That Was Part of the Plan

by LysandraLeigh

One year has passed since Lyra (formerly Bellatrix) Black traveled thirty years into an alternate future. Unfortunately, this means she's expected to go back to boring Hogwarts for more boring normal people stuff. Except, there is that Tournament thing. And Angel Black. And her muggleborn girlfriend. And maybe an international incident or two... Never mind, should be fun.

48. A Simple Matter

"You know, the more time I spend here, the more I feel I hate this place."

Walking next to him, her silly cloak rippling with each step, Síomha turned a raised eyebrow on Michael. "Oh?"

"It's just so..." Michael trailed off, gazing around the hallway they were currently in. This particular spot wasn't so bad, so far as these things went — they were somewhat out of the way, not in the big fancy halls they normally received guests in, so it wasn't quite so over-the-top as a lot of places. The stone, like elsewhere in the castle, was a sort of greyish-white, bits of quartz or whatever sparkling where the light hit it. The light fixtures were finely-sculpted silver and crystal, glowing with what looked like from a very bright candle but was actually an enchantment on the crystal. There was a long rug down the centre of the hall, a deep blue fringed with bronze, which Michael recognised now as Ravenclaw colours (despite being nowhere near Ravenclaw Tower). There were tapestries hung along the walls here and there, sometimes colourful designs, sometimes a depiction of people or events he assumed would have some meaning to someone. And there were paintings, of course, the weird magical animated kind, trimmed with gold and silver.

Seeing these paintings of people, who could talk back to viewers like people, had had Michael wondering...well, how alive they are, exactly. Apparently, that was a very complicated question. Magical portraits were considered to be images of consciousness, but not themselves truly conscious...sort of. Sarah Selwyn, the blonde woman from Miskatonic who made Saoirse people very nervous but Michael thought was actually quite helpful and pleasant to talk to — and most everyone from Foreign Affairs agreed, the mages were just strange about Americans — insisted that consciousness itself was a form of magic, and if magic were contained in one place long enough in a great enough volume it would naturally develop some form of consciousness. Especially if it were contained within an enchantment designed to simulate consciousness, like a portrait. Whether portraits had enough magic in them to cross the line from seeming into being, well, that was a difficult question, but Sarah leaned toward no.

So, while the people in the portraits along the walls, some chatting amongst themselves or reading books or whatever, some calling out to them, a couple even insulted Síomha (which was never not amusing), they sure seemed like people, like little windows into a miniature world, but they weren't. It was just...a little creepy? Like, some kind of Twilight Zone shite, it was unnerving.

But that wasn't the thing that bothered him, not really. It wasn't even about the castle itself — though Hogwarts was needlessly large, and far more rich than a school for children could ever have need to be. No, it was the existence of a place like this, more than the place itself.

Michael would admit to having had an overly-optimistic initial impression of the magical world. Once he'd gotten over how much of a complete arse Fudge was, well, he'd maybe made some assumptions about magic and magical society that were very childish, looking back. He meant, magic was fucking magic, right, you could do anything, with just the wave of a little wooden stick — and, in a world where you could do anything with just the wave of a little wooden stick, why should a class society ever need to exist? Proper application of magic should make scarcity, should make labour itself a thing of the past. And the few mages he'd met toward the beginning, all clearly comfortable and educated and sedentary, well, he'd been given little reason to assume otherwise.

Until mages started referring to gold, and noble houses. The only reason people should be using money was, well, if they had things to spend it on. Asking after why the hell people needed to be able to buy anything, it turned out magic was far more limited than he'd initially assumed — while one can create all sorts of structures and products and the like using magic, it usually takes some specialised skill to do much of anything, in some cases the equivalent of postsecondary education. And, also, in most cases they couldn't simply conjure the necessary materials out of nothing, they had to acquire those naturally. Similar problem with food. One could eat conjured food, according to Fionn, but it was very much inadvisable — conjuration was temporary, and if it lasted long enough for the body to integrate any of the conjured molecules into anything important, yeah, that was a capital-letters Bad Idea. Raw materials were still necessary, so markets had still developed to manage them, and labour was still necessary (if not in the classical manual sense), so the exploitation of that labour was still incentivised.

And, well, if nobility existed, it stood to reason a wider class system did as well — after all, "nobility" has no meaning without a common populace to contrast itself against. But, even acknowledging that, he'd maybe allowed himself too much optimism once again. After all, magic was the great equaliser, was it not? Clíodhna had explicitly suggested that was a large part of the reason communities with a significant proportion of mages had always been remarkably egalitarian between the sexes — most cultures had gendered roles and expectations for people, sure, but the notion that women are somehow inherently inferior to men, so common across much of the world, had never really taken hold among mages. Even in more misogynistic societies before the Statute, magical women were often considered an exception somehow.

Michael imagined it could be difficult to tell someone to 'keep to their place' when they can set you on fire with their mind if they feel like it.

He had assumed, what he'd thought was perfectly reasonably, that the same dynamics that prevented the development of a sex hierarchy should have applied to a class hierarchy. Michael imagined the various labour disputes over the centuries, from medieval peasant revolts to the modern mostly useless trade unions — Michael despised the so-called 'social partnership', Christian-democratic nonsense that, but not the point — would have gone a lot differently if the tenants or workers could just pick up their wands and give the owners a big ol' fuck you in the form of a curse in the face.

But, it turned out, it was more complicated than that. For one thing, the sort of environment labour had been and was often still done in on their side — with dozens of people on a farm or in a factory or whatever, going through a shared experience with people they saw regularly enough in close enough quarters to form camaraderie with — had been a necessary ingredient in the development of solidarity among working people. But work was different in the magical world. While agricultural and manufacturing work did exist, the latter was far more limited in scope, and often the realm of specialised craftsmen...and the former were often literal slaves. Or, Síomha made the point that a lot of agricultural workers weren't human, often elves or nymphs or werewolves or whatever, various other magical beings, but that didn't change the fact that they were often literal slaves, Síomha, what the fuck?

Okay, fine, not literal slaves, they didn't use that word, they had different language to describe it. But Michael didn't give a damn, if a person sold themselves, or their children, into more or less permanent bondage at the hands of another person who had more or less complete control over the rest of their lives, Michael didn't care what the fuck people called it, that was slavery, pure and simple.

Because that was a thing that happened, apparently! In Ireland, in the UK! Poor people, who struggled to get by any other way, would sometimes decide they had to sell themselves into slavery! And it, just— This was perfectly legal! It happened all the time! Tricia Mullet had told him, when they'd spoken, that she knew a few muggleborns who, with no connections in the magical world and no prospects to support themselves on either side, had done it out of desperation — muggleborns, Irish and British citizens! Just...

It was weeks ago now, that he'd learned about this, and Michael could not get over it, it was horrifying.

Because, for all that there was great wealth among the mages — and not just the nobility, most of the people he'd spoken to in Saoirse came from non-noble families who were more than comfortable (the least wealthy was probably Síomha's family, and the Ailbhes were hardly what he'd call poor) — there was great poverty as well. Michael had had very little direct exposure to it, since the magical equivalent of slums or impoverished farming villages weren't exactly the kind of places Saoirse was likely to bring him to, but at least he knew it existed now. And there were a lot of them — the nobility, along with the number of non-noble but comfortable families that also moved in their circles, were maybe ten per cent of the population. From what he'd been told, that other ninety per cent of magical society was practically a different world.

In some ways, the addition of magic made things worse than the world he was more familiar with. He hadn't been wrong, when he'd assumed magic greatly reduced the labour needed in production, along with a variety of other costs — his naïveté had been in the assumption that this would naturally lead to a freer, more egalitarian society. That was, unfortunately, bullshit.

So far as he could tell, there were, essentially, four classes in magical Britain. There was the aristocracy, the people who owned the vast majority of the land, controlled all the various industries and trade with other nations — this control of sectors of the economy was often guaranteed by monopoly rights granted by the Wizengamot. This included all the nobility, yes, who themselves owned the vast majority of the land and dominated some of the more important trades, but wasn't only the nobility. There was a sort of internal hierarchy within the aristocracy, with the wealthy commoners at the bottom, the Noble Houses above them, and the tiny Most Ancient Houses above them — this last group were, essentially, the closest thing the magical world had to royalty, with the obscene wealth and cultural prestige to go with it. Altogether, they were maybe a tenth of the population, twelve per cent at most.

The next were who Michael thought of as the bourgeoisie — the use of the term wasn't precisely accurate, but he needed to call them something, and it was just convenient. These were mostly professionals of one kind or another, families involved in trades (often going back generations) that required a significant degree of advanced training. Your enchanters, your potioneers, your healers, your alchemists, your authors, your arithmancers, your architects, and so forth and so on. Educators and researchers and the like also tended to be of this class, as well as most bureaucrats — while many of the Ministry departments tended to be led by aristocrats, the rest of the Ministry was mostly dominated by the bourgeoisie. The magical economy being what it was, a single productive professional with enough lucrative contracts (mostly with the aristocracy or others among the bourgeoisie) often took in enough to support several people, sometimes dozens, the rest of these families mostly preoccupied with academia, or the arts, or just fucking around and making nuisances of themselves. This class was another fifth to a quarter of the population.

And then there were who Michael thought of as the proletariat — though, again, the term wasn't precisely appropriate. These were people who needed to hire themselves out to the aristocracy and bourgeoisie to make a living. 'Unskilled' artisans and textile workers, janitorial and domestic staff, that sort of thing. Labour laws were pretty much nonexistent, so working conditions were generally terrible and workdays long, the pay often barely enough to survive. And sometimes not even that, since housing law was also pretty much nonexistent, landlords got away with all kinds of shite, and basic things, food and clothing, could be surprisingly expensive. (These people often couldn't just go to the muggle world to get these things, since the magical world is so isolated few of them can pass for normal — each journey out of their secret enclaves risks prison time for threatening the Statute.) It didn't help that, since magic cut the labour needed in production so much, there simply weren't enough jobs to go around. Sometimes, it was bad enough people were forced to sell themselves into slavery just to survive. The proletariat were, approximately, half of the population.

