Cataclysm

by kitsunerei88

[Sequel to Vanguard] Lord Riddle is dead, and the Ministry has fallen. What began as revolution becomes a war, and wars are never easy – not least because of the enemy.

14. Chapter 14

Neal was awakened by a loud banging on his door. He groaned, pulled his pillow out from under his head, and clapped it over his face.

It felt like he had just fallen into bed. He hadn't had a full night of sleep in nearly three weeks, and he felt the need for sleep dragging on him. He was still sharp—he couldn't afford to be anything except sharp—but he was crankier now, snappier, with less laughter and quite a lot more orders. And more headaches. If it wasn't for Yuki and his family, he was sure that he would have been a great deal worse.

The pounding came at his door again, this time with a shout.

"Neal! You're going to want to see this!"

It was Kel, who had the dawn watch. She was a natural early bird, so she always had the dawn watch, just as Neal always had the evening watch. They occasionally took day watch or night watch as well, but his mother and their Stormwings, who were in charge of planning the watch schedule, didn't like scheduling people on back-to-back shifts. Too long on shift made people slow and inattentive, and no one wanted an inattentive sentry. Especially not when they were under siege.

Queenscove Castle saw nothing amiss. It told him, quite cheerfully, that the wards were secure, its walls were unmolested, and the skies over the keep were clear. It's a beautiful day, the castle sang to him. Warm, for the end of February—high of seven degrees, low of two. No rain today either, so won't you get up?

I just went to bed at midnight, Neal snapped back at his castle, even as he pulled his head out from under his pillow. If Kel needed him awake to see something, she was probably right.

"What is it?" he yelled back, running his hands through his hair. It was getting long, falling into his face. He stumbled upright, the room swimming slightly, before he staggered to the door and wrenched it open.

Kel's first was raised, poised to rap again, but she lowered it seeing his face.

"They're leaving," she said, her hazel eyes feverish and alive. "Packing up their tents and moving out."

"What?" Neal's eyes widened, and he poked at the castle. Queenscove confirmed it—the intruders did, indeed, appear to be leaving, which only made the day more beautiful, didn't it? "How are we sure it's not a trick? An illusion?"

"We're not," Kel replied flatly with a shake of her head. "Rosalie told me to wake you, Ben, Graeme, everyone—they could be giving up, but she thinks there's a good chance that it's a trick. We need to get ready."

Rosalie was their trainee Stormwing, on Service. Even as a trainee, she was still more trained in war than Neal, so he drew in a deep breath and trusted her judgement. His castle might not think it was a trick, but Neal had long since worked out that his castle's sentience was somewhat childlike. It wanted to please him and to uphold certain ideas of what it meant to be Queenscove but second-guessing the actions of an army force on its grounds was not its strength.

"Fine." Neal sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Let's go wake everyone up."

It took half an hour for Neal to gather his closest friends, his family, and his advisors in his hall. The people sitting around the table had become, over the better part of three weeks, the leaders for the Queenscove defence, the ones upon whom Neal knew he could rely absolutely.

Benjamin Levstein, sworn Faith, was their only fully-fledged Stormwing; considerably younger than either Lina or Moody, he was also quicker to smile for all that Neal had seen him hexing people attacking on brooms with brutal efficiency. Only about ten years older than Neal himself, Ben was a British halfblood who had trained at Ilvermorny and, since his own Stormwing training, spent many years in South America working on strategies countering magical smuggling. A kippa covered the top of his head, fixed with a No-Maj clip.

Normally, Ben would have asked Rosalie to join in meetings, but instead he had left her in charge on the walls. Someone had to keep an eye on the enemy, he had said when Neal had woken him, and Rosalie had a good head on her shoulders. Stormwing training also included a grounding in illusion and compulsion magic, so one of them needed to be on the walls.

His mother was there, her dark eyes sharp as she tapped her fan on the table—a sure sign of her anxiety. His father sat beside her, his hair tousled and his eyes red-rimmed with sleeplessness. He was in charge of the Healing ward established at Queenscove, and while they were fortunate enough not to have lost anyone in any of the assaults, neither had they gotten off scot-free. The acid-rain spell had caused widespread burns, especially for the first group on sentry duty who hadn't thought to shield themselves quickly enough, though the castle had weathered it well. There were also a dozen other injuries from other assaults, most of which had been addressed easily, but a few of which had required ongoing treatment. With his father here, Yuki was watching the Healing ward.

