease spreading through our army?! What sort of sexual education do you lot receive at Hogwarts, anyway?"

He whipped around to glare at them—or at least at Aldon and Alex, and it took Aldon a moment to see that Archie actually did want an answer. He threw Lina a pleading look, but she was studying Aldon intently, her eyes narrowed.

"Tell me you did use a contraceptive spell, Aldon," she said, her voice low and dangerous.

"Er—" Aldon cleared his throat, glancing between Lina and Archie, and opting to go with the easier question for the moment. The Hogwarts question, because he didn't have a good answer for the other one. He didn't know any contraceptive spells. He turned to Archie. "At Hogwarts, it is left to the Heads of Houses and not widely discussed. It was not considered appropriate for wide discussion."

"The Gryffindors each receive a booklet at the beginning of their fourth years on the subject, and the Hufflepuffs have a thorough seminar courtesy of Professor Sprout and Madam Pomfrey in their third years. They were always the ones who seemed to know the appropriate spells, when I was at Hogwarts," Alex added, his voice cool and terse. "The Slytherins, as I understand it, are only told to remain abstinent lest they shame their families. As for the Ravenclaws, we have an annual event held before the entire house, the fifth-year debate on sexual ethics. In my year, the topic was sexual assault—what should be considered assault, what should not be considered assault, and why. It was an excellent education."

Aldon hadn't known that—what he had remembered of Professor Snape's fifth-year lecture was an overwhelming sense of embarrassment as Professor Snape, in the iciest voice imaginable, told them all that if he had to write home to their families because any of them had done anything regrettable, they would wish they had never been born.

"Aldon…" Lina's voice was quiet in warning, and for a moment, Aldon was back in childhood, having done something that his mother very much did not like. Clamoured for too much attention during a business visit, perhaps. Or otherwise embarrassing himself before guests.

"You had a debate on sexual ethics," Archie was repeating, the pitch of his voice dipping. "A debate."

"I argued that the sole criterion in determining assault should be consent, and then I had a fight with Tim Kastner who argued that marital rape was not rape. After I countered with my fist and advised the entire House not to marry him, he resorted to several ad hominem attacks on my character." Alex paused, then he smirked slightly. "I won the debate, and company in my bed for several nights thereafter."

Archie gaped for a minute, seemingly at a lost for words, then he put his head in his heads.

"Aldon." Lina repeated, her fingers tapping dangerously on her armchair. "Just so you know, I do not care that you slept with your girlfriend, but please tell me you were sensible enough to use a contraceptive charm."

"I, er—" Aldon looked away, clearing his throat, which had mysteriously gone dry. "I don't know any contraceptive charms. And, er—if anything happens, Lina, I'll take responsibility, I swear it."

He steeled himself for her inevitable reaction. Whatever they were now, Lina had been his mother for his entire childhood, and he had enough of her reactions to his actions in the past that he knew what was coming.

He was not disappointed.

"That is not point, Aldon!" Lina roared, standing up. "The point, you bumbling idiot, is that we are in the middle of a war, and if there's a bad time to knock someone up it is now, do you understand? I know that you enjoy your privacy and learning things on your own, but there are a multitude of books that would have given you the right spells if you had just bothered to look! Or you could have asked someone—anyone! Christie would have taught you the spells with no questions asked, Sirius would have taught you without teasing you. Even Queenscove would have only had dramatics about the fact you didn't already know one before teaching you! What were you thinking?!"

"I think it's pretty clear that he wasn't thinking, Lina," Archie said, looking up with an annoyed, resigned expression on his face. "But I wouldn't worry about it. Even if Aldon is an ignorant arse, Chess isn't—we all have sex ed in first year at AIM, it's a required lecture that they put with our History of Magic series. She probably has a contraceptive amulet, but I'll go find her and check. It's within a day, so I can also give her the Morning After Spell if she doesn't have one and she can learn from the two days of puking. Then, I suppose I'll have to put together a sexual education program for the whole army, as well as conducting widespread STI testing. As if we didn't all have enough to do already."

Lina sighed, turning away and heading for the door. "That sounds fine, Archie. Aldon—I can't even bear to look at you right now. I will go out to begin resetting the defensive spells for you to weave into the keystones this afternoon. We will debrief later, there's little of importance thus far today anyway."

Archie glared at Aldon and Alex for a very long moment, then he drew his wand. Aldon ducked, but whatever it was, Archie had anticipated his dodging and the spell hit him anyway. He checked himself over for a long, panicked second, but it didn't seem to done him any harm.

He let out a slow breath, straightening and glancing over at Alex. His friend was now sporting an even more offended expression, as well as a bright blue glowing mark on his cheek. Judging from the way that Alex's eyes flicked to Aldon's own cheek, Aldon guessed that he was now wearing a similar mark. He reached his hand up to touch it, but he couldn't feel anything.

"STI Diagnostic Charm," Archie said, sounding very unimpressed. "You're both clean. The blue mark disappears after a few minutes. I'm going to go check on Chess—Aldon, if you can find some time in the next day or so for us to talk about what compromise the Dark Society nobles might be willing to come to on the governance issue, that would be great."

He walked out of the room, leaving a stunned silence behind.

Aldon cleared his throat. "I'm surprised he caught you with the spell, Alex."

"I wasn't expecting it," his friend admitted slowly, with a slight wince. "We are also trained as children not to flinch and dodge from Healers. I told him that we didn't carry disease."

"He didn't believe you." Aldon rubbed at his cheek, though he didn't seriously think the blue mark was something that he could rub away. "I have to admit, I am also surprised that the fixation was on the contraceptive charm. I would take responsibility if anything happened—I did think about that."

"I am sure you would. Just as the Order has strong protections in place for anyone carrying a potential dhampiri child." Alex paused, uncrossing his arms, and standing up with a shake of his head. "I regret even bringing it up, now. But you missed morning training. We should go outside and remedy that."

Were the humiliation of the STI Diagnostic Charm not enough, Christie was waiting in his rooms later that night, being very motherly, very understanding, and very intent on teaching him the appropriate contraceptive charm. Aldon gritted his teeth and learned it.

XXX

Chess did, as it happened, have a contraceptive charm.

"Yes, I asked Hermione to spell my necklace for me the last time she was here," she said, looking up from her bowl of yogurt, fruit, and granola with a puzzled look on her face. "I wouldn't be so stupid, Archie."

"Your boyfriend would," Archie grumbled, reaching over to steal a strawberry off her parfait. "Did you know, Hogwarts doesn't have any systematic sexual education? I mean, it sounds like at least half of the Houses get the proper information and they probably spread it to the other half, but really?"

Chess shrugged. "Considering how young they seem to marry here I can't say I'm that surprised." She spooned another mouthful of yogurt in her mouth. "I'm sure that Aldon had very romantic ideas about how he'd take care of me if anything happened."

"And you're dating him?" Archie shook his head. "I have to put together sex ed for everyone now. And then test everyone for STIs. Eighteenth century, much?"

Chess shrugged again. "I find Aldon's notions to be kind of charming, in the right light. And I think most armies include some sort of sex ed—I mean, MASH has a few scenes of sex ed, doesn't it? Soldiers are famous for sleeping around, fathering babies, getting syphilis and stuff. It just makes sense."

"I know." Archie heaved another sigh. "I had just kind of hoped that we'd be the exception, you know? This is going to be so awkward."

It was, in fact, not quite as awkward as he had feared. Writing a sex ed lecture didn't take more than a couple days with Hermione's help, and Dad's advice was to hand it off to the unit captains with an order to for them to deal with it. Archie sat through the lecture done by Kingsley Shacklebolt for the unit at Grimmauld Place, which he thought went well. Kingsley didn't seem overly bothered and simply read the lecture with a straight face and a calm and professional demeanour. He could hope that it had gone just as well throughout the rest of the army.

Rather than specifically checking everyone for STIs, Dad and Uncle James also suggested just folding the STI Diagnostic Charm into a general medical exam, so the half-dozen Healers they now had were instructed to organize a mass campaign of physicals for the whole army. The idea was that any long-lasting injury or condition needed to be identified, cured if possible, and managed if not. STIs simply fell into that category. Archie took his turn with those when he had time, but that wasn't often because he was soon drawn again into a new round of negotiations—this time with the Longbottoms, on behalf of the remaining Light faction Houses.