Following along with the math, that meant he was missing fifteen to twenty per cent. These were the underclass, stateless persons and/or the underground economy, for the most part — the reserve army of the Revolution, as Michael had once (only sort of) jokingly referred to them when talking with Fionn. The underground economy involved a lot of drugs, prostitution, dark magic stuff, a large market in smuggled goods from other nations magical and nonmagical, everything he'd expect plus a couple things he wouldn't. Many of these things weren't technically illegal, just considered unsavoury for proper, upstanding people to be seen participating in. Drugs and prostitution in particular were perfectly legal (for the most part), but the vast majority of the people actually working in these sectors were of the underclass...despite most of their customers and even the owners being nobility and bourgeois.

Apparently, it was perfectly fine to buy drugs and sex, and make money off of other people buying them, but actually selling them yourself was beneath the dignity of good, honourable people. This country honestly made Michael's head hurt sometimes.

The underclass included the people working in these undesirable sectors of the economy, both legal and illicit, but also people so thoroughly marginalised even that barely tolerable lifestyle was unavailable to them. Literal slaves were included here, yes (mostly in agriculture and a minority of domestic workers), but also people whose very existence was considered a crime, or else simply undesirable. Wilderfolk were a large proportion of this group who were thought undesirable — according to Fionn cat wilderfolk were very common along the fringes, a lot of the stray cats even in non-magical cities were possibly wilderfolk, which was a crazy thought — as well as certain other species completely unrelated to humans, particularly goblins exiled from their society and nymphs — who were apparently a kind of faerie, like elves, but there were a few different races, it had been explained badly, Michael still didn't know what they were exactly — or just humans who had nowhere to go, refugees from even more fucked up countries or outlaws or people kicked out of their more well-off families, and then, most infamously, people whose existence was literally illegal, mostly werewolves and vampires — not the often murderous, ritually-created kind, but the ones who were people just born different, like Stacey. A lot of these people, particularly wilderfolk and nymphs, it was illegal to hire them (though both could be slaves, of course), and 'unregistered' werewolves and vampires could be executed by the state just for existing.

Seriously, he wasn't exaggerating. This shite was just that fucked up.

He was told a lot of these people — especially the non-humans, but also many of the people in this underground economy in general — sort of had their own little society going on, doing their best to organise and police themselves, take care of each other and even just survive, in corners of magical society the Ministry ignores, and in some cases is explicitly hostile to. According to Fionn, they'd developed quite a lot of resentment toward what they called the "daylit" world — "Starlight", as they called themselves, tended to keep to their own, and generally didn't react well to daylighters sticking their nose in their business.

Apparently, the closest ties most Starlighters had had with the rest of the magical world for generations had been with the Death Eaters...but that wasn't really what it sounded like. Bellatrix Lestrange — Sirius Black's cousin and (maybe?) Lyra's mother, the same infamous madwoman Michael had heard mentioned now and again — had supposedly considered Starlight to be allies, in the enemy-of-my-enemy sense, so had opened the resources available to her people to Starlight as well. Particularly, just letting Starlighters see the Death Eaters' healers whenever they needed to, free of charge, had drastically improved their lives — and that wasn't even getting into letting them crash at a safe house on occasion, or letting them take from their food stores if they needed it. The collapse of the Death Eaters over a decade ago had seen the Starlit world spiral into destitution again, their loose association with the radicals only worsening their political persecution in the years since, apparently conditions among the underclass of magical Britain were even worse than usual these days.

When Michael had had it explained to him that one of the leaders of the group he thought of as magical Nazis had done more to improve the lives of the most vulnerable and the most destitute in magical society than had literally anyone in generations... Honestly, he had no fucking clue how to feel about that. The sociopolitical landscape of this country was just so fucked up, it was impossible to make sense of it.

Anyway, how Hogwarts fits into all this, that's what he was getting to. The education that was available to the different classes varied wildly. Among the underclass, including Starlight, they basically had no access to any education at all — according to Fionn, it wasn't unusual for a Starlighter to not be able to read. (Of course, some often had no interest in learning anyway, particularly wilderfolk, but that wasn't the point.) The proletariat had a loose network of community schools and informal tutoring, which mostly just covered the basics — reading, writing, and arithmetic, along with some basic magic. For the poor, that seven galleon price Ollivander charged for his wands was prohibitively expensive, so these mages often had hand-me-downs or wands from less reputable crafters, finicky and unreliable, and often no wand at all. These community schools generally focused on witchcraft — potions and elementary enchanting, that sort of thing — because wizardry was often not an option for their students, due to economic barriers.

The proper, official school system was mostly the realm of the bourgeoisie (and a few lucky proles). There were a few of these dotted across the islands, divided into primary schools, which mostly dealt with basic reading and writing and a little bit of witchcraft — the largest of these institutions was the one at the Academy somewhere in Ireland, even a lot of nobles went there — and secondary schools, which taught magic and history and the like, up through their OWL certifications, the lowest educational qualifications needed to enter the professional economy or the Ministry. Some fields required NEWT certifications and Masteries, especially the more academically rigorous fields like enchanting and alchemy, but this was a much higher barrier of entry — most people needed to go through a formal apprenticeship to get these qualifications, which was only available to people who had a friend of the family in the field, or perhaps knew someone who knew someone. The exception was the Academy, which had NEWT programmes with relatively open enrollment; they were also the only institution with a Mastery programme in the entire country, the only alternative to landing an apprenticeship, but the available slots were relatively few, and getting one often came down to luck.

Or, Fionn admitted, bribes. Because of course.

Hogwarts was only open to the aristocracy. There were exceptions, in most cases families closely tied to one noble family or another — the Weasleys were a good example, Arthur's enrollment had been arranged by the Blacks, his wife's and their children's by the Prewetts — and also muggleborns, who Hogwarts was required to take by the terms of a treaty with the Wizengamot signed literally centuries ago. (Technically, only muggleborns who had no close magical relatives who could make other arrangements for them, but these days that was most of them.) Hogwarts was one of three institutions in the country that had a NEWT programme, the other being the Academy in Ireland and a school somewhere around Oxford the name of which Michael had forgotten, so it wasn't really unique qualifications-wise.

But it did have a certain cultural prestige no other institution did. The school had a special place in the history of the country — its founders had become semi-mythologised culture heroes in the centuries since, the reverence for them second only to the historical Merlin (and wasn't it wild that a historical Merlin was a thing?). Sometimes not even second. They'd played an essential role in the Wizengamot's resistance to viking incursions, Hogwarts itself doing much to create a common sense of identity between the often divided Brits, Gaels, Saxons, and Danes of the islands. Michael had even heard it argued that the founding of the Wizengamot had been the birth of an alliance between the magical peoples of the islands, but it was with Hogwarts that they truly started to become a nation.

It was debatable whether Hogwarts actually provided the best education in the country. It wasn't debatable that the institution had a cultural gravitas that nothing else could match. The castle was practically legendary, its symbols and characters commonplace. Among the rulership of the country, in the Wizengamot and the upper echelons of the Ministry, even among most of the larger industries, a Hogwarts education was almost universal, to the point that the culture of the school had permeated the top levels of society, enough it felt faintly hostile to people who had been educated elsewhere.

Placing one more barrier between the aristocracy and the rest of the country.

That was what bothered Michael about Hogwarts, truly. It was not only an example of the ruling class of this country locking the common people away from the resources and the opportunities they needed to live their own lives free of exploitation and domination, but a pervasive symbol of it — in some ways, even more clearly than the Wizengamot and the Ministry. Hogwarts was both a symbol of and a device by which the aristocracy reproduced their power over magical society.

Hogwarts existed as a monument to their past, yes, a relic from long ago, a formative time in the history of this country. It was also a monument to the aristocracy's own wealth and power. Walking these halls, the grandiose excess displayed throughout ever metre of its sprawling corridors and towering halls, room after room after room, the absurd amount of resources that had gone into building this place, into maintaining it, the neglect preference for this institution had wrought on the education of the rest of the populace...the sheer, self-congratulatory extravagance of the whole display...

Finally, Michael summarised his thoughts with, "This is some serious Versailles shite, is all. Doesn't it bother you?" He would have expected it to — Síomha's upbringing was relatively modest, compared to most of the magic-born segment of this institution's student body, and she didn't much appreciate the excesses of the country's aristocracy herself.

For a moment, they walked in silence, Síomha giving their surroundings several thoughtful looks. Then she shrugged. "I suppose I never thought about it that much. Hogwarts is just Hogwarts."

"Yes, well, that attitude right there is a part of the problem, isn't it?"

Síomha frowned at him, confused, but clearly decided not to ask.

Approaching the section of the castle the British delegation had been housed in — someone had hung the Union Jack (the ambassadorial version, with the coat of arms in the middle) and the royal standard (the Scottish version) off the wall, apparently to make the boundary clear — Michael noticed the people here were already up and moving, preparing for the events of the day. One sitting room he passed held multiple people in formal suits with red and white bits here and there, formal ambassadorial dress, in the middle of some kind of bickering argument, one poor sod in magical robes, probably a lower-level Ministry functionary, mobbed with questions from multiple directions at once.

Síomha had tensed a bit — her gait sharper, walking slightly closer to him and keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings — possibly because she'd noticed they were being followed. Their tail, wearing the now familiar uniform of the magical royal guard, wasn't exactly trying to be subtle, pacing down the hallway a few metres behind them. She probably could have cast some kind of concealment magic to hide herself from at least Michael's notice, which meant she'd consciously chosen to remain in the open. Whether that was because it might have caused a minor incident if Síomha had noticed they had a concealed shadow, or if the guard just wanted Síomha to be very aware she was being watched, Michael couldn't say, but he was willing to lean toward the former.