Graeme was sitting there too, his exhaustion and crankiness well-hidden behind a laconic smile. He had night watch, and therefore had had even less sleep than Neal. Fei had stood the night watch as well, but his cousin was scowling, obviously displeased to be awake so soon after falling asleep, though she alone seemed almost to be enjoying herself during the siege, spending years of pent up rage through arranging often-dangerous sneak attacks on the enemy. Dom was yawning widely, though Neal thought there was no reason why he should be so tired considering he always stood day watch and had no reason to be staying up late. Kel, the last one around the table, wore her tension in her shoulders—her expression was carefully poised, the way that Neal recognized from too many duelling matches. She was mentally gearing up for a fight.

They were all showing signs of strain. Unlike the units, those at the table had not been rotated out, so it had been almost three weeks of waiting for the assaults that came daily, on brooms or by sheer magical force. Regardless of whether he was on duty or off, Neal felt like he hadn't had a moment to rest since the morning he had been woken up by his castle, warning of approaching enemies. His family and friends no doubt felt the same.

"They're leaving," Dom said, blinking and breaking the silence. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"They have no reason to leave," his mother said, with a small shake of her head. "It does not make sense with our information from the Lord Rosier. Voldemort does not give up once he starts anything, he is too proud to know when to quit—he should have been here until he died. He has expended too much power setting up his Anti-Apparition ward to withdraw. This must be a trick."

"Voldemort might be a lunatic, but the people around him aren't." Graeme shook his head, looking for a moment like a mirror of his mother for all that he, like Neal, took strongly after their father. "We've seen it before, haven't we? An authoritarian like him shouldn't obey laws, for example, but he still waited to get warrants to hit us. He was convinced not to attack until he had it, either by one of Rosier's internal agents or just because it made sense. Maybe someone convinced him that this needed too many resources? While he's been tied up here, he hasn't been able to do much else."

"We should have bled them more," Fei muttered. Neal really had no idea why Fel was in Britain at all, other than that fact that she wasn't talking to her family again and didn't have anywhere else to be. "For the overall war effort."

"A little bloodthirsty, don't you think, Fei?" Neal threw out, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugged. "If they're dead, they can't be striking elsewhere."

"It could be a trick," Ben interceded. "It could be a mass-scale illusion, meant to lure us into a sense of security."

"Should we prepare for a large-scale attack, then?" His mother asked, her voice deadly serious.

"But there was that evening attack the night before last—" Graeme said, then he shook his head. "I thought we had laid some serious injuries then. We know they don't have as many Healers as we do."

"A narcissistic psychopath wouldn't care," Ben said, with a small grimace. "If he thought he would win, he would go ahead with it, and damn the consequences. It could be a large-scale illusion, but my gut instinct says that is that this is something else—what have we heard from the others?"

"It's a go-ahead on the Scotland plan," Neal said, fighting a yawn. Most of Queenscove had been preoccupied with their present situation and while they received daily updates on the broader war effort, he had to admit that the details did not come to mind as quickly as they ought. "But they shouldn't know that—the wall they have up should seal them off as well as us."

"Sealing himself off completely would be a very stupid thing to do," Kel commented, tilting her head slightly. "I don't think he would be that stupid, and he's supposed to be a leader of a nation. He can't afford to seal himself off completely. He has to have a few gates—we just don't know where they are. Someone has to be going off to control the Ministry, his news has to be getting out to the Daily Prophet somehow, and his informants need a way to report to him."

"Kel is right," Ben confirmed. "He almost certainly has several gates in his wall. If he were to have found out about our plans, it would be a reason for him to pull back. We should alert the others."

"If it's not a trick," his mother said, her words sharp. "We should also put the day watch on alert. They are the freshest of the units. Yuanren, you should fortify the magical defences."

Neal nodded, waving a hand in acknowledgement. His castle was still humming, content and convinced that the intruders were really leaving. Lord or not, he had long since given up on the illusion that he actually ran anything in his supposed household. It was his magic castle, his house-elves and his mother who took care of most things.

"Someone should also check the ravelins," Ben added, with a look around the table. "These mass illusions are easier to sustain if they limit where they are effective. We might see something different from the ravelins."