Their initial correspondence had gone to Uncle James, who had passed it off to Dad for Archie. Archie had replied, suggesting a meeting at Grimmauld Place. The Longbottoms had countered with their own manor, which Archie had refused because their manor wasn't secure. It had taken several days of back and forth, while Archie collected the views of as many of the groups that he could get to, before they finally settled on meeting at Potter Place.

They were in a different position now than they were in the summer. In the summer, the lines hadn't yet been formed—Archie had been trying to get enough consensus to form a resistance against Voldemort at all. As Aldon said, if the Light faction had wanted to set a firm line, that was the time to do it. Six months later, the resistance carried with them a collection of successes and failures and a unity that they had not had before, and the power dynamics had shifted. The remaining Light faction families were only now approaching them to join, and Aldon thought they should grovel for the privilege.

Harry has a more prosaic take on the matter. Unlike most of the people who had joined the treaty in the summer, the Light faction hadn't had a reason to join. Most of the Light faction had been secure—not entirely happy, maybe, and most of them had things that they wished were different, but they hadn't been prepared to go to war over anything.

By contrast, most of the allies that Archie had managed to secure into the alliance had already been prepared to go to war for something—maybe not in that exact time and place, but they had always been prepared for war. Consider groups like the Irish, or the British International Association, or even Aldon—they had each been dissatisfied with the world that existed, to the extent that they had each probably been prepared for war in and of themselves. They were only looking for the best way to go to the mat, and Voldemort provided them with the perfect opportunity to unite with others and increase their chances of success.

Families like the Longbottoms and the noble Ollivanders were purebloods. They might have had problems with the world that was, but nothing to the extent that the other groups had. Unlike the Irish and the British International Association, they hadn't lived for generations with the burning knowledge of their own oppression—unlike Aldon, they hadn't yet had a future they very much wanted yanked away from them. Unlike Archie, they hadn't lost anyone.

Harry thought that a sympathetic approach would work better. Of course, she said, they hadn't been prepared for a treaty negotiation in the summer—the mere fact that they were approaching now rather than negotiating earlier shouldn't be held against them. They were only trying to preserve some semblance of the world that they had known before, and she thought that they'd be open to the reality of compromise.

Archie dearly hoped that she was right. They were six months in, and the treaty had been hammered out. He had met with a representative of every other group that was still with them to talk about the nobility issue, and while he had found some flexibility, he couldn't be sure how far that would go.

The British International Association was largely opposed to any form of the nobility remaining, and while the shifters were open to some form of nobility remaining, they were insistent on greater representation for themselves. Even Leo, speaking for what remained of the Lower Alleys, roughly acknowledged that he was not in favour of the continuance of the previous form of government without greater representation form the Alleys. A general canvassing of the soldiers over the past week showed that they, too, tended to be more in favour of a change in the system of governance than not.

In general, the former Light faction nobles that Archie spoke to simply didn't want to express much of an opinion. They largely agreed in striking the laws on blood status, and more than a few expressed an openness to more voices in the Wizengamot, but most of them didn't seem to want to take a stronger stand. Archie had the strong impression that they certainly wanted to preserve their own status, wealth, and position in society, but did not want to be seen doing so in the face of decades of injustice against their other allies—even Dad and Uncle James had simply shrugged uncomfortably and said that they understood that any world after the war would necessarily be different. Only Neal said that he'd happily avoid the Wizengamot for the rest of his life and to please, strip him of his title.

Aldon thought that most of Dark Society would be even keener on preserving what they could of the world that they had had than the Light faction, a view which Harry's friend Draco had confirmed. The promises they had already made to other parties, particularly the widespread repeal of pureblood supremacy laws, would be difficult enough for Dark Society to accept. Preserving the nobility, along with as many of the historic noble rights, privileges, and responsibilities would make the transition to a new world easier for them. Aldon also thought, however, that most of Dark Society's views on this should be completely ignored, since they weren't part of the alliance, but Archie worried that ignoring their view entirely would make them no better than the Wizengamot.

This was just a first meeting, Archie reminded himself, taking the Portkey Hub over to Potter Place. He would be meeting with them alone—Queenscove was still under siege, and both Dad and Uncle James were making daily visits to check on them. It was good that Queenscove kept Voldemort preoccupied, but they were at a standstill with daily assaults, and Uncle James had started rotating the troops through for relief and to give newer units more experience. Harry was off with Leo, the two of their heads together on an extraction plan for the family of one of their prisoners of war.

At Potter Place, Archie made a tray of tea, set it under one of Chess' Heating Rune paper charms, and set up in the formal reception room. The Potters almost never used it, so he'd had to clean and dust it earlier, but Aldon said that external factors would help him set the tone for the meeting. Archie alone would struggle to establish gravitas—a formal setting would help him. He was early—earlier than he needed to be, to be honest—but at least that gave him a chance to review his notes.

The Longbottoms showed up exactly on time—ten in the morning. Uncle James' unit captain, left in charge while Uncle James himself was away, collected them from the alternate, hidden Apparition point and walked them to the formal reception room. Archie put his notes down, flipped his notebook shut, and stood to greet them.

"Heir Longbottom," he said formally, offering a hand to shake and trying to remember the long-ago etiquette that his tutor had taught him. "Mistress Longbottom. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Heir Black," Frank Longbottom said, his light blue eyes looking Archie over curiously. He looked at Archie's hand with a slight frown, and Archie dropped it quickly—that was right, wizarding nobility didn't shake hands. "Thank you for meeting with us."

"It's my pleasure," Archie replied, instead bowing awkwardly over Mistress Longbottom's hand. "Please, call me Archie. Have a seat."

"Are we expecting anyone else?" Mistress Longbottom asked, looking around curiously. She and Aunt Lily were friends, but Archie wasn't entirely sure how much Aunt Lily had spoken to her since the summer negotiations had fallen through and the war had begun in earnest. He knew that there had been some sort of backchannel between the two of them, and that Lily had probably been working the Longbottoms through her for awhile, but of necessity the communications had probably been limited.

"I'm afraid that everyone else is occupied," Archie replied pleasantly, pouring tea for them both and pushing the tray of sugar and milk towards them. "I am in charge of coordinating allies—well, coordinating allies and a bunch of other things. In a war, we all help where we can."

To be honest, Archie didn't think that was entirely true. Some groups looked to him as a leader, but he rather thought he and Dad shared the coordination role, he and Hermione both worked on the large-scale Healing concerns with Healer Hurst, and he had a ton of help with Bridge. Everyone did their part in a war, but Aldon had told him to say that he was in charge of something. He was important, and the Longbottoms ought to know it.

Heir Longbottom nodded, exchanging a glance with his wife. "I see," he said. "Please, call us Frank and Alice. Our families are friends, and while we've never met, I feel like I know you."

Archie smiled, though it felt a little fake on his face. It was a little strange that, despite the relationship Aunt Lily had with Alice Longbottom, he had never met them or their son, Neville. Harry had only met Neville at school, too. For himself, Archie didn't feel like he knew the Longbottoms at all, but it was probably better to let that go. He preferred first names anyway—the formality of Lord this, Lady that, Heir so-and-so, he had a harder time keeping track of the titles than either Harry or Aldon did.

"Frank and Alice, then," he replied easily, lifting his teacup to his mouth, deciding to move onto the main event. Normally, Archie liked small talk, but the circumstances simply made it feel fake. "I understand you're here on behalf of a number of the former Light faction noble houses?"

"Yes, that's right." Frank smiled in apparent relief. "The past six months have shown us that Voldemort is a serious threat to our way of life—we've been instructed to negotiate with the resistance to see whether and how we might join you."

"Well, joining us is no problem," Archie said with a quick grin, purposely misunderstanding. From Aldon's spy, Finch, he knew what the Light faction wanted, but none of their correspondence had said anything about it. "We're always looking for more soldiers, and if you wanted to enlist, I'm sure we'd be happy to find places for everyone. Outside of fighting, there are also plenty of support roles. We always need more Healers and administrative clerks, for example."

Frank laughed a little, embarrassed. "It's not as simple as that, I'm afraid. We are looking for some concessions from the resistance before we commit. No different than your other allies, Archie, I'm sure."

Archie's smile was stiff. "We are at a different stage of the war now than we were in the summer, Frank. I'm afraid the time for demanding concessions is over."