The mages guarding the British delegation had been remarkably reasonable, all things considered, especially compared to people from the magical government (or even Hogwarts staff, really). Michael hadn't spent much time at the castle so far, but he'd already gotten into multiple arguments with the Aurors (and this weekend Hit Wizards) posted at the school — they didn't like Saoirse, kept trying to find excuses to search the rooms in the castle given to the Irish delegation for magical contraband. One Auror had been such a belligerent racist arse Keane had complained about him to the Ministry, he'd ended up reassigned away from Hogwarts. Because of course, Michael wasn't really surprised. Perhaps because they were more used to dealing with non-magical folk, despite how closely they watched Saoirse the Brits' guards had been perfectly pleasant to Michael and Keane's people.

Of course, Síomha watching them in turn was also kind of just her job, so Michael tried to hold in his exasperation with her continued paranoia. Honestly, the way she acted sometimes — did she really think someone was going to jump out and try to kill him in a school?

The suite now serving as the Queen's residence — and, at the moment, her husband and children's (they'd left after Hallowe'en and returned yesterday) — was deep in the heart of the British delegation's quarters, the door inside marked only by the two guards flanking it, still and watchful. As he and Síomha approached, one of the guards moved, a wand appearing in hand. She cast some sort of spell, her lips moving for a moment — Michael should be close enough to hear what she was saying, but he didn't, the sound perhaps carried inside by that spell.

"Good morning," he chirped, coming to a stop a short distance away. "I'm expected, I believe?"

One of the mages nodded. "You are, Your Excellency. Langley is speaking with Her Majesty now — it shouldn't be but a moment."

It was hardly ten seconds, in fact, before the door clicked, pushed open to reveal William Langley standing just inside. Michael had vaguely known of him before — he wouldn't ordinarily recognise people attached to the British royals, but Langley had been in the news after a particularly messy incident not long ago — but he obviously wouldn't have known before the bodyguard was a mage. And, according to Síomha, literally hundreds of years old.

The existence of metamophs was still one of those things that was just wild whenever he thought about it. People who could change anything about their body whenever they wanted, even going so far as switching sexes if they felt like it, that was mad enough to be getting on with...but then these people also didn't naturally age. When Sarah had explained the concept to him, she'd said most metamorphs barely made it to puberty, would accidentally kill themselves during a transformation, which was apparently all too easy to do. But if a metamorph lived long enough to master their natural abilities, and made it through the emotional trauma of outliving their family and friends, they often just...went on.

Sarah herself — and also Salazar, who claimed to be the Slytherin (though Fionn and several others Michael had spoken with were skeptical) — was eleven hundred years old. Michael couldn't even imagine what it must have been like living through that span of time, it was just overwhelming. He tried not to let it distract him, honestly.

"Sir William! And how are you this beautiful morning?"

Langley's lips twitched, but didn't quite pull all the way into a smile (or really anything else, for that matter). "Well enough, a Thánaiste." Michael and Langley interacted enough he was one of the people Michael had gotten to stop calling him Your Excellency — he realised there was diplomatic protocol and all, he mostly followed the rules when expected, it just made his skin crawl a little when people called him things like that. "Her Majesty will be a moment longer, if you'd prefer to wait inside."

"I will, thank you." But before Michael could move, Síomha was slipping up, clearly intending to go in ahead of him.

Langley stepped back a little, his hand coming up to rest on the door at shoulder height, shifting in a way to imply he might close it any second. "That invitation was for an Tánaiste alone, I'm afraid."

Her hands twitching, Síomha's shoulders hitched up a little — Michael couldn't see her face from this angle, but he was willing to bet she was glaring at him. "An Tánaiste is not to be left unattended anywhere in the castle." Michael tried not to huff.

"He won't be left unattended. I will be there."

Síomha didn't answer right away, probably trying to think of a politic way to say that left her less than reassured. "It's alright, Síomha," he said, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder; she twitched, tensing from surprise for a moment before relaxing again. Honestly, how keyed-up this woman was all the time, there was no way that was healthy. "Why don't you check in with Ciarán or something, see how things are going downstairs."

Slowly, Síomha turned to stare up at him over her shoulder, green eyes almost unnaturally bright and sharp. Michael was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was taller than her — he wasn't a particularly large man himself, and Síomha was a very intense sort of woman (and could also reduce him to paste with a wave of her hand), he usually didn't notice. For a long moment, Síomha just stared at him, her face completely unreadable.

Michael had the vague feeling something was going on here, but he had no idea what.

Finally Síomha sighed. "You have your beacons on you?"

"Yes, yes, we're all good here." Fionn had even renewed the blood-based tracking and monitoring spells Saoirse had on him the day before yesterday — he would know immediately if anything happened, no matter what wards might be in the way — but Michael wasn't supposed to talk about that sort of thing in front of other people. "You know, I don't think the world will end if you leave me alone for a half hour at a time now and again."

"I'm not so sure about that," Síomha drawled, one eyebrow ticking up. "You might have noticed, Michael, you have a remarkable talent for irritating powerful people."

"Thank you, you say the sweetest things. Now, go," brushing at the air with a hand, "talk to your people, maybe rest for two seconds, if you can manage it."

Síomha shot him a little glare, but couldn't seem to think of a response — or, more likely, couldn't think of a response that was appropriate to say in front of the Brits. With a final, warning glare at Langley, which he returned with a nod and a faint smile that was probably intended to be reassuring, she turned on her heel, her silly cloak whipping around her, and marched away down the hall.

The suite on the other side of the door, opening into a sizeable sitting room, looked pretty much the same as any of the others Michael had been in here. Save for a little square just inside the door, the floor was entirely covered in carpet — technically rugs pieced together and fitted perfectly into the shape of the room, dark, muted colours in swirly little designs — the plain stone of the walls entirely hidden by curtains in Hogwarts colours, black and red and gold and green and blue. Michael noticed the room was bare of most any enchanted paraphernalia, the portraits and random other nonsense all over the place completely absent, much like in his own — apparently, it could be relatively easy to spy through such things, or do something even more nefarious, Saoirse had insisted any such artefacts be removed and Langley's people (or whoever had handled the arrangements for the British) must have done the same.

There was a circle of furniture, stuffed sofas and armchairs in black and a deep blue, enough to seat perhaps a dozen people, a long, low table between them. They were set so sunlight would stream into the circle from the large, bronze-framed windows, but it was early in the morning yet, and the sky too overcast for the sun to really provide much light, the odd crystal-lamps along the walls doing the work instead. There was one door on the left side of the room, hung open enough to reveal a hint of white granite tile glimmering in the darkness — a bathroom for guests, presumably — a hallway on the right leading deeper into the suite, toward bedrooms and the like.

The largest difference between this suite and his own was a little chess table and a pair of wood chairs in a corner near the window. Michael vaguely remembered hearing at some point that Victoria played, so that wasn't too much of a surprise, that'd probably been one of her requests. Michael looped around to get a closer look at the board — looked like someone had gotten their arse kicked.

Before Michael even managed to take a seat, someone came striding out of the hallway deeper into the suite. Bright and cheerful, "Ah, Mister Cavan! Good morning." The man was tall and willowy, a bit older than Michael (thought not by a whole lot), his face creasing a little with his friendly smile. Like most of the British delegation, he was in a suit, though his jacket was a vibrant royal red — no more elaborations than that, just the colour, it could be a perfectly ordinary business suit otherwise. He looked very familiar, though Michael couldn't quite...

Ah, it was Prince Kenneth, Victoria's husband. They'd met briefly, on two separate occasions — once on a trip to the North for some event or another back when Michael had been an ordinary TD, and then on Hallowe'en a couple weeks ago. Michael doubted they'd spoken more than a few sentences to each other total. He really didn't know that much about the bloke.

Also, he'd always thought "Kenneth" was sort of a strange name for an English prince — supposedly his mother was Scottish or something, Michael wasn't certain and also didn't care.

And then he was flouncing over to Michael, his hand extended to shake. Michael took it, hesitated slightly before speaking. If he was being honest, he wasn't entirely certain what the proper protocol was for the Prince Consort — Highness, he thought, like any other prince or princess, but he might be wrong. Most of the rest of the Irish delegation had been blatantly not observing the proper protocol with Victoria, just on basic you're not my queen principle. Michael himself tended to ignore the expected superlative niceties when it came to royalty in general, just on basic fuck the entire idea of hereditary power principle — since becoming Tánaiste, he'd already offended the Spanish, the Swedes, the Saudis, the Kuwaitis, and the Jordanians, though the Dutch and the Japanese had been good sports about it. The Saudis had actually gone over Michael's head and complained to the President, who'd foisted dealing with him off on Barnie, who'd mostly just been irritated with Michael for being responsible for his most recent headache. (Barnie didn't like the Saudis any more than Michael did, most of the "reprimand" had been spent insulting the Saudis and the Israelis and the Americans over another bottle of whiskey.)

Point was, he wasn't about to address Kenneth with all that silly nonsense either. Michael wasn't entirely certain what to say, though. He shouldn't just use his name, that would be crossing a line even for Michael, but... Eh, to hell with it. "Good morning to you too, sir. Or as much a one as it ever is up here."

"Ah," Kenneth scoffed, releasing Michael's hand to flip it dismissively at the nearby window, and the dismal dawn visible outside. "This isn't so bad. Just you wait until January — I've heard it gets terribly cold up here."

Michael had heard the same, though he wasn't certain he believed it — it never really got that cold in Scotland, even up in the mountains. Colder than Ireland in the winter, sure, the sea kept them from seeing extremes in either direction, but he didn't think the difference was really that great. People in Sweden or Norway, or hell, even around the American Great Lakes, would probably find the British idea of terribly cold just laughable. "I suppose this is why some clever bloke at some point invented warming charms."

"Yes, yes, God bless our forgotten hero. Come, sit with me for a moment — you've recently returned from a visit to India, yes?"

He had, yes. It had been...complicated. It was possible he'd gotten into a shouting match with the Prime Minister over his economic liberalisation programmes. Oops.