"I'll do it," Fei said instantly, as Neal expected she would. "I can check them all."

"No fire this time," Ben replied, with a stern glare. "Check only, then get back here and report. Understood?"

Fei made a face, but she didn't argue.

"And I'll take the Portkey Hub to Potter Place." Dom sighed. "I'll be quick about it."

The next few hours were slow and tense. The day watch was roused, and half the evening watch as well, and put on alert. Neal spent more time in meditation with his castle, forcing it to give him different perspectives of his grounds, but he didn't see anything different. Fei reported nothing different from the ravelins, though they were far enough away by then that she couldn't be sure if she would be able to identify an illusion to see it. Dom returned from Potter Place, shaking his head and advising that while the situation had been explained, the Lord Potter hadn't had any ideas that they hadn't already had, but suggested checking with Aldon in a few hours. There was always a delay between when a message was sent, the time that it took to be decoded, and then for the information to be passed around to the relevant people.

Three hours later, the enemy was gone. But Neal couldn't relax. Any moment could bring with it a report of a new form of attack, or news of a raid on another, less well-defended safehouse.

XXX

Chess' heart was beating too quickly, her hands shaking. She shouldn't be here—she couldn't believe that Aldon and his lieutenant Draco had talked her into this. It would be more believable, they had told her, if she were involved but she had no idea how she was supposed to carry off the con reasonably. She didn't like people on the best of her days, she hesitated too much when she talked, and even if Edmund was once Aldon's friend she was all too aware of the fact that he was also here on orders from their enemy.

There was so much else that she could and should be doing. Not all the units had been screened for ACD use yet—she and the others at Blake & Associates had been directed to to focus on units being shipped north to Scotland. The range of magical frequencies that they could make ACDs for was still limited, and she had been surprised that not everyone who matched for an ACD even wanted one. Some of the former Aurors were worried about how a new channelling method might throw off their tried and true wand-casting styles, while others just seemed to be suspicious of No-Maj technology generally. Given the limited number of ACDs they were able to make, Christie had simply advised Francesca to let it go. The ACD could go to someone else who would use it better.

It bothered her though, more than she would ever admit to anyone other than John. These people were going to war, and the ACD could save lives. It had protected John through the Tournament, it had probably saved Aldon's life more than once, and it had protected Archie at the Clan meeting where apparently everything had gone to hell. And so many people wouldn't accept it because it was new, because it was part-No-Maj. She had seen too many suspicious glances aimed at her and at her device, and that hurt. It hurt that people didn't want the device that she had poured everything of herself into for years.

Why was she even here, if not to make ACDs? She had no investment in the politics of another country, and while she sympathized with Archie and Hermione and especially Aldon, she wasn't one of them. She wouldn't be fighting, not if her ACD wasn't involved. And even with her ACD—if it wasn't for the fact that the Tournament had ended the way it did, with AIM's withdrawal, then she would have wondered whether a war was really the place to showcase her invention. But a war was what she had, and she did want Aldon and Archie to survive, and if her invention was the technological edge that they needed to bring them to victory then, she supposed, that would be a good starting point. She had needed something big to bring her little device attention, something that would break the set ways of the wizarding establishment. She had needed something that would show the world that her ACD was the way of the future.

She wanted a world where ACDs were ubiquitous, where not having an ACD was completely unthinkable. She wanted wands to go the way of paper-casting—something that some people used, but not the default. Wands and paper-spells would become historic, outdated, respected in some quarters as art, but not the territory of everyday spell-casting. She wanted her glittering little device to become the default for all magic-users; she wanted to kick spell-casting into the new millennium, which was only a few years away. She wanted her name to go down beside her device for eternity.

The uses of the devices needed to be expanded. She had ideas for the theory behind how the ACD could be changed to include more spells. Right now, she was hard-wiring up to three spells, but in the long-term she would need to find a way to integrate memory and a better microprocessor into her device for a wider range of spells, which meant a better power source than the batteries they were using now. Then, the more spells they were able to load on, the better user interface they would need. She didn't want her device to be complicated, needing years of training the way a wand did. Dad had sent her a stack of books about graphical user interfaces from San Francisco, which were sitting in a stack beside Aldon's bed.