"We understand," Alice added, her eyes wide as she leaned forward. "But we represent several families, including among us thirty fighting witches and wizards. We also have a dozen trained Healers, and of course we'd provide help in all other areas too."

"But you're also not exactly in a good position yourself," Archie pointed out, setting his teacup back on the table and hiding his envy—twelve trained Healers, that would more than double the number of accredited Healers in their Healing corps! But he didn't need anyone whispering on his shoulder to know that he needed to keep that interest to himself. "Voldemort has solidified his power in the last six months—the space for remaining neutral is shrinking. At this point, if you don't ally with us, you'd be looking at facing Voldemort without support at all."

"That's true." Alice smiled, her round face earnest and open. "But in these circumstances, don't you think we can come to an agreement?"

"That depends on what you're looking for," Archie replied, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgement as he reached for his notebook and a pen. He flipped it to a clean page, setting the notebook on his lap. "As you know, within our alliance, we're already bound by a treaty. There are promises which have already been made, and we will not be reneging on them. As much as we would welcome your support, the support of each of the other groups is equally as important."

"We understand," Alice said quickly, straightening. "We do appreciate that, whatever exists after the war, it will be different from before."

"That's right," Frank agreed. "We are just trying to ensure that the strongest parts of our culture are preserved—that the baby doesn't go out with the bathwater, so to speak."

"For many of our allies, it's hard to see what the baby is in the bathwater," Archie replied, his smile dropping as he looked between the two Longbottoms. "Why don't you tell me what you're looking for, really?"

Frank nodded again, letting out a sigh. "We are looking for a preservation of our status, of the nobility, once the war ends. We are one of the few nations in the world that still has an aristocracy, and we think it is one of our strengths. Noble children are raised specifically for governance—although many Lords and Ladies do have other employment, we are uniquely suited to sitting in the Wizengamot and passing law, while the principles of noblesse oblige guide our moral obligations…"

Archie nodded, though he had stopped listening to the justifications. He had received a very light version of the same education as a child, though he had forgotten most of it, and Aldon had reviewed the main points with him anyway. Archie couldn't help but see its flaws—a noble oligarchy insulated those with power from the rest of the world and promoted long-term social inequality, particularly when combined with blood politics.

Judging from the Longbottoms' faces, though, Archie wondered how much Frank and Alice themselves believed. He had never talked to Neville himself, so he didn't know what sort of education Neville had received, though he knew that he and Harry had had highly pared down educations compared to most nobles.

After about four minutes, he thought that Frank had gone on for long enough, and cut him off. "I must respectfully disagree with you, Frank," he said genially, tilting his lips back into an affable smile. "Having been educated abroad, all I can see when you speak are my classmates who are excluded from Wizarding Britain by the laws passed by the Wizengamot."

"The blood purity laws are regrettable," Alice said instantly. "We've never been in favour of them—neither have most of the Light faction that we represent. We agree that they need to be repealed immediately, and Hogwarts once again made open to all. That has nothing to do with our governance."

Archie studied her for a moment, deciding not to point out that the Longbottoms themselves had twice voted in favour of blood discrimination: once in 1981, and again for the Marriage Law. "Respectfully, I disagree. Nobles are all historically wizarding families, and with the incentive to consolidate power, nobles are even more pureblooded than the average population. How can we possibly fairly make laws that affect the general population when those laws will rarely affect us? Muggleborns must be electable to the Wizengamot, and a voice needs to be put in government for the people."

"Perhaps a few more speaker roles could be added to ensure that the views of the people are heard," Alice conceded, her eyebrows pinching together in worry. "But the nobility is specifically educated for governance—"

Archie laughed a little. "I haven't been. Neither has Harry. Has Neville?"

"Well, we considered that there was plenty of time, as your parents likely did too," Alice replied with a small grimace. "Neville is third in line, and both the Lords Potter and Black are young. We do take your point, and a few more speaker roles, such as for Muggleborns, for the shifters, for major wizarding communities could be something that the Light faction would consider."

"One speaker role, among hundreds of noble seats?" Archie shook his head. "That's a drop in the bucket. That is not enough. To counter—the alliance would consider preserving the nobility in a ceremonial role, with all law-making and governance to be shifted to an elected Wizengamot. Nobles would be invited to campaign for election, the same as any other witch or wizard, and you would retain your title, key property holdings, and wealth. There would be no political privilege or advantage, with the rule of privilege replaced by the rule of law."

"That's…" Frank let the word trail off, exchanging a look with Alice. "I don't know how well the Light faction would handle that."

Archie shrugged, closing his notebook. Aldon had emphasized with him that there was no need to come to an agreement in one day—the new power differential meant that the former Light faction needed the alliance more than the alliance needed them. His own unconcern would also highlight, to the Light faction, that the alliance did not need them and that they would need to make real concessions for a deal. "Do you need to go back and discuss? We don't need to settle this today—we can meet again when it works for you. Grimmauld Place is more convenient for me than asking to borrow Uncle James' manor."

"Will your father, or the Lord Potter be joining us?" Alice asked, her tone only curious though Archie thought there was probably more to it than idle curiosity. "Or Lily—I do miss her."

"No," Archie said with an easy smile, standing up. "As I said, I am in charge of coordinating most of the allies, so negotiations are entrusted to me. Dad and Uncle James have their own responsibilities, and Aunt Lily is abroad fundraising and raising awareness. I'll walk you to the edge of the grounds, to a different Apparition point than before, and I'll look forward to your next owl."

It took three meetings, over almost a week, for Archie to hash out an agreement with the Longbottoms. On one hand, it was far easier than it had been over the summer. With only the two groups, Archie on behalf of the alliance and the Longbottoms on behalf of the former Light faction, he had been able to get to the point quickly. Indeed, most of the week had been consultations with their own people over what they might each accept. Frank and Alice Longbottom were also more sympathetic negotiators than the Lady Longbottom had been, so in the end they settled for division of the Wizengamot such that one-third of the seats would be held by the historic nobility, while the remaining two-thirds would be elected offices. No one had been entirely happy with the compromise, but it was tolerable, which was all that Archie could really have wanted.

At the end of February, he and Dad headed north to Scotland for the Clanmeet. There was a possibility the Clanmeet would call on them, so he and Dad had spent most of the last week preparing for any question that they thought the Clans might ask. His head felt filled to bursting—Dad took care of the notes for troops, likely future military manoeuvres, army numbers, safehouse numbers and plans, but Archie was responsible for fielding any questions about support, including intelligence, supplies, supply lines, the Healer corps, communications, and international aid. He had all the information in a folder under his arm, but he knew, he just knew that if someone asked him something, he would never be able to find the information in his folder fast enough.

The Clanmeet took place in a shallow bowl in the Scottish Highlands. The hillsides were dotted with stone benches, with a flat, stone table in the centre where the Clan Lairds and Ladies would sit. The hillsides were well-warded, with each of the eight Clans having invested time and power over centuries to guard their secret meeting place. A loch bounded one side of the bowl, the dark water glassy and still.

In late February, snow lined both the hillsides and the loch had been partly crusted over with ice. Archie shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around himself—having been at AIM in the American South for most of the past five winters, and being a Londoner, he had never really gone through a cold winter. He quickly traced a Heating Rune on his cloak, wishing that he'd thought to wear his AIM sweatshirt, the one with the integrated Heating Charm, rather than the wizarding dress that Dad and Harry thought would go over better.

The Clans weren't the Irish. They were open to a new world and wanted one, but they were far more integrated with Wizarding Britain than the Irish or the BIA. The primary effect of the exclusion laws, for the Scots, had been an influx of halfbloods into the Clans. Before the laws had come into effect, the Clans had existed as an outdated relic—they had been small, essentially family organizations. Some of the families were big, such as the MacMillans, but most of them had been small, like the Camerons or the Boyds. In total, the Clans had probably accounted for less than a third of the witches and wizards in Scotland.

With the passage of the 1981 reforms, however, the Clans had held the keys to Hogwarts—for those that swore fealty to the Clans. Halfblood families, where at least one parent had gone to Hogwarts and who had valued the experience, suddenly found themselves in a position where their children wouldn't receive the same education that they had had, unless certain measures were taken. Some English halfblood families, such as the Clearwaters, had moved to Scotland, integrating into the Clans. Clan membership swelled, especially for families traditionally associated with populated Muggle areas such as Glasgow and Edinburgh. Now, more than half of all mages living in Scotland belonged to a Clan.