Though, he'd been a hundred per cent serious about them possibly needing to rethink their trade relationship if he was going to open up India's economy like this. Rao had also had a point saying Ireland didn't have the leverage to force him to back down, which, obviously, Ireland was tiny, that hadn't been what Michael was saying.

If he was being perfectly honest, Michael thought nationalism was a fool's game. He'd always thought the idea of being overly concerned with lines arbitrarily drawn in the sand was a bit silly — any claims of people on one side of the line being somehow fundamentally different were always blatantly fictional, self-adulating myth at best and racist pseudoscience at worst — but it was even more pointless these days. Modern transportation and communications technology being what they were, the proliferation of sweeping trade agreements and the penetration of international financial concerns... The world was a smaller place than ever had it been, and it was swiftly growing yet smaller. And this modern experiment of the nation-state might have led to the firming of borders to people, but they remained permeable to capital.

This wasn't the sort of thing he would admit in public, but if Michael had been alive at the time, he honestly wasn't certain if his sympathies would have been with the Revolution. Or, they would have been, but not for the same reasons. If they were granted a significant degree of home rule, along with significant power within a sympathetic government in London, that would have been sufficient for him. But the chances of that had been basically zero, and Sinn Féin had essentially been the sole leftist organisation of any influence back then, so he likely would have ended up with them anyway.

In any practical sense, socialism needed to be an international project — due to the internationalisation of modern capitalism, opposition to it also needed to be international. He wasn't talking nonsense along the lines of one world order conspiracies that were totally not about the Jews or whatever, no, but alliances and mutual support and international coordination would certainly be a necessity to effectively oppose international capital. It was kind of funny, some years ago now he'd given a speech at University College Cork (for some event or other, he forgot), with a bit about how greater cultural exchange, developing closer relationships between people all over the world, would be necessary to build the common identity as a single, united human race they would need to face the challenges of the modern world. At the time, he'd gotten a lot of praise for the thing even from a fair number of...the cosmopolitan bourgeoisie, let's say. Apparently, they hadn't realised that by the challenges of the modern world he'd mostly been referring to capitalism and the damage it wreaked — imperialist contests here and there, wars over natural resources, the growing spectre of environmental devastation...

Also, no kidding, he'd literally quoted Lenin at one point, that should really be a red flag for those types. Heh, red flag...

Anyway, Michael was less concerned with nationhood or the integrity of their borders or some such nonsense than he was with the physical conditions experienced by the people whose care he had been entrusted with. He thought the very idea of a border was childish, but if taking a more inward-facing, protectionist sort of stance was what was more in the interest of their people in a particular situation, well, that was what he would do. The calculation really was that simple, as difficult as that might have been for Rao to believe.

The increasing sophistication of India's infrastructure, and the liberalisation of both their internal economy and international trade, that could easily make things between them...complicated. With how low transportation costs were now, with how much higher the standard of living in Ireland was, how much lower the wages in India, it would be all too easy to imagine businessmen in Ireland deciding it just made fiscal sense to relocate their operations overseas. Similar things had already started happening in other European countries, the US, industry trickling over into the third world. Ireland had benefited from this at first, in fact — for some time, it'd been cheaper to produce goods in Ireland than the rest of Europe, attracting investment from their neighbours, and there'd been a couple decades there when they'd been very attractive to American tech and medical firms. But now that they had that development in local industry, letting it go would be foolish.

The quickly accelerating deindustrialisation of the West, sure, it was good for the owner class, kept profits up and prices down. But the social consequences would inevitably catch up with them — long after it was already too late to reverse course. Michael would rather not help lead Ireland down that road. Luckily, he'd mostly gotten Fianna Fáil (or at least Barnie) to agree, and they even had a number of Irish corporations on the same page, so, it seemed to be going...okay-ish.

Now, if only previous governments hadn't locked them into a monetary union with the rest of Europe and if left-leaning countries all over the world weren't surrendering to international pressure and liberalising their economies. That was going to make things...difficult, in the near future.

(Personally, Michael thought signing up for a common European currency issued by a central bank Ireland had no regulatory authority over was a fucking terrible idea, but the ink on the Maastricht Treaty had already been dry when he'd taken over as Tánaiste, and he couldn't just pull out of it unilaterally. More the pity.)

Rao had pointed out, reasonably, that with the common market in Europe Ireland didn't even have the authority to unilaterally alter their trade relationship with India, but that was giving him far too little credit. He could find people to rules-lawyer this to death, hold it up in international courts for years, if he had to. If it really came down to it, they could simply nationalise any business that attempted to move overseas — that would be an extreme measure though, it would be more difficult to hold onto the strong majority in the Dáil they would need, and would create diplomatic difficulties with the Americans and the rest of Europe. But, if he played his cards right, it shouldn't be difficult to keep both political and public pressure high enough to prevent capital flight to the third world. Especially with Fianna Fáil on their side, along with most of the smaller parties — Sinn Féin, for example, would fucking love mainstream politics taking that kind of leftist, protectionist swing — and especially since almost no matter what India did they wouldn't be barred from access to cheap Indian goods, they could just ship them in indirectly from the rest of Europe.

It had been an extremely contentious conversation, was what he was saying.

But Kenneth didn't really want to know about all that — it did come up, but the wealthy Englishman just kind of huffed good-naturedly, as though thinking to himself you silly socialist and your silly socialism. Instead, they discussed the continued endemic violence in the country, particularly between Hindus and Muslims. The Bombay riots weren't so long ago, and things hadn't really gotten better (despite Indian officials' claims to the contrary). And at this rate, it was only a matter of time before BJP overtook the INC as the dominant political party in India, which was...not a good sign, to put it mildly.

Though irritatingly Kenneth, like many Westerners Michael had spoken to, seemed to lay the blame for this violence on the Muslims, that the Hindu nationalists might do horrible things now and again, sure, but they were largely reacting to attacks on their people by Muslims. Besides, India was their country, was it so unbelievable that people would react badly to people coming in and causing trouble? Their country, Christ, Hindus and Muslims had coexisted in the subcontinent for centuries, literally since the Middle Ages, speaking as though the Muslim minority were obviously foreign to the country was absurd — many of them had ancestors living on the same land they did going back generations, longer than many Irishmen could reasonably claim. And that coexistence had been mostly peaceful — violence had cropped up occasionally, yes, but much the same had occurred between Christians in Europe in the same time period, such was humanity — until the British had waltzed on in and intentionally played up religious and ethnic divisions to keep the natives focused on each other, rather than the foreign empire exerting control over their lands. And the partition of India, arbitrary national borders sketched through the subcontinent, had just made it worse — and that hadn't even been fifty years ago.

Portraying any one "side" of this — as though there truly were sides, honestly — as the perpetrator and the other as victim was, just, childish. There were criminals and victims among both Hindus and Muslims, both "sides" were at fault, failing to acknowledge the reality of the situation would only make it harder to achieve lasting peace on the subcontinent.

But it probably wasn't a good idea for Michael to get into a second shouting match with a foreign dignitary in the space of a week, so he did his best to contain his own frustration.

Distracted by his irritating conversation with the Prince, as well as his own efforts to conceal his irritation, Michael entirely failed to notice Victoria walking into the room until she appeared behind the sofa, looming over the back of Kenneth's head. She leaned over the back of the sofa, muttered into Kenneth's ear something Michael didn't catch — it was quiet, but he suspected it wasn't even English, probably Welsh. Kenneth said something in response, that was definitely Welsh, and popped up to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, Mister Cavan, I'm needed in the back." With a nod of farewell, he circled around the sofa and disappeared deeper into the suite.

Victoria took his place, dropping a file onto the table with a plop before sinking into a seat, more or less exactly where Kenneth had been. She was in her Lady Protector get-up again (which would never stop being funny, she clearly enjoyed making the mages squirm as much as he did) — mage-style boots and trousers and tunic, shimmering black traced with red and gold, though the multicoloured cloak was missing at the moment. Probably waiting to put that on until it was time to leave, the things did look very inconvenient.

Before either of them could say anything, there was a subtle pop, a tray bearing tea and plain sugar biscuits appearing on the table a little to Michael's left. Victoria's lips twitched. "Thank you, Nenna," she said to the empty air — her exasperation mostly hidden, she must not have expected that.

"The elves been fussing over you as much as me, I take it." Michael leaned forward, plucked one of the biscuits off the tray. They were going to breakfast any minute now, but the biscuits the elves made were excellent, sweet and buttery and not nearly too dry. Michael could probably eat these things until he gave himself diabetes and never get tired of them.

"If one were to put it mildly. They do so hover, especially when the children are here." Pouring herself a cup, she said, "I had considered telling them they needn't go to so much effort, but I ultimately decided against it. It isn't as though they are making a nuisance of themselves, and I wouldn't want to cause offence — I suspect the elves consider what they are doing to simply be the expected hospitality owed to guests of our station." Victoria tilted the pot toward him, a single eyebrow ticking up a little.

Michael shook his head, waving his biscuit-bearing hand. "I've never developed much of a taste for it, I'm afraid. I know, I'm a sorry Irishman." Ireland actually consumed more tea per capita than Britain did — not by a large margin, but there it was. Though the coffee the elves brewed was nearly as good as their biscuits.

Before Michael could hardly blink, a second, smaller tray appeared on the table, presumably coffee for him. He failed to hold in an amused scoff.

Once they were both set up with their completely unnecessary pre-breakfast, Victoria spoke first. "I understand you requested this meeting, but I intended to speak with you once you returned to Hogwarts myself. Before we come to that matter, however, it has been brought to my attention that there are...irregularities, regarding your return flight from India."

Of course British intelligence knew about that, Michael couldn't even pretend to be surprised. He was a little surprised they'd told the Queen, but perhaps they'd been aware she'd be meeting with him later, had decided to arm her with awkward questions to prod him with. "Oh? What kind of irregularities?"