She wanted to be reading them. She wanted to be pushing the ACD forward, and not sitting in Aldon's private sitting room, mechanically doing a Gongfu tea ceremony for Aldon and his oldest friend. Even if it was a con.

"Isn't that right, Francesca?" Aldon said, bringing her into the conversation. Francesca had no idea what the rest of the conversation had been about. Was it something about her schooling? Or their supposed relationship? Who knew?

Not her, but in these things, Francesca figured it was best to just smile and agree. "Oh, um—yes, of course."

Aldon smiled indulgently, the exact sort of expression that Francesca normally tried to glare off his face. But it didn't match with the character that she was supposed to be tricking Ed with, supposedly, so she ignored it. Ed didn't know about the ACD, and he didn't know that Francesca was a paper-mage only, and it was best that it stay that way. Aldon turned back to Ed. "It wouldn't be proper to have children before we've had the formal wedding ceremony, anyway. I don't think Francesca's parents even know about us, yet."

Francesca fought a grimace, trying to keep her face blank. It had been a long time since she had been on a stage, and while she was nowhere near as expressive as Hermione or Archie, she also wasn't perfectly poker-faced. "It's hard to explain," she muttered, then her eyes dropped to the tray and she focused pouring the tea into the fairness pitcher. A critical step in tea ceremony, the fairness pitcher, to ensure the consistency of flavour.

"Muggle conventions are quite different to ours," she heard Aldon say quickly. "From what I understand, they marry quite a bit later than we do, and education takes longer. But please, enough about us—how about you? Tell me about you and Alice, about your Grand Tour of the world."

Francesca tuned them out again. Nothing that they would say was important—as far as Francesca had heard, Aldon had regaled Ed with a very entertaining and mostly fictional story of their relationship, the details of which Francesca was sure that she would forget. The way Aldon told it, it was almost like they had met, started stepping out before the end of that first summer, then had remained a steady couple except for their fight after the Ministry Unity Ball. In his turn, Ed, seemed to be telling them a long story about going on safaris to look for magical creatures around the world.

Francesca suppressed a shudder. Bubbles notwithstanding, she didn't like creatures. The further they stayed away from her, the better.

The war loomed huge in the room, hidden in the nooks and crannies and in between the smiles they all wore. The war was always present, of course, even when Aldon tried to keep it away from them on their dates, but not like this.

When she and Aldon were alone, they pretended the war was far away. They talked about the ACD, and she caught him up on the new changes and advancements they had made. Sometimes, they worked on her papers that she needed to publish for AIM credit, and often, they dreamed about the things that they would do when the war was over. Francesca still intended on going to No-Maj college, of course, and she thought Aldon was interested in studying for a Mastery in Magical Theory abroad and in seeing a little more of the world. She wanted to show him more of the world that she had come from, not just the movie theatres and the bookstores and the everyday that he knew from living in No-Maj London for a year, but the magic of places like Disneyland, or the wonder at an aquarium or science centre, or the mixed thrill and terror of a roller coaster. When it was just her and Aldon, the war existed, but they had an implicit agreement to talk about a future after the war.

With Ed, there simply was no war. Ed and Aldon talked as if the war was not an ever-present reality, as if it wasn't happening, as if it just wasn't there. They shared chitchat about their families, and no one ever mentioned that Ed's wife could not come visit because she was Voldemort's captive for his good behaviour. They talked about the past, reminiscing about their days at Hogwarts, about the grand Great Hall and the soothing Slytherin common room under the lake, but they didn't talk about Aldon's blood status or about the events that had brought them here. They talked about the future, but it was a very different future than the one that Aldon envisioned with her.

When Aldon talked about his future with her, it was a future where they worked side-by-side on the ACD. They travelled often to America, or Germany, or Switzerland, because Francesca couldn't imagine John and Gerry not staying together. In that future, she went to college, and Aldon went to do his Mastery somewhere—hopefully close to her, but they had managed long distances before. After the war, they would go to college and have years of hard work and fun, and they would travel the world to see wonders both No-Maj and wizarding. After the war, they would work more on the ACD, and they would bring magic into the modern age by releasing the first publicly available ACD together.

The future that Aldon talked about with Ed was very different. In that future, he and Ed settled down quickly, as two Lords of the nobility, and they would engage themselves in the political affairs of the day. Aldon would run his father's business, and Ed would find work with creatures, but they would both sit in the Wizengamot and pass law. Francesca and Alice would become friends, for all that Francesca was not sure she ever wanted to meet Alice, let alone befriend her, and their children would become friends, and Francesca would settle into the glamourous life of a Society wife and mother.