Few visitors were allowed into a Clanmeet, and the bench that Quinn Cameron pointed him to, among the traditional Cameron seats, was icy cold. Archie brushed the snow off his seat and sat down, setting his folder on his lap. The cold of the stone bled through his cloak and trousers, and the wind blowing off the loch was brisk and biting.

It took many long minutes for the Clans to file in—the meeting wouldn't start until two in the afternoon, but Dad had thought that it would be best to arrive early to watch the Clans as they filed in. The Camerons were there early, seated behind them, their red-and-green tartans distinctive. To his left, he spotted Tobias Maclean sitting among the Boyds, their tartans green and black. Toby flashed him a quick smile and waved to him, before he turned to speak to the young man beside him. The Lady Ross came in wearing a black cloak quartered in white, taking a seat at the table for Clan Ross.

He didn't recognize the tartans well enough to be able to identify the other Clans as they came in. There was a group in yellow and black, another in red and black. A third group in red and green, but in different proportions than the Camerons; a fourth, a particularly large contingent, in blue and green. The smallest group, only a few rows of benches, wore blue and black.

Archie waited, shivering a little in the cold. Dad, sitting beside him, was tense—his eyes roved over the benches with caution, eyeing people as they walked in and took their seats. People were murmuring amongst themselves, but there were no smiles among them. A few people were crossing the aisles to speak to other Clans, but fewer than Archie had expected. For the most part, people were glaring at each other, not chatting.

"Something's off," Dad whispered suddenly, nudging him with one shoulder. "Everyone's wands are close to hand. Most people are wearing duelling holsters, and those that aren't keep checking their wand pockets. Look at the way Quinn is moving through the Clans, whispering—she's passing some sort of message along."

"The last time we were here, wands were drawn," Archie reminded him quietly. "Quinn says it's pretty normal for someone to draw their wand at these things. They don't get along at the best of times."

"That's true." Dad let out a slow breath, looking around again. "But this isn't like that. It's too widespread, there are too many people who are too prepared. Normally I'd expect a few hotheads in every group, but this isn't just the hotheads, it's everyone. Turn on your ACD, Arch, and get your ward up. How long does the ward last? Do we have one of Harry's Protection Potions with us?"

"Batteries are full—six hours?" Archie guessed, trying to remember what Chess had told him. "But I can turn it on, get the ward up, and turn the ACD off to save power. But if the ward falls, I'd need to turn it back on to get the ward up again. I have one of the Protection Potions, but I think—it'll make us look like we don't trust the Clans, it's too obvious."

Dad looked around, pensive, his lower lip caught between his teeth for a moment. "You're right. Get your ward up, then turn it off. If anything happens, hit the ground and turn your ACD back on—whatever happens, I think they're going to at least have a pretense of a meeting first."

"Okay," Archie agreed quietly, reaching for the device on his wrist. It was only a minute for his ACD to boot up, and his ward snapped into life around him thirty seconds later. He turned it off, looking around as the rumble of quiet murmurs and whispers died down.

Eight people were now seated at the table in the front—the eight Clan Lairds and Ladies. Unlike noble houses, Clan leader positions were not a matter of succession, but were won by power and skill. The eight people sitting in the centre of the bowl, around the stone table, were the strongest, wiliest, or most powerful of each of the Clans.

"Clans." The Lady Ross did not stand, but her voice carried around the Clanmeet anyway. "Despite the tardiness of certain groups, it seems that we're finally all here and ready to begin. Given the circumstances, I think we can put off other business until the spring Clanmeet. The sole issue we will be discussing today is our approach to the war against Voldemort. How do we step up our efforts?"

"We do as the Irish have done," a tall, broad-chested man said, leaning forward. His red-and-green tartan marked him as the Laird Cameron. "We make a strike for our independence. We deprive him of our territories, and with the support of our allies to the south, we keep them. We need to take land—that is how war works. Just defending our territories will get us nowhere if those in the south still believe they still own it."

"Now wait a minute," another man protested—one in yellow quartered in black. "We haven't decided on independence yet, have we? We have agreed to oppose Voldemort only, and in return there will be a referendum among all Scottish witches and wizards for independence. I remind you that not every Clan is in favour of leaving."

"MacLeod, it's only you and MacLaggen that are opposed," a thin, dark-haired woman with ice-blue eyes broke in. "The McKinnons are in favour of independence—as I understand it, only the MacMillans remain neutral. MacMillan?"

Everyone around the table looked towards a meaty man with a thick, bushy mustache, wearing blue and green. He didn't reply, his eyes flicking around the table, and Archie had the strong sense that he was watching the audience as well.

There was a laugh, as sharp as cut glass. A woman with snow-white hair, held in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, shook her head in disgust. "Even slower than the McKinnons, MacMillan."

"We consider it proper to take all the time necessary to come to a decision of this import," the Lady McKinnon replied tersely, though she was frowning intently. "That said, the MacMillans have had the same time as the rest of us to come to their position."

"The non-noble Clans against the noble ones, as always," the Laird Boyd said, with a smirk. Archie only recognized him by his green-and-black kilt. "What would it take, to get you lot on side? The Boyds are also in favour of independence. We note that if there is a time for a strike, it is now—Voldemort is distracted in the south, and the Ministry is short-staffed. They've pulled Aurors from the Edinburgh office to London, and the news reports over the past several months has led most of the English families to move out of our lands."

"We still have a land border to defend, Boyd." Lady Ross said, her voice low in warning. "And we still have more non-combatants than the Irish did."

"Getting cold feet, Ross?" The white-haired woman's voice was light, but there was danger in the tilt of her mouth. "I wouldn't have thought it of you."

"Careful, McAllister. I took you down in a duel once, and I'll do it again," Lady Ross replied. "I thought that it was worth reminding everyone that we are not the Irish. Even with the change in circumstances, we do not have a guaranteed victory, and it is far easier for Voldemort to pull his troops back from his siege and slam it to our forces instead. Easier, even, given how close Queenscove is to our border—barely a skip over."

"He's been engaged in his siege on Queenscove for weeks—do you think he'll be broken off that easily, Ross?" The Laird Boyd asked, leaning back in his seat.

"Heir Black? Perhaps you should address this matter," the Lady Ross said, turning a severe expression on him. According to Harry, she never looked anything less than severe, and Archie barely avoided tripping over his feet as he stood up.

"Voldemort is, er—" Archie cleared his throat, standing up and fighting the instinct to check in his folder for Aldon's written report. He knew Aldon's report, he didn't need to go searching for it. "Voldemort is stubborn. Our intelligence agents report that he can't bear to be seen as anything less than all-powerful—once he struck at Queenscove, he expected to win it, and pulling back with no victory is, for him, an admission of defeat. He won't pull back, not until Queenscove has fallen or unless he's forced to pull back to defend other territory."

"And is Queenscove close to falling?" The Laird Cameron looked at him, blue eyes serious.

"No." Dad stood up beside him, taking over. "Queenscove has considerable defences. While they are bottled in the fortress, neither is Voldemort close to breaching their walls. He wasn't prepared for a siege with magically-enforced Muggle fortifications, and did not bring ballista or have liquid fire prepared. We have taken steps to ensure that he does not have the supplies to create liquid fire. With the Portkey Hubs, and barring treachery, with a strong Lord at the helm, Queenscove can likely stand indefinitely."

"Then action in the north, especially in the northeast, will force him to withdraw to face us," a large man with shaggy blonde hair cut in, the first time he had spoken. "If Queenscove is fine, is it really wise for us to draw his attention?"

"If we're going to strike for independence, rather, this is the ideal time," the Laird Boyd repeated. "It will take time for Voldemort to pull his forces from Queenscove, gather the rest of his forces and throw them against the north. We could have taken half of Scotland, by then."

There was a murmur of agreement around the table.

"I see the Boyds and the Camerons are ready to fight," the Lady Ross said. "The McAllisters and McKinnons as well, and I will state for the record that the Rosses will fight with them. MacLaggen? MacLeod? MacMillan?"

"No." The Laird MacLaggen sighed, shaking his head with a disappointed grimace. "This is foolishness. The MacLaggens are a small Clan—we are not prepared for war, and we never will be. We don't have the numbers of the rest of you."