"The duration of the flight was several hours longer than anticipated, to start with."

"My, my, is the United Kingdom spying on me?"

Victoria's lips twitched. "I'm sure I couldn't speak to the activities of a certain mutual ally of ours."

Translation: the Americans are spying on everybody, obviously. "Yes, well, these things happen sometimes. I'm sure you're familiar with unexpected deviations from your schedule."

"It was noted to me that your flight path happened to cross over Iran."

"I would expect so — Iran is between India and Ireland, I understand." Victoria seemed less than impressed, one of her eyebrows ticking up in a doubtful look. "And, is there something wrong with that? Last I checked, there's no relevant travel restriction on Iran at the moment. If there were, I imagine that would be news to our embassy in Tehran."

With a slightly exasperated sort of tone, Victoria said, "Exactly so — if you intend to visit Iran for any legitimate purpose, you needn't do so covertly." Well, there was really nothing to say to that — she wasn't wrong. She took a slow, casual sip of tea. "And how is George Habash doing these days?"

Michael smiled. "Suffering from ill health, I hear. He and Arafat are both getting up there in years, I imagine neither of them will be around much longer. But I'm not certain why you're asking me about him — I've never met Mister Habash myself."

There was another eyebrow twitch, a hint of surprise. He internally snarked that perhaps she'd expected him to refer to the infamous Palestinian Communist as Comrade Habash — really, Victoria, he had more tact than that. "We've heard rumours Habash has had some significant contact with Iran of late."

"You're thinking of Hamas — Habash is a secular Christian, he's not likely to get along with the Iranians very well."

"Yet, last we've heard, his Popular Front has entered into an alliance with Hamas."

"An alliance of convenience, perhaps. Their primary point of agreement is a rejection of Oslo and opposition to any two-state solution, and especially one dictated by Israel. Once the Oslo process fails, as it inevitably will, I expect the P.F.L.P. will drift back toward Fatah, their more natural allies." Relatively speaking, anyway, social democrats would always be willing to stab socialists in the back given sufficient incentive to do so — the harsh suppression of the communist uprisings in the early days of the Weimar Republic and the murders of Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht were the rule, not the exception. "Besides, I truly don't see how this is relevant. I didn't meet with Habash in Iran, nor anyone else representing Palestine."

"But you did meet with someone."

Obviously — as Victoria had pointed out a moment ago, he needn't have visited Iran covertly if he hadn't intended to have an under-the-table meeting with someone...impolitic, let's say. He'd been meeting with Kurdish socialists, not Palestinian ones. Iran had really been the most convenient place to meet — anywhere else, news of the meeting was almost certain to get back to the Americans, and they would probably inform Turkey, who would doubtlessly kick up a fuss about it. Also, Iran tolerated Kurdish nationalism, but Iraq definitely did not, so letting knowledge of the meeting get to Saddam would likely interfere with Ireland's role in the continuing peace process between the two countries after their recent war...not that the brutal sanctions the Americans had enacted against both countries to such devastating effect, especially in Iraq, were making that necessary work any easier, the bloodthirsty madmen...

Anyway, expecting to have much success negotiating a settlement between the Kurds and the three countries they constituted a significant minority in — Turkey, Syria, and Iraq — was about as insane as Holst's backchannel attempt at negotiating peace in the Levant. But he had already gotten a small number of European and Asian countries to (quietly) sign on to the effort, and he was (subtly) working on Egypt and Jordan, so. They could probably get Syria to consent to something, especially with assistance from Egypt and Jordan, and Iraq if they could get the Americans to lift sanctions as part of the deal, but Turkey was going to be a problem. It was possible, he guessed, just absurdly unlikely. Especially since it would probably also require renegotiating the Syrian–Iraqi border on top of everything else... Yeah, it was a mess.

He had to have at least one insane long-term project to occupy himself as Tánaiste, right? And hey, if he managed to pull it off, he would have managed to bring socialism back into the public discourse in a (hopefully) positive way, and there would almost certainly be a Nobel Peace Prize in it for him. He could dream.

But he certainly couldn't admit that to Victoria — if she told anyone in the British government, they might tell the Americans, who would then tell the Turks, and the whole thing would implode before it could really get going. With a warm, slightly crooked smile, Michael said, "With all due respect, ma'am, that's none of your damn business."

Victoria let out a low scoff, but Michael noticed the hints of an amused smile twitching at her lips. "Have it your way, then. But know that, should you choose to keep us in the dark as to just what you're playing at, don't expect us to help you deal with the American response should it blow up in your face."

"Oh, I don't." He doubted they would anyway — the chances the current Tory government would support his scheme, even without the context of having hidden it from them, weren't particularly good. There were reasons he hadn't brought this to his British counterpart in the first place. "But we aren't going to get anywhere discussing that today. Was there something else you wanted to talk about?"

It didn't seem like Victoria was particularly pleased leaving it there, but she didn't argue. "You might be aware, under the terms of the Treaty of Anglesey we are obligated to inform each other of any developments which might threaten the Statute of Secrecy."

He was, in fact. That particular treaty had come up a lot lately, mostly where the magical government's obligations to theirs were concerned, but Ireland and the UK (and also France) had obligations to each other as well. The Treaty of Anglesey 1913 had essentially been a renegotiation of the Treaty of Westminster 1817 (itself a renegotiation of the Treaty of Coventry 1690) — it basically set the terms of the enforcement of the Statute of Secrecy within the Isles, and which governments were responsible for resolving which problems. (It had needed to be altered slightly upon Irish independence two decades later, but the law currently in force was basically the same as agreed upon in 1913.)

Though, as Michael understood it, the obligations Ireland and the UK had to each other were actually very minor — they were both responsible for holding up the non-magical end of the bargain in their respective territories, which didn't really involve the other much. If he recalled correctly, there was a sort of contingency built in where, if the mages informed one of them of a potential threat to the Statute within their lands, they were supposed to inform the other, just in case the mages failed to do it themselves. The only other case he could think of was a...an escape clause, let's say. If either party were planning on doing something that might threaten the Statute, they were to tell each other first. Under the original Treaty of Coventry, all parties (just Britain and France at the time) were required to come to a consensus of they planned to intentionally end Secrecy — technically, the mages or the non-mages could end Secrecy at any moment if they wanted to — though subsequent agreements expanded that to a consensus among all the nations associated with the ICW, which made it far less likely that—

Wait a second. Victoria must have wanted to meet with him to warn him Britain might (accidentally) kill Secrecy. That was... Well, that was serious fucking business, wasn't it. "Ah, what happened?"

"Do you recall the incident regarding the acromantulae in the Forest?"

Michael scowled — of course he remembered, they were enormous, magical, man-eating talking spiders! Learning there were a bunch of them outside of a school in the Scottish Highlands wasn't the sort of thing he was likely to forget. "I remember. I was under the impression Cassie Lovegood was taking care of it." Assisted by Lyra and the wilderfolk and centaurs who also lived in the Forest, but most people focused on Cassie.

"She has committed to dispose of the nests on school grounds, yes, and I have every confidence that she will by the end of next year. Lovegood does appear a very capable woman, from all I have heard." That was certainly one way to put it... "However, the mages leave the margins of the Valley largely unmonitored."

"You... You're suggesting they might have escaped into the countryside." He started at a sudden thought, nearly spilling his coffee. Rather than keep it to hand, he set his cup down on the table — he had the feeling this was going to be a difficult conversation. "Those military exercises we've heard about in the Highlands, they're not just exercises are they?"

Victoria's lips curved a little, shifting into a grim smile. "No, they are not." Reaching into the file, she pulled out a single, glossy page — a map showing the immediate area, the western half of Ross-shire and the Shire of Inverness, the ragged curve of the Isle of Skye visible at the western edge. The approximate location of the Hogsmeade Valley was marked on the map, along with a few nearby settlements both magical and not.

There were also three dots in an angry red, accompanied by a few numbers: an area in square metres, distance from the nearest settlements in kilometres, an estimated population count — split into adults, juveniles, and eggs — and a probability the entire nest had been exterminated — all in the high nineties, but none at one hundred per cent.

Mary mother of Christ, they'd actually found acromantula nests outside of the Valley. That wasn't good... "The Army send in their boys to take care of them, or did you get magical assistance?"

"They managed on their own," Victoria said, shaking her head a little. "It appears grenades and flamethrowers are quite effective against acromantulae."

With a little half-cough half-laugh, "Er, I'm pretty sure those are effective against pretty much anything."

She gave him another grim, humourless smile. "They are currently making sweeps of the surrounding area, but they believe they have successfully exterminated the acromantulae, having sustained only light injuries themselves." Oh. Oh, that was good. Well, not good, he guessed, but it could have been a whole lot worse. "There are a number of reported missing persons in the area, but no more than the local authorities would expect. They are on the lookout for human remains, but none have been discovered, so far."

Michael nodded. That was also good — if the mages' negligence had set man-eating spiders loose and they'd actually killed British citizens, the UK would feel obligated to express official displeasure with the magical government, which could quickly get...complicated. Especially since Michael would almost certainly take the UK's side, putting additional pressure on them, and the French would probably get in on the action too. From what he'd heard from his counterparts in the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, they were more or less comfortable with the other two magical governments sharing their territory, but they had long-standing issues with the Wizengamot. (Michael was shocked, honestly.) "I'm surprised you had enough men in the know to carry off an operation like this."

"We didn't," Victoria said, flat and casual. "As of this moment, the entirety of the Twenty-Two S.A.S. has been read in, along with select units from the Fifty-First, and relevant segments of the personnel at the Ministry of Defence, M.I. Five, and G.C.H.Q."

"Christ..." She had to be talking about, what, a few hundred people? The non-magical governments had sole discretion as to how many people they needed to have in the know to maintain Secrecy, but they were supposed to keep the number as small as possible, so as to reduce the possibility of leaks. Bringing in that many people all at once was...a lot. "You're concerned you'll have leaks?"