It sounded so horrific that, if it were real, Francesca would bolt for the window, jump out of it, and run without ever looking back.

Aldon and Ed didn't talk about Voldemort. They didn't talk about how there was no future in which the one they laughed about would ever happen. They didn't talk about the world around them, or about the battles even now sweeping through Scotland.

The first strikes had begun more than a week ago—Lina, Moody, the Lord Potter, Sirius, and a coalition of the Clans had taken the outlying Shetland Islands with barely a fight. The Orkney Islands had come a little harder, with Voldemort unleashing most of his Dementor forces, but the terrain and the local population had favoured the Clans so that victory had come a few days later. Even now, ten days later, there was pitched fighting through the Hebrides—while most of the population didn't support Voldemort, the dragon-keepers on the reservations did and fighting there had raged for two days so far. According to Rolf, who had come by to consult, dragons didn't have the sentience to decide whether to fight in a war. Only a few would have enough of a bond with their dragon-keepers to fight by their side, but unfortunately, even one Hebridean Black was a horrifying asset for the enemy.

She breathed a deep, silent sigh, glancing at the teacups on the table. Mostly empty, so she reached for the fairness pitcher and filled them up again. She didn't mind doing tea ceremony—for the Chinese, and of the tradition she had been taught, it was just a way to greet guests. It would have been perfectly normal for her to carry on conversation while she broke tea off the teacakes, checked the water chemistry and the temperature for the best cup of tea, checked the aroma of her brew, and poured. But Ed wouldn't know that, and Francesca was fine with speaking as little as possible.

How long had it been, already? Enough for two teapots, while Aldon tried to learn things from Ed from his silences and meaningless anecdotes and Ed tried to do the same. Time enough, she thought, for Draco to show up and set the plan in motion.

It took another teapot before the knock came at the door. Aldon stood up with a quick smile, excusing himself, while Francesca emptied the teapot of spent tea leaves into her clay waste bowl. Draco stayed out of sight, as intended, and it was only a second before Aldon came back.

"I must excuse myself for a few minutes," he said, with an apologetic inclination of his head. "There is a matter that needs my attention. I hope it will not take long. Francesca, would you…?"

Francesca nodded stiffly. "Y-yes. Of course."

He smiled again, leaned down to peck a kiss on her cheek, and disappeared out the door.

Silence fell.

In theory, Francesca was supposed to keep Ed entertained for fifteen or twenty minutes or so. In practice, she had no idea what she was supposed to say. Aldon had told her quite a lot about Ed, but she had only met him for a few brief minutes at the ill-fated Ministry Unity Ball the year before.

He was taller than she remembered. Or, maybe it was less that he was taller, but he had been more broad-shouldered and muscled at the Ministry Unity Ball, larger than even John or Gerry. He had obviously lost a lot of weight, and he now had a gaunt look to him. She had seen him walking, so she knew that he had a limp which she didn't remember from the Ball, but he didn't use a cane. There was no smile on his face, and his black eyes watched Francesca with consideration.

He looked so old-fashioned now, compared to Aldon. He wore his hair long, tied back with a ribbon, and his robes were floor-length deep green. If Aldon looked like he had walked out of the 1920s or the 1930s, Francesca would have placed Ed in eighteenth century, if eighteenth century fashion had included long robes. There was something about the trim, or maybe it was the way that Ed talked and moved, that brought her further back.

Aldon had dressed like him in the beginning too. Somehow, those days seemed longer ago than they were.

She was supposed to be making conversation.

"How—how do you like the, um, tea?" she stammered, reflexively checking his cup. It was still full.

"Fine." Ed was expressionless, and silence reigned for another few minutes. Francesca busied herself with the tea tray, this time soaking the bottom with the waste water so that the whole tray would be the same pleasing shade of brown.

"You do that very well," he said, a minute or so later. He gestured to her tea ceremony set with a hand. "I haven't seen it before."

Francesca nodded, short and sharp. "My—my grandmother made me learn. She said—said that knowing how to make good tea was—was a sign of a good education. And that it would—would help me in the future."

"I see." Another pause. "And did it?"