"I do believe that is your fault, MacLaggen," the Laird Cameron growled. "How many halfblood families close to your ancestral lands have the rest of us taken in, because you refused to abide by the Clanmeet resolution of 1982? Your Clan has always ridden on our coattails—you do not deserve your position, or is it that you have always been envious of the English succession laws, and are afraid of a halfblood fairly taking your title from your son?"

The Laird MacLaggen's face twisted, and he looked ready to draw his wand, but the Laird MacLeod interrupted.

"You cannot proceed to bring war onto our lands without a unanimous vote," the Laird MacLeod said evenly, ignoring MacLaggen beside him. "Voldemort would come against all Scots, not just your Clans. Those rules have been set in stone for centuries—war with England is always paid for in blood."

"Sometimes, MacLeod, that price is worth it for what we might win." The Lady McKinnon tilted her head slightly, staring at him with her strange, too-light eyes. "Have you forgotten that?"

"And sometimes, when a decision appears to be inevitable, it is better to go with the flow than it is to fight it." The Laird MacMillan sighed, throwing a look of warning at his own people—Archie spotted several of the people in the green-and-blue tartan tensing, exchanging looks. "MacMillan will not stand in the way of a majority vote. If the non-noble clans wish to strike for independence, Clan MacMillan will be with you."

"MacMillan!" The Laird MacLeod barked, his forehead creasing in surprise. "Are you really—"

"Look around you, MacLeod!" The Laird MacMillan waved one hand around him. "Feel the temperature of the other Clans! The non-noble Clans are already prepared to spend blood, and they're prepared to kill us alongside Voldemort if they have to!"

Archie heard a rustle of movement, his only warning before Dad grabbed the back of his cloak and shoved him face-first onto the ground, pushing him almost underneath the bench. For a second, he couldn't hear anything, just a loud roaring with a stampede of feet, cries and screams, and then words started sorting themselves out from din. Spells—attack spells, shield spells, hexes that Archie didn't recognize. He had never been very good at Defense, and he huddled down a little closer to the ground.

"Stay down," Dad hissed at him, sitting in the snow in front of him, his wand moving to set up shields. "I don't—"

Dad hesitated, cautiously looking up over the bench, then he cursed.

"We're in a bad spot, Arch," he said quietly. "Not quite the middle of it, but most of the Camerons behind us are involved and throwing spells. We're likelier to get trampled if we try to move out of it, so just stay here, and stay quiet."

"Is this going to last long?" Archie asked, trying to look around Dad's bulk to see what was happening.

"No." Dad shifted, trying to cover his view. "Arch, I don't want you to see this. Shut your eyes—it's going to be a massacre. They planned this—they wanted to do the strike for independence, and to hell with internal dissenters."

"Dad, I'm going to have to provide first aid when it's over." Archie said reasonably, squishing to move into a better position. There wasn't any room for him to move into a better position. "My Healing Oaths mean I have to. Is it like last time?"

"No." Dad's voice was final. "Last time it was just a few hotheads. This time, it's—well."

"Well?"

"Well, the Lairds MacLaggen and MacLeod are already dead," Dad replied grimly. "And Professor McGonagall is in the thick of it instead of trying to stop it."

Archie didn't reply, instead listening to the yelling, the screaming, and the heavy footfalls on the crunch of snow. He heard cracking, like some had taken the fight onto the ice, and there was an empty roar, wind and movement and maybe fire. He could smell fire—not woodsmoke from a fireplace, not even like the fires he was familiar with from a Potions lab, but something with the sharp, tangy scent of magic. People were throwing fire at each other.

Through the gap between Dad's shoulder and the stone bench, he could see feet moving, cloaks dragging on the ground and the flash of multi-coloured lights. He caught sight of a wisp of smoke, but it didn't look like any of the fire spells were catching. It was probably too cold and wet for anything to catch, so the fire he saw was mostly being thrown as a weapon.

It felt like ages that he was curled up under the bench—long enough for his muscles to start cramping, long enough for the cold of the snow and earth and stone to seep into his bones. He couldn't get his wand out—he had gotten his ACD up and active, but in the close quarters he found himself, he just didn't have the space to draw his wand. Instead, he traced a fire rune in the ground, channelling it with his magic. He was pretty sure it was the only thing that kept his fingers from frostbite.

In reality, it was probably less than twenty minutes before he started hearing people screaming their surrender. Without the Lairds MacLeod and MacLaggen, their Clans were probably not just taken unawares, but had been without leadership while fighting. When Dad finally heaved himself off the ground, reaching one hand to help Archie out from under the bench, Archie was steeling himself for the worst.

The Clanmeet grounds didn't disappoint. The snow wasn't white anymore, but a churned, dirty mix of red, black, and grey. Archie swallowed, looking towards the central table—the Laird MacMillan was directing the bodies of the Lairds MacLeod and MacLaggen be laid out on the shore of the loch, while the Lady Ross was watching as a mix of people wearing the tartans of Clans Cameron, Ross, Boyd, and others lined the remainder of the two clans up.

There were bodies on the ground—not as many as Archie had feared, but still bodies. He handed his leather folder to Dad, drawing his wand and heading for the bodies.

"He's a Healer," he heard Dad saying to someone. "He has his Oaths, let him see to the bodies."

Archie wasn't the only one—he could see several others that he didn't recognize making their way forward. Another group stayed among the Clans that had led the attack, checking for the minor wounds, and a third went towards the ones being lined up as prisoners. The still bodies, though, were the people who were injured badly enough that they could not help themselves, or they were the dead.

The first one he came to was dead—a boy close to his own age, a recent graduate of Hogwarts, if Archie had to guess. The boy's eyes were glassy, empty, and Archie could see that whatever had hit him, it was too late. He shut the boy's eyes and moved on.

The next body was breathing shallowly, bleeding out. Archie shook his head, reaching in his bag for his emergency potions and pulling out a Blood Replenishing Potion before he started working. A distant part of his mind reminded him that he only had three Blood Replenishers, and that there could be people who needed it more.

But if he tried to go and do a full triage, this person would bleed out, so he started working and tried not to think about it too much. He didn't want to think about what had happened—he didn't want to ruminate on the fact that the Clans had effectively turned on themselves, killing their own to see that the majority got their way. He could hear the Lady McAllister asking who would step forward to act as the new Lairds MacLeod and MacLaggen, and to ask whether they would support a strike for independence.

The question was a loaded one. There was no chance that anyone would say otherwise—not when at least five Clans had voted with their wands soundly in favour of independence. He tuned her out, throwing himself into the Healing. Someone had stepped forward, acting as a triage Healer, and someone else pulled out more Blood Replenisher Potions, and he was soon working shoulder-to-shoulder with several Scottish Healers that he barely knew.

The skies had grown dark before he finished. There were fewer dead than he could have expected—only eight people had fallen, but few in the two targeted Clans had escaped injury. At least, he thought, there was that. Not too many people had died, but even the eight people that had been killed had been a waste.

But it wasn't his place to say that. Clan politics were not his politics.

"Ready to go?" Dad asked roughly, many hours later, wrapping him in a tight, warm, hug. Archie pressed his face into Dad's shirt, breathing in the warm, slightly smoky scent of Dad, and Dad patted him on the back. That pat held more understanding and reassurance than words ever could, and he breathed out a long, heavy sigh. Not relief, not sorrow nor exhaustion, but something like all three, maybe. "We need to go and report to the rest of our allies. They'll be mobilized and ready to act within the week, so we need to get going."

"Yeah," Archie said, pulling away and shaking his head quickly. "Yeah. Let's go. People have been expecting this, so we can start meeting as early as tomorrow."

Fortunately for them all, the plans for the event that the Scots struck for independence had already been made. A few words to Lina, Moody and Uncle James, and Moody was up in the Scotland for most of the next week finalizing coordination plans and helping the Clans with their own plans. Lina was drowning in safehouse defence reviews, assessing exactly how many units could be pulled off defensive duties at the safehouses to be sent north, while Uncle James went through their ally families both new and old to solicit support and to pick the units that would go north.

Mobilization moved as quickly as possible, but slower than anyone wanted because it had to be quiet. There were no mass Portkeys—instead, small groups slipped through the Portkey Hub network, several times a day, to the various Clanhomes. Sixty witches and wizards, the most that the safehouses in the south could spare, went north, as well as the one Order unit to handle the vampire threat.