"In part. Those who have been read in have been warned that the existence of the magical world remains classified, and that any who disclose whatever they may learn will be prosecuted accordingly — there may be leaks, but that is not my primary concern. No, my primary concern is far more short-term." Victoria pulled another sheet out of her file, placing it atop the first.

It was a map, pulled from a satellite image, of the Hogsmeade Valley — one that hadn't been doctored for popular consumption, the village and the sprawling, asymmetrical castle over the lake visible. Along the periphery of the Valley was some notation Michael recognised at a glance: icons representing military units and camps, notched lines standing for barricades and the like. Some of the information that should be included in such a thing, unit designations and troop numbers and callsigns and so on, had been scrubbed — presumably, this was a sanitised version of the battle plan whoever was actually in charge had permitted Victoria show him — but he didn't need to be told to know what this was. "You're putting Hogsmeade under siege? You realise that's impossible, right? They can still pop in and out whenever they like."

"The mages are not being put under siege; the acromantulae are," Victoria averred, as though the mages would recognise the difference. "It has been determined that the mages cannot be trusted to contain the acromantulae to their enclave, and that Lovegood putting additional pressure on them will only increase escapes into the countryside. The purpose of the encirclement is to intercept fleeing acromantulae. The presence of the mages, and whatever their response may be, is secondary."

Well, she wasn't wrong about any of that, he guessed. Or, whoever had done the determining, anyway — Victoria might have passed along the information about the acromantulae in the first place, but she obviously wouldn't have been involved in deciding what the hell they were going to do about it. "And they plan to just...sit there? Camp around the Valley for, what, maybe as long as a year?" Given that much time, the mages weren't going to not notice there were armed men surrounding the Valley, Michael doubted they could go on that long without some incident cropping up.

"I'm told we are resolved to wait and see how things progress, for the moment. And, truly, the mages should feel fortunate our response is this restrained — I have it on good authority the possibility of occupying the Valley and rooting out the acromantulae ourselves was discussed. I believe that plan is still on the table, in fact, though only as a last resort."

...So, the British military leadership had, just, casually discussed the idea of starting a war with the mages. That wouldn't be their intent occupying Hogsmeade, of course, but it's definitely what would have happened. Perfect, that was just perfect. Michael understood why Victoria was bringing this to him as a threat to the Statute of Secrecy now, Christ...

"Right. Okay." Frowning down at the table, Michael rubbed at the back of his neck for a moment. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? "I hope the Defence Council realises, sure, they might think it's a last resort, but just having the army sitting around outside town for months could escalate, easy."

"They are aware, yes." It was hard to tell, the expression was very faint, but Michael thought he caught a hint of...not anxiety, exactly, but at least wariness. "As I understand it, the possibility of an armed conflict breaking out between the United Kingdom and the United Council of Celtic Peoples," the 'proper' term for the magical nation most people just called Britain, "has been judged to be an acceptable risk."

Michael opened his mouth to respond, closed it again. "That seems...extreme, to risk going to war with the mages over these bloody talking spiders getting out. If they'd wiped out a village or something, sure, I'd understand it then, but nobody even got hurt."

"It's not about the acromantulae, truly." Victoria set down her tea, let out a thin sigh. "It has long been believed that our arrangement with the mages of the Isles has become...untenable. Certain circles have been harbouring disaffection for their counterparts on the other side since the Second World War — despite their insistence the War was a muggle affair, the conflicts occurring on both sides had a tendency to spill over into each other, and some have never forgiven the mages their refusal to enter the magical side of the war. I'm uncertain whether our mages joining the resistance against Grindelwald and his Communalist allies would have aided us in our fight against Nazi Germany at all, but I do understand the sentiment."

Michael agreed. So far as he could tell, Grindelwald's 'alliance' with Hitler had been no more meaningful than the UK's 'alliance' with the Ministry — what the hell was Grindelwald supposed to do, not deal with the only functional non-magical government in the region? Yeah, he was sure people would think much better of Grindelwald if he'd severed any contact with the Nazis and just let the Statute of Secrecy implode, that would have gone over much better.

"There were some who wished to...alter our arrangement with our magical cousins even then. And such attitudes have only grown more common in the decades since. I'm uncertain whether you are aware that, during their recent civil war, the mages failed in their treaty obligation to insulate our people from magical harm, time and time again. We aren't even certain how many were killed — Adjustment would often cover it up, doctoring the scene so as to appear a mundane accident and wiping the minds of witnesses, before first responders could even get to the scene. Though they had a habit of obliviating the first responders as well, paramedics and law enforcement alike," she added, with an irritated sort of drawl.

So, not only did the mages fail to stop these incidents from happening in the first place, but they also scrubbed the scene so British authorities couldn't gather the intelligence necessary to find any patterns to the attacks and take steps to prevent them on their own. Yeah, Michael could understand why that might be irritating.

"I have been informed that the Defence Council had lost any remaining forbearance for the mages, and was in the process of drawing up plans to invade when the news of Voldemort's defeat reached us. It was decided that we would put those plans on hold and observe how conditions progressed from there, whether such extreme action was yet necessary to be determined at a later date. The political developments over the last months, though the end result remains uncertain, have been encouraging, but it has not alleviated the concerns held by many that the mages are unwilling or unable to uphold their obligation to insulate the people of our country from magical harm. If they cannot, or will not, our interest in continuing to uphold the Statute of Secrecy weakens, with each passing year.

"We are not at a point where we are willing to start a conflict with the Wizengamot. But if the mages escalate against us over our attempt to contain the acromantulae where they will not — a duty which, by the treaties determining the relationship between our peoples going back centuries, should rightly belong to them — we will respond in kind." Giving him a hard, flat look, more grim than Michael was sure he'd ever seen her, Victoria said, "The United Kingdom will not start this war, Michael, but if the mages force our hand we will end it."

...Well.

Michael picked up his cup of coffee again, mostly to have something to do with his hands while he gathered his thoughts. If he was being perfectly honest, he wasn't particularly surprised. He hadn't known much about the mages' war with their Dark Lord and his followers with the silly names — not to mention that he was called a Dark Lord in the first place, was this a shitty fantasy novel or what — but Fionn had filled him in some, and... Well, it wasn't good. Many muggles had died — hundreds, perhaps even thousands. It had been a conscious strategy on the part of the Death Eaters — force the Ministry to spread itself thin reacting to their attacks and covering them up to preserve the Statute, committing so much manpower to the effort that they were practically helpless to defend themselves. Failing to do so would have had the ICW coming in to take over, which nobody in the Wizengamot wanted, they'd been kind of cornered on that one.

Given that the Death Eaters had been doing it on purpose, Michael wasn't surprised the Ministry hadn't been able to keep up, prevent such incidents from occurring as the Treaty of Anglesey obligated them to (to the best of their ability, at least). It also wasn't much of a surprise that they hadn't bothered to keep the Brits as up to date on what was happening as they should, with how rushed and panicked they must have felt.

It was understandable, but Michael also wasn't surprised that the UK hadn't been inclined to be charitable about it — after all, it had been their people being killed. Also, there was the whole 'muggleborn' genocide thing. The Death Eaters had been intentionally targeting 'muggleborns' for torture, rape, and murder — a subset of the population who were, by their very nature, British citizens — and they hadn't done a whole lot to stop it. According to Fionn, they'd hardly even tried — after all, they were only muggleborns, much of the ruling class of magical Britain didn't give a single shite what happened to them, especially not when they were concerned with ensuring their own survival. Private citizens had done as much as they could, of course, squirreling 'muggleborns' and their families away into safehouses or smuggling them out of the country, but those efforts had never really had official sanction, the Ministry (and Wizengamot) had supposedly been completely fucking useless.

And then this disaster with the deadly talking spiders comes up — it really was a bloody miracle nobody had died, the things had been hanging around in the forest for decades, Christ. If the UK had lost all patience for the magical government at this point, if they didn't trust them to hold to their end of the deal, well, Michael didn't blame them. In their position, he'd probably be recommending to Barnie they do something similar.

If it did come to a fight — which was certainly possible, given how very jingoistic mages were they likely wouldn't react well to a non-magical army surrounding Hogsmeade — Michael didn't doubt that the UK could conquer magical Britain with little difficulty. According to Fionn, magical shields were pretty much useless against modern weaponry. There were barriers against physical force that were designed to block projectiles, but military-grade firearms concentrated such a large amount of force into such a small point that only the most powerful of mages could hope to hold up against them — and even those, a sniper should be able to punch through without any problem. And that wasn't even getting into explosives. Mages had their own big guns, blasting curses and the like, but grenades and anti-tank rifles and rockets and so forth were even more effective, and also required less skill to use. If nothing else, the mages would run out of people who could throw around shite like that long before the UK would.

And that wasn't even bringing in tanks, or bombs. As much as mages might brag about how amazing the wards of Hogwarts were, Michael doubted the castle would stand up to a sustained bombardment for more than a couple minutes.

The mages' greatest advantage was, as he understood it, in their transportation and in the use of mind-influencing magics — the nightmare scenario was a hostile mage apparating into a secure location and dominating the minds of high-ranking personnel. That was unlikely, however. The UK had their own loyal mages — Langley and his people, along with disaffected 'muggleborns' and their families — who had long ago warded various government properties against unauthorised magical transportation. The Brits were aware of the threat of subversion, obviously, he would bet they'd ramp up magical security around relevant staff to ward off any such attempt.

And, those kinds of magics were bloody useless on the battlefield. Most mind-influencing charms that could be cast from long range would be intercepted even with the most basic body armour — they were usually useless on mages wearing enchanted dueling grab as well. The more insidious sorts could only be done from short range, sometimes even requiring eye contact, and they quite simply weren't going to be able to get close enough to pull it off without getting nailed with a dozen bullets.