There was something else behind the question, something barbed that stuck underneath her skin and rubbed on her. She didn't know what it was and couldn't have described it if she tried, but somehow she knew the question hadn't been meant kindly. She had no idea what he was trying to ask her.

"I don't—I don't understand what you mean," she replied, looking back down at her tea tray. She could always rearrange the various bowls and pitchers. The teapot, of course, then the fairness pitcher, the aroma cups, the teacups, and the tiny dragon tea pet that she poured tea over for luck. The waste bowl that held her used tea leaves.

"I imagine that a skill like that was very attractive to Aldon." Ed's voice was pointed. "He is a wealthy man. Noble."

"He wasn't when I met him." Francesca looked up sharply, offended at the implication. "When I met him, he had been newly disowned."

Ed wore a small, hard smile. "All the better to target. Or is there more to you?"

Francesca fell silent, feeling as if she had taken a misstep. Aldon had warned her that not to say anything of any importance whatsoever to Ed. Nothing about her magic, nothing about the ACD, nothing about magical frequencies. Nothing about materials science, or engineering, or the electromagnetic spectrum.

The problem was, without the ACD, she didn't know what to say. Without hinting at the ACD, she couldn't talk about her childhood, which had been dominated by guided experiments under her father or his grad students at Stanford and coding competitions; without the ACD, she couldn't explain what she did day to day, or why she was in Britain at all, or even why she was attracted to Aldon. Aldon was handsome, yes, and wealthy and intelligent and many other things, but that wasn't everything.

When one took away the ACD, there wasn't much to Francesca. At least, not much that she could talk about that Ed would understand. She was sure that he wouldn't be interested in Star Trek, or romance novels, or magical dance. And Star Trek also probably came too close to the ACD, anyway.

"You'd—you'd have to ask Aldon," she replied stiffly instead.

"Why?" Ed studied her. "You would know yourself best."

Francesca shrugged. "I thought—thought you were asking what he saw in me."

"No." Ed leaned back in his armchair. "I was asking you to tell me about yourself. Aldon is my closest friend, and you are his wife."

Ed had been Aldon's closest friend, but the Aldon that Francesca saw with him was very different than the Aldon that Francesca knew. "There is—there isn't much to know," she replied, looking away and thinking over what Ed could possibly know or suspect about her. "I'm from a No-Maj family in America. My grandparents live in Hong Kong, and I often spent summers there as a child. I like tea and dance."

"A good family?"

"What do you mean by good?" Francesca shook her head, her hands trembling as she rearranged the items on her tea tray for the umpteenth time. "I don't—don't like these insinuations. I would—if you could say whatever you want to say plainly, I'd prefer that."

"Needing things spelled out is not a good trait for Aldon's wife," Ed commented coolly, and Francesca felt her shoulders stiffen. She hated this—she hated people generally, but she especially hated these subtle digs. She wasn't enough, and she would never be enough, and she didn't belong anywhere. Her magic was barely magic, and who ever heard of somoene who couldn't use a wand? But few people said it outright. Ed's expression was critical, his mouth tilted in disapproval. "He will always be in the eyes of Society, and as his wife, so will you."

Society would be a very different place when Aldon was through with it, and Francesca pressed her lips together tightly. She didn't know how much time it had been, but she didn't care. Aldon didn't need that much time to set up the next part of the con anyway, and surely the few minutes that had passed were enough. "I'm sure—you should speak to Aldon. I think—I think he will be occupied for the rest of the day today anyway, so shall I—shall I walk you to the edge of the grounds?"

She didn't want to walk him to the edge of the grounds. To the door, fine, but the edge of the grounds was far. But as a spy, Aldon had said that Ed could not be left unattended in the manor or on the grounds at any time.

"Aldon said he would be back shortly." Ed raised an eyebrow.

"The—the manor is showing me that he won't be," Francesca replied, reaching for Aldon's teacup and pouring the excess over her dragon tea pet, then doing the same with Ed's barely-touched cup. According to Aldon, were she and Aldon actually married, the manor would pass along information to her as it needed, just as it did for him. Letting her know that Aldon couldn't return was believable. "I will walk you out."