Archie stayed behind, at Grimmauld Place, as Dad went north. As the Black Heir, he couldn't do anything else—one of them had to stay, and Archie could coordinate communications as well from Grimmauld Place as anywhere else. Similarly, Harry had been left in charge of Potter Place, and clearly Uncle James was nervous because Leo had been left with her in charge of the single unit that had been left for them.

Archie didn't even have that. He had half a unit under Kingsley Shacklebolt, and in the event that Voldemort found the troops to strike at Grimmauld Place, his orders were to get the hell out and blow up the manor. They could take the loss.

XXX

The Queenscove walls were as high today as they were the day before that, and the day before that. The height of the walls themselves never changed, and neither did the height of the blocky, triangular structures that dotted the land around them. He didn't know what they were called, nor did he care, but they were clearly some sort of defence. There were six of them, forming a star around Queenscove, forcing His Lord Madman into splitting their forces as they approached the fortress.

The dips formed by the structures and the sheer, imposing walls were deep, shadowed. More than two weeks into the siege, and it also stank—of still, stinking water, of the human waste that was thrown over the walls at them daily, of the burning pitch that seemed to be tossed at them every few days. They liked fire, the Queenscoves—fire came at them at some point every day, counterbalancing the icy, freezing cold winds that seemed to hit them every night.

Now, if only the fires came at the same time as the winds, that would be ideal. Strangely, they never did.

Most of the army was clustered around one of the several fires that dotted the landscape. As the sun set, it got colder, and even First Citizen Lunatic didn't like leaving the warmth of a fire. Neither did the Ice Bitch, though Caelum couldn't help but find some amusement in that fact. Parkinson was so cold that he always thought that the cold would be her natural element, but she could always be found in a prime spot close to a fire after dusk fell. Usually, close to the psychopath himself.

Caelum didn't linger near them. After seven years in Durmstrang in the north of Russia, the cold that swept them every night was little different than the cold that he had lived in for the entirety of his schooling. As a result, he drew the night watch more often than not, and he didn't care because the less he saw of the madman and his lieutenants, the better.

He caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye and turned his head to follow it. A man, barely visible in his dark clothes, was stealing over the heather towards the fires. He wasn't trying to hide himself and moved with far too much confidence, so Caelum doubted it was the enemy. Indeed, the pronounced limp told him clearly from a distance exactly who was approaching the camp.

Caelum drew his wand and slipped after him anyway. He had to be seen doing his job, after all, and he couldn't even deny that he liked this part of his work. Liked, in the sense that he didn't dislike it, in the sense that he wasn't torturing someone and that any part of his work that didn't involve torturing people was pleasant in comparison. He fired a non-verbal Trip Jinx at the shape, and Rookwood went down hard in the dirt.

"What have we here?" Caelum asked, his lip curling in disgust. Not that Caelum felt anything whatsoever for Rosier, but Rookwood had once been Rosier's closest friend, and yet it had taken surprisingly little for the man to turn. Even before Voldemort had risen, Caelum himself had used Rookwood as a second in his ill-fated duel against Rosier. The man lying at his feet was pathetic, and Caelum couldn't resist levelling a kick at him. "Rookwood."

"I need to see Voldemort," Rookwood spat, staggering as he pulled himself to his feet. "I have information."

Caelum snorted, holding back a sarcastic comment or two on his personal thoughts about Rookwood. Primarily, that the man was a weak, yellow-bellied coward, or that he was a dirty, two-faced bastard, or that he was a pathetic son of a bitch and should stay crawling in the dirt where he belonged. The man was turning into a perfect trigger, which Caelum sorely needed the closer he stayed to Voldemort.

"What is it?" Caelum asked, because he had to ask. Anyone would ask, and he would stand out if he didn't ask, but more importantly he had the ability, now, to get an early sense of whether this information would be damaging or not.

There was also the possibility that Rosier had planted information, but Caelum didn't think he'd know planted information from real information. It was just better that he remain above the curve, so to speak.

"I said it was for Voldemort, not for you, Lestrange," Rookwood snapped, pushing his way past Caelum with a hard shove. Caelum staggered backwards, cursing—Rookwood had at least three stone on him, so while Caelum thought he could take Rookwood in a magical fight, a physical fight was not in his interests. Rookwood stalked off to the main fire, around which Lord Nutter and his lieutenants were circled.

Caelum paused, looking around the dark, rocky lands, the imposing fortress with its mage-lights lining the walls and triangular fortifications on the outside. It looked quiet, so he could afford to eavesdrop—indeed, Nutcase and his lieutenants would likely think less of him if he didn't. Blyat.

"Ah, Rookwood," Voldemort said, spotting him and gesturing for him to approach. "What news, friend?"

Rookwood's jaw tightened at the last word. "Dorian Prewett caught me when I was at Rosier Place. The Scots are planning a revolt with the assistance of the resistance. They're expecting to strike next week, in the north-east—away from the heartland where they have more support from the people."

"Prewett. I haven't heard from him in months," Voldemort replied, his voice light and considering. "I thought he had been identified."

"I could not say." Rookwood's face was blank. "I would not know."

"You wouldn't, would you?" Voldemort laughed, the sound high-pitched and somehow uncharacteristic. The sound grated on Caelum's nerves, chilling him, even if it should have been laughable rather than unnerving. "Edmund Rookwood, who knows nothing, sees nothing, and thinks nothing."

Parkinson, wrapped in a white fur cloak that Caelum had no doubt had been stolen from someone else, let out her own laugh, while Rookwood stayed stiffly, stubbornly still. Not even a twitch, and Caelum suppressed an annoyed sort of respect within him. He could not respect Rookwood—not even a little.

If Rookwood had been smart, he would have gotten the hell out of Britain while he still could. He would have taken the four or five months where he and his idiot wife had been largely ignored, and made a run for it. And he hadn't, so he was a coward, and any other feelings would be nothing but weakness. Any feeling other than hate, powerful hate, was too dangerous for Caelum to feel.

Voldemort looked up at Rookwood, his dark blue eyes widening. Even if Voldemort was sitting and Rookwood standing, it was clear enough where the power lay. Rookwood's breath shortened, and Caelum knew that Voldemort was in his mind, seeing the interaction for himself; a few seconds later, Rookwood tore himself away, clutching at his head.

"It seems to be good information," Voldemort said finally. "Certainly, based on the way that Prewett pulled Rookwood aside and his own nervousness, Prewett knows he is being tracked. Likely, while Rosier has made his suspicions known, he is not fully trusted. Even Rookwood thinks his friend is too flippant, too distant, to be fully trusted."

"The Rosiers are a historically Dark house," Parkinson added, her voice delicate, hiding the iron within her. She wore an amused smile on her lips, but there was nothing warm about it. Caelum had not named her the Ice Bitch for nothing. "Whatever his blood, Rosier would have difficulty overcoming historic Dark prejudice. A Light House like the Prewetts would be more inclined to believe their Heir than Rosier's word, especially given Rosier's age."

Voldemort smirked. "That is their failure, then," he said, leaning back. "McNabb, have the Auror contingent in London shipped north to Edinburgh immediately—while the so-called resistance might have to hide their movements, we certainly don't. We'll arrest the lot of them as they move."

"That may be harder than you believe, Voldemort," Zajac, one of their two Stormwings, said, sounding coldly clinical. "How are they moving? Portkeys? Mass Apparition?"

"Portkey Hubs," Rookwood said, swallowing and looking away. "I've heard comments at Rosier Place. Nothing concrete."

"Portkey Hubs would explain much," the other Stormwing, Ozturk, muttered with an annoyed shake of his head. "Explains how Queenscove continues to have pitch to throw over the walls, and why their defenders never seem to be exhausted. Forget the barrier, they're getting supplies in through their Portkey Hub and their troops are being rotated. This siege has been a useless exercise."

Voldemort glared at the two men, but if there were any two men who were untouchable, it was the Stormwings. They were paid, and they did their jobs of planning war, but they were outside the usual command. Both had made clear that if either of them were touched by any of Voldemort's enforcers, they would be gone, no matter the money paid to them. They were not loyal, and they were not expected to be. In any case, Dolohov had said that torturing a Stormwing did no good—they were acclimated to it, and when they hit their breaking point, they apparently entered a berserker phase and killed anyone and everyone around them before returning to normal.