If the UK intended to occupy the entirety of magical Britain, there were only a small number of public places they needed to take. Charing in London, where the primary Ministry offices were also located, as well as a few other similar enclaves in major cities here and there, the Wizengamot Hall and a few nearby locations in Anglesey. (Though they might just leave the Wizengamot alone, apparently it was well magically isolated.) There was one major magical settlement in Ireland, but Saoirse was big there, they'd probably take the opportunity of the chaos in Britain to split off anyway, so the UK didn't have to worry about them. And then the Hogsmeade Valley, and that was pretty much it.

That would leave all the various private enclaves, old magical estates and family compounds and the like, they were too many and too isolated for the UK to knock them off individually. But, they could just negotiate with them individually, they didn't need to wipe them out. If the UK had already taken over all the public areas in the magical world, and had dismantled the government that united them, he imagined it shouldn't be difficult to get these little pockets of mages to see reason — especially since these enclaves were where their families lived, they'd probably want to avoid the war coming to them if at all possible.

The point was, if it came down to a war between the UK and the Wizengamot, Michael had absolutely no doubt which side would come out on top. He'd be shocked if it took longer than a week or two.

It was notable that Victoria hadn't said they planned to intentionally end the Statute of Secrecy. They simply didn't trust the mages to abide by the terms of it anymore, so the UK was taking action to protect itself. They didn't plan to intentionally go to war with the mages in the process, but if they had to they would. And, should they do so, they didn't plan to intentionally reveal the existence of magic to the world — Michael assumed the forces involved in the invasion would be sworn to secrecy. But, well, leaks happen, there's no way to guarantee the truth won't get out.

And if it did? Oh well. It wasn't as though the Wizengamot and the Ministry were holding up their end of the bargain anyway. In the present state of affairs, the Statute was hindering their ability to protect themselves from magical threats more than it was safeguarding them. There was no reason for the UK to keep up their end of the bargain if the mages weren't going to uphold theirs.

Michael did see the logic of what was going on here. It was just...big.

Like, incomprehensibly big. When the existence of magic was revealed to the world at large — which it would inevitably be, whether this situation in the Valley blew up or not, Secrecy was ultimately doomed to fail — it was going to change everything. There was really no overestimating the potential consequences of such a fundamental shift in the world, there was no telling what would happen.

Personally, Michael didn't think it would be nearly as much of a disaster as many people feared. People worried there would be much fear of magic, hatred, especially motivated by religious types — and, yes, there probably would be. But think that through for a second: if you have some crazies out to kill some mages...what are they gonna do about it? The mages had grown very accustomed to living in isolation generations ago — that everyone knew they existed now didn't mean they would stop.

Private citizens might not be able to do much, but governments could. Some people he'd talked to particularly brought up some of the more...difficult regions in the world, theocratic governments here and there, particularly in Africa and the Near East. But, the thing was, these governments already knew magic existed — they cooperated with the mages in their lands to maintain Secrecy, were in fact glad to do so, so long as the mages kept magic well away from them. There was truly no reason this arrangement would need to change in a theoretical post-Statute landscape. Hell, the crazy theocratic dictatorships of the world would just get an additional thing to brag about — they keep the people safe from these evil scary demonic influences, aren't they just so virtuous and powerful. Really didn't see where the problem was.

The end of Secrecy would bring huge upheaval, politically and socially, but Michael wasn't convinced it was this great existential threat a lot of people spoke of it as though it was. It would be messy, but he didn't think that much would truly fundamentally change.

Other than having magical solutions on hand for things like, say, disease, or climate degradation — honestly, he thought the potential benefits were worth the risk. But that wasn't the point.

Of course, Secrecy probably wasn't going to last very much longer anyway. Apparently the mages had had serious trouble dealing with the proliferation of technologies like, say, radio, telephones, television. Before, they would often have a couple days to get to the scene of the "crime" to patch up whatever was done and contain news from spreading; now, information spread much more quickly, they sometimes only had minutes. Given the wide range of live broadcasts, on radio and television, these days they actually needed to get there before a breach of Secrecy ever occurred. And the internet — computers becoming smaller and cheaper, and more tightly networked — was only going to make that more and more difficult.

Michael was told Adjustment currently anticipated potential Secrecy-threatening events with the use of divination — they knew something was going to happen before it actually did, allowing them to mobilise in time to catch it. But sometimes things slipped through. And eventually, perhaps not even too far in the future, the sheer number of such events will reach such a scale the mages simply won't have the manpower to contain them.

The existence of magic being revealed because the United Kingdom happened to be in the middle of a lightning-quick war against the mages sharing their territory was...perhaps not the best way for the news to break. But if it happened...Michael guessed it happened.

"Right." Michael set his (now empty) coffee cup aside, hesitated for a moment, his tongue running along his teeth. "Thanks for the warning. I'll have to speak with the Taoiseach and the President about the situation here before I can guarantee what our position will be, but if it goes down the way I'm thinking you'll have our support — you might have noticed, we're not so happy with the Ministry either."

Victoria's lips twitched, a little. "Yes, I had noticed. If the worst case scenario should occur, and we must arrange a coordinated effort..."

Oh, that was not going to go over well. Michael didn't see like he had much choice in the matter, though — he just had to hope it never came to that. Tipping his eyes up to the ceiling with a sigh, he said, "I'll read in the Minister for Defence. That's going to be fun, that arse already doesn't like me..."

"Ireland doesn't read in her Ministers for Defence by default?"

"Not usually, no. The Republic has had a friendly relationship with the local mages since the beginning, and we've never had the sort of problems you do over here. It never seemed necessary."

"I see." There was a slight tilt to Victoria's lips, perhaps a little jealous of that. "Well. Did you have any further questions for me on this matter?"

Not really. There didn't seem to be a whole lot to say — the UK would do what they felt they must to exterminate the acromantulae, and if the local mages reacted badly, well, what happened would happen. Except, "When are your boys moving in?"

"I cannot tell you precisely — I'm uncertain myself. Before the end of the year, certainly."

Right. So he had a few weeks to get back to Dublin and warn everyone that shite might be hitting the fan rather earlier than they'd been planning. He was probably going to end up sharing a bottle and whinging long into the night with Barnie again. "All right. Thank you for keeping me informed, Victoria."

She nodded, slightly. Leaning forward a little, she picked up both maps, slipped them back into the file, slid it across the table closer to him before sitting back again. "After you've read in your Defence Minister, you should ask him to talk to ours — it would perhaps be wise for our Defence Ministries to be in contact as events proceed, should something unfortunate occur."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be giving them a call whether I tell him to or not." If only to shout at his British counterparts for not telling him what the fuck was going on years ago.

Victoria nodded again. "I believe that was all I needed to discuss. You have a concern of your own, yes?"

"Oh, right." Honestly, compared to the fucking bombshell Victoria had just dropped on him, Síomha publicly spitting in the Wizengamot's eye hardly even rated. "Well, it's looking like we might be late to breakfast if we stay here chatting too much longer, so I guess I'll keep it short. At the award presentation this morning, we expect there might be...something of a scene."

The slightest scowl twisted Victoria's forehead — though not much of one, scowling was hardly dignified, after all. "Let me guess: your pet sorceress is going to refuse the honour of being admitted to the Order of Merlin...publicly."

Michael entirely failed to hold in a smirk. "Hey, good guess."

"It's hardly much of a surprise. Honestly, I cannot imagine what the Order was thinking nominating her, they couldn't have expected her to accept it."

He lifted a shoulder in a languid shrug. He had no idea either, and Síomha herself had been just as dumbfounded as anyone when she'd heard the news. The only theory Saoirse had was that the Wizengamot was trying to bribe the Irish nationalists somehow, to incentivise them to quit all that separatist shite they're doing, but really, did they think inviting Síomha into the Order of Merlin would work? Very silly. "Many of the political decisions the Wizengamot makes are completely incomprehensible to me, I've given up trying to figure them out.

"Anyway, this conversation was going to be a lot longer, but, since we already have an understanding on maybe going to bloody war, this isn't nearly as big of an ask in comparison. The reasons I wanted to bring this to you ahead of time are two-fold. One, Saoirse informs me it's very possible the crowd may not react favourably." Victoria huffed, just a little, amused despite herself. "In fact, worst case scenario, Fionn thinks it's possible a few mages might get it into their heads to try to murder me. Again."

It was sort of surreal, the turn his life had taken over the last few months — that racists with magical superpowers might try to murder him was a legitimate concern he had to take precautions against. And not just in the magical world now, Saoirse had already intercepted two separate attempts by suspicious mages to get close enough to curse him in Dublin, and he'd lost count of how many cursed or potioned items had been sent to them. Not that they were hard to detect — they always used fancy magical parchment, and letters just appearing out of nowhere instead of coming in by way of the postal service with everything else were inherently suspicious — but he had a couple curse-breaker volunteers going through all of his post anyway. Someone had even broken into his home back in Listowel, apparently not realising he was hardly ever there, spent most of his time in Dublin these days — thankfully, his mother had been out at the time, that could have ended badly. (The little house was under magical protection now, he'd had to inform his family about magic, and the fact that a number of magical people wanted him dead, which had been awkward.)

Apparently, some mages weren't accustomed to muggles just waltzing into their world and having the audacity to demand they actually be treated with respect. Of course, it was known now that he'd basically spat in the Minister's eye when they'd met at the World Cup, so, that didn't help...

But anyway, yes, that was kind of crazy to think about, that an unknown number of magical people wanted to kill him, he tried not to think about it. It was just...kind of stupid, though, that these magical people might target him for something Síomha was doing. He guessed the whole bodyguard thing might not help. As he understood it, Síomha's behaviour with him was rather like what mages might expect between a vassal and her lord — it was unusual to magical sensibilities for two people who weren't members of the same family to have this kind of relationship. (The Republic allying with Saoirse was fine, theoretically; Síomha being assigned to protect him personally, more or less twenty-four-seven, was weird.) So, to the mages, their dynamic might make it look like anything Síomha did in public was by his leave, that he was the one in charge, and so he was the one responsible who should be retaliated against.

Ciarán hadn't actually been quite that straightforward when explaining the problem, but he was pretty sure he had the picture of it. Basically, if Síomha did something controversial in public (especially while Michael was also present), some people were going to blame him for it.

Whether it made any damn sense at all — flouncing into the World Cup or Hogwarts and telling everyone who had a problem with it to piss off, sure, those had been Michael's idea, Síomha and her people were just doing as ordered. He could understand why blaming him, the person in charge, but not Síomha made sense in that context. This one? They hadn't invited Michael to join the Order of Merlin. Síomha wasn't, like, his thrall or some feudal shite like that, he didn't have any say in whether or not she accepted it. She'd informed him she wasn't going to...though she had asked his opinion on whether she should try to be as polite as possible about it, or not even bother and probably cause a big fuss over it — making it clear she'd prefer the latter, but it might put him at greater risk, so she'd take his opinion into account.

He'd told her to make it count, obviously. If you're going to cause a controversy on purpose, go big or go home.

So, really, this damn thing with the presentation coming up, it had very little to do with him. But some mages were still going to blame him for it anyway, because stupid reasons. Michael fully expected he'd have to be exfiltrated under spellfire. Again.

Which was honestly just slightly annoying — he hated portkeys.

Victoria just looked slightly exasperated, a hint of a smile twitching at the corner of her lips. "I am not surprised, honestly. You do have a talent for angering people, haven't you?"

"Hey, I'm not even going to be doing anything this time. This one's all on Síomha."

"You exist, Michael — that is provocation enough for some of these people."

Which didn't make him less inclined to provoke them, of course. "Yes, well, that sounds like their problem."

This time Victoria actually did smile a little, shaking her head. "You are making Saoirse work for it, aren't you. That poor girl, you're going to give Síomha a heart attack before this is all over."

"She'll be fine." If nothing else, Michael was certain Fionn could just heal that sort of thing. "Depending on how...riled up the crowd is, we think it's possible they'll need get me out of there — if we're gone before anyone tries and throws a curse, it should calm down. But, second reason I'm bringing this to you, it occurs to me the British delegation will be seated right next to ours. I thought you deserved a warning, especially if you're bringing the kids along."

"Yes, I understand why you might be concerned. If violence were to break out... I do trust William to be able to manage anything that is likely to happen." Well, of course, he was a multi-centenarian metamorph, he was one of the most dangerous people in the valley right now. "Though, perhaps the children should stay in the castle until the ceremony is over, as a precaution."

"That's what I would do, I think." He didn't have children, or a Sir William, but.

Victoria nodded. "Thank you for the warning, Michael."

"Sure, least I could do."

They chatted the next couple minutes about something mostly inconsequential — he'd probably joke later that he'd literally been discussing the cost of tea from India with the Queen of England, but it'd actually been textiles — before Langley appeared, informing them Síomha was just down the hall. A couple last pleasantries, nice meeting, good cookies, blah blah, and they started for the door.

"Mooother, Father says we're ready to— Oh!" A girl had just skipped out of the hallway leading further into the suite. She was maybe twelve or so, dark hair intricately braided, dolled up in a blue and white dress Michael suspected could probably cover the rent for his Dublin flat for a month or two. Like Kenneth earlier, the girl was vaguely familiar, but given where Michael was right now she could only be Princess Mary. (He honestly couldn't say whether he'd ever even seen so much as a picture of her before being introduced to Victoria's family back on Hallowe'en.) Bobbing in a shallow, polite curtsey, she said, "I'm sorry, sir, I thought your meeting was finished."

"You didn't interrupt anything, Miss, I was on my way out." Michael gave Victoria a last nod, turned toward the door.

Or at least, he was about to — Victoria started speaking before he'd even started moving, a hint of a smirk on her lips. "Yes, Mary, it's quite alright. You remember the Tánaiste, of course?"

The girl blinked at him for a second, uncertain. Then her eyes widened, and...she pointed at him — which was wild, Michael was used to all these wealthy old money types being too meticulously polite to go pointing at people. "You're that Irish communist!"

Michael couldn't help it, he burst into laughter. He didn't know what it was, that the bloody Princess was just flat-out pointing at him, Victoria glancing away and covering her mouth with the back of her hand, the...scandalised glee on the girl's voice, it was just funny. Once he had control of his breath again, he crowed (in the sort of voice he used for the benefit of children, playing up the drama), "Ah, I see my reputation precedes me!" It would have to be something someone had told her, it wasn't as though they'd actually spoken much at all on Hallowe'en — she was a child, and he'd had diplomacy to do.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that. Mother says you're entertaining, but harmless."

Entertaining, was he? A glance showed Victoria was wincing a little at that description — that's what happens when you actually talk about politics with your children, wasn't it — he'd have to tease her about this later. "Harmless? Now I think I am offended, we communists are very scary people, you know." He leaned in a little, putting even more overblown drama on his voice. "I'm sure you've heard the stories about what my Comrades all over the world do to little princesses like you, hmm?"

Mary rolled her eyes, trying to look dismissive, but didn't quite hold in a scandalised sort of giggle.

Somehow, Michael ended up being held back in the suite until the whole family was ready, Kenneth reappearing with William (six or seven, he thought). The silly Lady Protector cloak had gotten back around Victoria's shoulders at some point — Langley had probably taken care of that, but Michael didn't notice, Mary was chattering at him the whole time demanding his attention. He probably could have found a way to lever himself out of the conversation, but they were on their way out (they were seated at the same table anyway), and honestly it was just sort of entertaining, he didn't actually mind.

Despite some thinly-veiled accusations directed his way by political opponents — though more often from his mother, if he was being honest — just because he didn't have any children of his own didn't mean he didn't like them just fine. Besides, Victoria had clearly expected Michael to extricate himself from the conversation as soon as possible. The longer he humoured Mary the more exasperated she got, it was funny.

They were met out in the corridor by Síomha and James (and also several of Langley's people). By the glances they shot him, it was obvious they'd both noticed Michael had been sort of captured. On the way out the door, while still babbling on about how neat magic was (same page there), Mary had slipped her hand into his elbow and started leading him out (he'd completely failed to hold in an amused huff) — it appeared the Princess had acquired an escort down to breakfast. In another situation, he might worry about how this might look...if she weren't literally a third his age and just being a silly headstrong child, this was just sort of precious.

After giving Victoria the expected pleasantries, his people came closer. Síomha just seemed like she couldn't decide whether she should be more bemused or amused, her expression all weird and twisted, but James had definitely landed on the latter. "Sir, Princess," James said, tipping an imaginary hat. "I see we come too late."

"Ah yes, I was lulled into a false sense of security, ensnared when I least expected it. How devious, these English be."

Mary giggled. They got another exasperated look from Victoria (though Kenneth seemed about as amused as Michael was) before the group started down the hallway.

Michael hung back a little to ape a stumble, turning and stooping as though Mary really were bodily dragging him off. "They're taking me away! James, get back to Dublin, get a rescue going! Síomha, tell Alex to hide the files, just in case — he knows the ones. If I never see the sun again, someone take care of—"

"Oh, stop that, Mister," Mary said, lightly patting him on the arm. "We were talking about—"

"Ah! They've started in on the torture! I'll hold out as long as I can, but I don't—"

Michael could practically feel Síomha rolling her eyes at him, and the preteen girl casually manhandling him giggled again, so, nailed it.

---

omg I am such a wordy bitch...

[reserve army of the Revolution] — Michael is jokingly referring to the reserve army of labour, a Marxist concept.

[he'd literally quoted Lenin at one point] — He would have paraphrased Lenin, perhaps something from Imperialism: the Highest Stage of Capitalism, because you can't just go name-dropping Bolsheviks in public like that. Presumably, the normies didn't identify it as something Lenin said.

[Holst's backchannel attempt at negotiating peace in the Levant] — Johan Jørgen Holst played a large role in arranging the back-channel negotiations that led to the Oslo Accords between Israel and the PLO. —Lysandra

So, most of this is Sandra's worldbuilding. My headcanon involves mages interacting a lot more with muggle society on the day-to-day, mostly because the magical population in my headcanon is much smaller. With non-magical raw materials sourced from the muggle world, the economy is drastically different — no hidden magical plantation farms and literal slave classes and shite — and the mages tend to be a bit more modern in their thinking than the basically feudal approach we're taking here. (A few really isolated pureblood families are completely incapable of dealing with muggles, like the Weasleys, but.)

(BTW, my personal interpretation is that the extreme ignorance of even basic things like how the currency works displayed by many mages makes this kind of contact implausible, so the magical population is larger and more self-sufficient to compensate. It's probably the single largest difference between our worldbuilding. —Lysandra)

Starlight is mine, though. It's been elaborated on quite a bit in The Lady of (New) Avalon, the fem!Sirius story I've been working on as a side project. Bella really did let them see the Death Eaters' healers when they needed them, mostly because the rhetoric early on in the war — before they took a hard right into crazy fascist territory courtesy of opportunism, fucked up ritual magic, and Light propaganda — was more traditional dark, pro-magic. They were presenting themselves as the leaders of a dark utopia-in-the-making, which by default included the non-humans marginalised by Daylighter Britain, ergo the Starlighters were Bella's to take care of. If all had gone according to plan, they would eventually have become the commoners of New Avalon, supporting the academics and military once they formally split with Britain. Plus it gave the D.E. trainee healers good practice with non-battlefield healing. Kind of important, if they ever got that whole independent nation thing off the ground, having well-rounded medical professionals on hand.

I vaguely recall thinking I had more things to say as I was reading through, but I've worked forty-seven hours in the past four days, and I should have gone to bed about two hours ago, so I'm not entirely with it at the moment, and also I don't care enough to try to remember what my other note was. —Leigha

Some delay happened because we both got distracted by side-projects. At least I'm getting on track again — which probably means no updates for By Gods Forsaken for a while (after writing 100k words in like two weeks, seriously, what was that) — so we'll see how this goes from here. —Lysandra