"Clever of them, though," Zajac added, his voice thoughtful. "I hadn't thought they'd have the expertise. Setting up a network of Portkey Hubs is no small task. But that means their troops have an easy way north, and they're likely transporting right into fortresses much like this one." He tilted his head towards Queenscove.

"Is it possible to break into their network?" Voldemort asked, a look of distaste crossing his face. From watching him over months, Caelum knew that the mere fact that he had to ask was difficult for the psychopath—Voldemort needed to be in control all the time, both all-powerful and all-knowing.

"Not without knowing the runic shortcodes they have chosen." Ozturk shook his head. "And not without being accepted by the receiving Hub. Not likely."

"Your suggestion, then," Voldemort snarled, his anger a tight, coiled spring.

Zajac shrugged, looking at his compatriot. "We would need the runic short-codes to even begin, but Portkey Hubs require both a request by the initiating Hub and acceptance by the responding Hub. The responding Hub can deny access. If we knew the extent of the network and had the manpower, I would suggest hitting all of them at once, maybe, but that would depend on the extent of the network, their locations, their defences… we do not have enough information."

"Our other contacts said nothing about these Hubs," Parkinson said, tilting her head in consideration. "Perhaps they are not as widespread as that."

"Without information, we can't tell." Zajac shrugged. "Our suggestion would be to retreat from Queenscove, to bring as many troops north as possible, and to meet them and arrest when they make a move. We still have the benefit of legitimacy—we can openly move troops north and impose martial law. That will make it easier to identify insurgents and respond."

There was a silence, and Voldemort's eyes flickered with anger and madness. The last, Caelum recognized very well, since it was in his mother's eyes almost any time he looked at her. He tensed, wondering whether the Stormwings saw it too and just didn't care, but the moment passed.

"Your advice is sound. McNabb, have the Department of Justice issue a martial law order to restrict movement in Scotland, and ship any units not otherwise engaged north." He looked around at the numerous fires dotting the landscape and scowled, his face a mask of suppressed rage. "We will pull out of Queenscove in the morning and go north as well. Lestrange!"

Dermo! Caelum scrambled to get in character—he glared at Rookwood, reminding himself of Rookwood's cowardice and weakness, then at the Ice Bitch, who was nothing except beautiful and cunning and yet somehow had won such a position of power in Voldemort's circle. He hated Rookwood. He hated them. He was Caelum Lestrange, and he hated everyone, and everything, and there was nothing in him except hate.

Hate was so tiring.

"Lestrange, I know you're there." Voldemort's voice held a hint of stern impatience. "Come out—we must talk."

No time. Russian. He was Caelum Lestrange, schooled abroad, and Russian would be a quick defence while he got his emotions in order. Blyade-mudinniy pizdo-proyob.

He walked forward, into the centre of the firelight. Rookwood was still there, and he averted his eyes quickly. Caelum's lip curled—the man was so easily cowed, it was pathetic. He looked up at Voldemort.

"Sto ya v borsch nasal, sto li?" He asked, and he heard Zajac's sharp laugh behind him. Voldemort glared at Zajac.

"He asked, what, did he shit in the soup?" the man said, still chuckling. "That's all."

"Language, Lestrange," Voldemort warned. "There are women present."

Caelum's eyes flickered to Parkinson. It was hard to imagine that she counted as a woman—she was beautiful, yes, and the shape was right, but he thought she had more in common with a selkie. Or a siren, or a Veela—any number of the extremely dangerous things that happened to be shaped like a woman but were unequivocally not. Underneath the beautiful exterior, there was nothing but cruel machinations and rot. He hated her, and he wondered if he should risk responding to the comment and telling the harpy exactly what he thought of her. Alone, he would likely have done so, but before Voldemort, perhaps not.

"A good decision, Lestrange." Voldemort growled, staring at him, and there was a piercing pain in his head as the man ruffled through his head. Anger, anger, anger and hate—Caelum had many memories of pain, and he held them at the forefront of his mind. He was angry, at everyone and everything, at the world that had given him his mother and sent him to Durmstrang. He was angry at Durmstrang, where he had been no one, and he was angry at Wizarding Britain, of which he would always be a bit of an outsider no matter his talents. He hated everything, everyone and everything, that had given him the life that he had led.

"And Rosier?" Voldemort asked, and Caelum scowled. He hated Rosier. Rosier had humiliated him in front of his peers and had stolen a life-debt from him. He wanted to pay Rosier back for that very much, because if there was a low point in his life, that duel had counted for it. He hadn't even wanted to duel, not really—he had very much preferred to simply walk away, but he had been shoved into it, and things had ended up as they had ended up.

He wanted vengeance on Rosier. He hated Rosier, and he wanted to kill him, and he hated having the life-debt hanging over him.

"I see," Voldemort said, nodding. "And you're loyal to me, Lestrange?"

Caelum glared at him. "As much as any one of your lieutenants can be loyal to you, I am," he said in a clipped voice, filling his head with red hot rage and black hatred to cover any hint of anything else. "I think that every one of us is here for something. My charming mother is a sadist and she is loyal because you provide her with room to spread her talents; Parkinson there is loyal because you give her hope for a future that she could not have had otherwise. I am here because I want vengeance—is that so different than anyone else?"

"I suppose not." Voldemort's thin lips flickered into a small smile. "Well said, Lestrange. Return to your patrol, and I will be sure to keep you in mind for greater responsibilities later."

Caelum bowed, a short bow whose degrees he didn't bother counting, and walked briskly out of the centre of firelight.

He was more than a hundred feet away, well out of the range of any fires or mage-lights, before he allowed himself to collapse on the ground, shaking. His knees were weak, weaker than the Occlumency that he had never truly mastered and that he had only just managed to pull to cover his espionage. Had Voldemort found out he was a spy, he would be dead.

No, he corrected himself. He would not be dead, not yet. He would have been handed over to his mother, and she would have spent many long days making him scream and give up every piece of information he had ever passed along, and he would die only when she had been satisfied. Given the relationship between him and his mother, that could be weeks, unless she slipped. If it ever happened, he could only hope that she would slip.

It had been close, too close. Voldemort had never questioned him so deeply before. Caelum rather thought that the maniac saw a bit of himself in Caelum, in his rage and anger and hatred, enough that he had never thought to use his considerable Legilimency to question him before. Caelum's Occlumency was not enough, and more than that, Caelum didn't think better Occlumency skills were the answer.

If he learned better Occlumency, it would be suspicious. A good Legilimens knew when their target had Occlumency shields, and the mere fact that Caelum had learned more Occlumency would be a red flag. What he had right now was what he had, and he had anger, and hatred, and a burning conviction that even if he hated Rosier and all of Rosier's allies, even if he wanted revenge on Rosier for his humiliation at the duel, he still wanted to live in Rosier's future more than Voldemort's.

He just wanted a Potions lab. He wanted his own Potions lab, and the peace of a bubbling solution in a cauldron in front of him. He wanted to spend his life brewing in quiet, without anyone or anything interfering.

Rosier would give him that, and Voldemort never would.

He had to get rid of the life-debt—or, rather, the life-debt was gone on his espionage, but he needed something, an obvious event, that he could tell Voldemort the life-debt had been spent on. The life-debt was a flag, and it was the point where he was most likely to be caught, because it was the obvious point that Voldemort would come back to over, and over, and over again. But once convinced the debt was gone, Voldemort would leave that the life-debt alone, and it would be one less thing that Caelum was likely to be caught out on.

And he needed a suicide spell. A strong one, because he refused to live through even a single day of torture. Rosier owed him that much, for all the information he had passed so far and which he would continue to pass while the war went on.

XXX

Draco had killed a man.

He dreamed about it often—his memories putting him back in the sculpture garden at dawn, his own fear and anxiety swirling around him, the cold sweat collecting on his palms as he waited for signal to attack. The emotions of the troops had roiled around him, tension and nervous anticipation, but the fear had been all his own. He had been frightened, but unable to show it in the face of the stoic unit to which he had been assigned. The half-vampires, in particular, seemed to feel nothing about the approaching action.

He had thought they would be more afraid. The part-vampires, with the exception of their Captain, were entirely Muggle, but they didn't seem to fear magic as he thought they would. Or that they should? He wasn't sure.

But they hadn't been afraid, and Rosier had opened the rear action by dropping two men without a single flash of magic. A gun, Draco understood—a Muggle weapon, which turned out to be much more deadly than Draco could have ever imagined. He hadn't known that Muggles had weapons of such destructive power.

Rosier had killed two before Professor Moody had given the signal for the half-vampires around him to engage. Draco didn't have a firearm of his own, and he had flinched at the sound the Muggle guns had made—loud cracks that were unlike anything Draco had ever heard before. Like the crack of Apparation, but louder and more frightening than Apparation could ever be. The noise was terrifying, and even more so because Draco could not see death coming.

No flash of green light, nor the white light of Retexo. A bullet travelled faster than a spell, and Draco couldn't imagine how fast he would need to move to dodge it. If one levelled a gun at him and fired, all of Draco's carefully honed footwork would do little. His reflexes to shield would do little in the face of a tiny metal projectile that could cover hundreds of feet in a second. All he could do was drop to the ground with his hands over his head and pray that whoever had fired the weapon had poor aim.

The Killing Curse he had readied was fueled in equal parts desperation and fear. He had wanted to kill—he could not have cast the spell without the intention to kill—but his desire to kill had been born not of cold-hearted certainty and determination but simple, clean, fear. He readied the spell to kill because he didn't feel like he had a choice, because people were coming to kill him and between them and him he would choose himself.

But when the enemy had struck, after he had unleashed his own spell on some unwitting man that he thought had probably once worked for the Ministry, he had realized—the people coming at them were just as frightened as him.

They were frightened, and desperate, and the air had been thick with spells and blades—for the most part, the half-vampires sheathed their guns for close-quarters combat and pulled out other weapons in a melee. Swords, for the most part, which struck Draco as somehow barbaric.

Though, so was his Killing Curse.

He had fought. Or, he had defended himself. He didn't know, but the minutes had passed in a blur, and at the end he was still alive and there were bodies on the ground. Including one that he himself had put there.

Harry had not been fussed, when he had met her and spilled the whole mess out to her. It was a war, she had said with a slight, one-armed shrug, and Draco had the strong sense from her that she didn't want to talk about it. She, too, had committed violence that morning, but she had smothered over her feelings with the stiff stoicism that Draco recognized well from Hogwarts.

It was what it was, and they were at war, she had said. Of course, Draco had to kill, because what would the consequences have been otherwise? She had probably killed that morning too, though she hadn't resorted to either the Killing Curse or the Unmaking Spell. She had just blasted people with her power, and that was more than sufficient.

She had never once thought that Draco's troubles ran deeper. She never once thought that Draco had seen himself in the enemy, or that he questioned his place with the resistance. She, with a faith that he wasn't entirely sure he merited, thought that he had joined the resistance because it was the right thing to do. Most days, Draco thought that she was right, but there were other days when he doubted.

Draco wasn't one of them. His beliefs weren't theirs, and he didn't want the world that they were trying to create. He had been raised in a world of pureblood supremacy and noble privilege, and he even believed that they were right.

Or did he?

Before the strike, Robin had said something to him—that people were complicated. People could be good people in some areas, and not in others. That being a good person didn't mean that everything one did was necessarily good, and that good people sometimes did bad things. What she meant was even clearer—the mere fact that his father had been a good father to him and a good husband to his mother didn't mean that he was a paragon of goodness. It didn't mean that his father hadn't done awful things, and maybe the laws that his father and Lord Riddle had pushed forward his entire life were wrong. Maybe there was no basis for them at all, and Draco had pushed forward a view of the world that wasn't just wrong, but had caused harm to one of his closest friends.

It wasn't like any of the other bases for pureblood supremacy held water. For months, the best he could have said was that his father and Lord Riddle wouldn't have pushed forward these beliefs unless they were true. But if they weren't perfect, if they weren't the bulwarks of good and right that Draco had always believed, then that meant absolutely nothing.

Maybe Draco could love and respect the memory of his father without needing to hold onto the other things—without needing to uphold pureblood supremacy, or noble privilege, or anything. Maybe nothing was sacred, and maybe all his avowed beliefs needed to be reconsidered. He didn't want to do it—there was nothing he wanted to do less—but maybe he owed it to himself, to his family, and to his friends to do it. How many beliefs had he swallowed on trust alone? What did he think, as opposed to what he had been taught?

It was a hard, thorny issue, and one that Draco was too tired to handle right now. Instead, he had found potentially the most inane book in the library, a courtly romance of some kind that he didn't recognize, and he was looking forward to drowning himself in something thoroughly, completely ridiculous for the evening. Something that required no thought at all, other than potentially the ability to identify literary nonsense.

There was a knock on the door to his quarters, and he cursed. Knocks on his door, whatever the hour, he had learned were never good. He considering ignoring it, but the knock came again, more insistent, and Draco cursed again as he rolled off the sofa.

"What?" he snapped, wrenching the door open and seeing Rosier about to knock again. "It's off-hours, and my eyes are squirrelly from book code. This better be important."

"My apologies," Rosier said, inclining his head slightly and waving a scrap of parchment, radiating tiredness, panic, and worry. "We have a problem."

Draco stared at him for a minute, then he scowled and waved Rosier in. From the man's tone, he needed to talk, and while Draco had no real interest in talking, he was interested in the scrap of parchment Rosier held in his hand. If it was something that Rosier had translated himself, it was high security—something that he had never been allowed before.

"Fine. What is it?" he asked, gesturing broadly to his sitting room. Rosier handed him the scrap of parchment, then fell into the open armchair with a deep sigh, sprawling with his leg over one arm. Draco raised an eyebrow in question.

"Francesca has all but moved into my quarters—I'd rather not let her see me like this," Rosier said by way of explanation, shutting his eyes. "In front of her, I try for nothing less than control and perfection. No panic, no messes, and no uncertainty. Good, steady husband material. Read the note, Malfoy."

Draco snorted, shaking his head and choosing not to tell Rosier that first, women were smarter than that, and second, that it would be a very sad thing indeed if he had to keep up a ruse of perfection his entire life. Instead, he looked down and skimmed the note—already translated out of book code and fairly straightforward, though it revealed one of Rosier's prized spies within Voldemort's camp.

Caelum Lestrange. Who would have thought?

"Lestrange needs to lose the life-debt," Draco said, folding up the note. "Voldemort is mobilizing northwards based on information from Rookwood, and he needs to lose the life-debt and gain a suicide spell."

"Edmund courtesy of the Heir Prewett, I think," Rosier corrected, his eyes still shut. "Their meetings at Rosier Place recently overlapped, and Lord Prewett was always skeptical of my assessment of his son as a Voldemort spy. He complied with the counter-intelligence protocols to a point, but the meeting with Edmund was not foreseen. There is also no life-debt anymore—I used it to force Vulture into his current role, but that isn't, of course, something that Vulture can reveal. No, we need to come up with another realistic ploy to make Voldemort believe that the life-debt has been used, and for me to give him the suicide spell."

Draco frowned, staring at the Lord flopped over in his armchair. "I don't see the difficulty? You're a Slytherin, Rosier—all you need to do is fake a meeting with Lestrange and he can let you go in payment of his life-debt. That's all."

"Not fake a meeting," Rosier replied, sounding grim. "I will need to meet with him, in person. Voldemort is likely to search his memories, and while Vulture has some Occlumency, a Master Occlumens he is not. He needs a real memory of capturing me, in which I will need to curse him with the suicide spell, and then he needs to appear to capture me and then he needs to appear forced into letting me go. It needs to be a plan known by others in Voldemort's camp that it isn't obviously staged, but an isolated enough meeting that we can do what needs to be done without interference or observation. It's more complicated than it looks, Malfoy."

"Not that complicated." Draco shook his head, setting the parchment on the low-lying table in front of his sofa. "We can make plans around all of these. What is this really about, Rosier?"

Rosier sighed, a long low, worried breath, and opened his eyes. "It means I need to leave Rosier Place."

XXX

ANs: One of my favourite things about Aldon is that he's really not very well equipped for war. He's mostly survived to this point by avoiding getting into truly dangerous situations, so he basically hasn't left Rosier Place or the network of safehouses since the war started. Thanks as per usual to meek_bookworm, indefatigable beta-reader, and to Tolya and his truly awesome list of Russian swears. As always, reviews and comments are fodder for more writing, so leave me a note!