Ed was silent as she packed up the set. He followed her as she stood up and headed for the door, then out of the family quarters and into the common areas. It was obvious, from the way he moved, that he was well familiar with Rosier Place. She shifted her shoulders, uncomfortable, and led him past the door where Aldon and Draco were having a heated argument. Aldon had seen her coming, of course, and Draco was behind the door, hidden from view.

"Lord Rosier…" Draco was saying, his voice pitched lower than Francesca had heard before, almost gravelly. "You can't possibly be considering—Hogsmeade isn't secure! Voldemort has made it his home base in Scotland!"

"If Sparrow needs help in Hogsmeade, then I have to go," Aldon replied, his voice heated for all that it was quiet. "Tonight. If I go tonight—"

Francesca cleared her throat, looking back at Ed, who had slowed at the whispers. The whispers stopped abruptly, as Francesca knew they would, and Francesca gestured for Ed to go in front of her. "Please," she murmured, trying to sound firm.

Ed hobbled on ahead of her, and she guided him out the door. Shortly onto the grounds, she felt Aldon shift the distances under her feet, so that they wouldn't have as far to travel. Another trick, she supposed, to make it seem as if Francesca had the same control over Rosier Place and its grounds as Aldon did.

They were almost at the wards when Ed spoke again.

"Aldon loves you," he said, his voice more measured than it had been before.

"I know." She stopped, about fifteen away from the edge of the wards. She couldn't feel them, not the way Aldon could, but he had shown her exactly where to stop.

"You don't even respect him enough to wear his ring."

Francesca stiffened. If she were anyone else—if she were Archie, if she were Hermione, if she were John, she thought the ploy might have worked. She would have needed to defend herself, spilling out to Ed that they weren't married, telling him more than he ought to know before she stopped to think. In that light, their entire conversation of the past half hour or so seemed to have been aimed at provoking her to spill information.

But Francesca hesitated. She always hesitated when she spoke, and she often changed what she was going to say in the middle of saying it. What might have worked on others didn't work on her.

"I don't—I do not need to explain myself to you," she said, picking each word carefully. "Nor do I need to explain my relationship with Aldon. When Aldon was disowned, I didn't see you or your wife there. Aldon spoke of you, but always—always like it was in the past. I don't think you have any grounds to pass judgement. Now, please—get off our grounds."

Ed studied her for another few moments, his eyes dark, and then he turned and walked out off the Rosier grounds. Francesca waited for a few minutes, making sure he had truly left, before returning to the manor.

Aldon and Draco were waiting in the entrance hall.

"Well?" Aldon asked, his voice tight.

Francesca shrugged. "I don't know."

"It doesn't matter," Draco said, shaking his head quickly. "The plan is set now, so we have to go ahead and execute it."

XXX

In Hogsmeade, Caelum was waiting. Hogsmeade was the base of operations for Voldemort's defence of Scotland. Aside from being the second-largest Wizarding community in Wizarding Britain, it was also the primary base of the Ministry loyal. Not that the Inconsistency-in-Chief had much of a base in Hogsmeade to speak of—for the most part, people nodded frantically whenever Caelum gave them orders and then tried to vanish as soon as his attention moved on.

In Scotland, most of the true Ministry faithful had moved south in the months following the Daily Prophet's recommendations. The Clans were more prominent than anyone had ever imagined; Voldemort was outnumbered on the battlefield, and those Clan members that they didn't find on the battlefield had been pulled back into hidden safehouses, or to the Shetlands or the Orkneys. The Aurors that were sent to various listed family homes to investigate or arrest suspected insurgents always came back empty-handed.

Those in Hogsmeade, with the prominent and prestigious wizarding address close to Hogwarts School, their shops, their exclusive wizarding restaurants, and other businesses were less inclined to pack up and move. They, like Hogwarts, had aimed for neutrality, which only meant that Voldemort found it very easy to move in, booking every single hotel and boarding home in the vicinity while he did it. Hogsmeade itself, with an influx of hundreds of Aurors and army personnel, was completely changed.

The civilians tried to stay out of the way, and there were whispers when Caelum walked on the streets. They looked away when he spoke to them, a few obviously afraid, and the local apothecary was giving him all the potions ingredients he wanted for free. He didn't have a Potions lab to use them in yet, but at least his kit was now fully stocked of every ingredient he could have ever wanted, under the appropriate stasis spells.

If it were not for Edmund Rookwood, Caelum would still be in the Hebrides today, making snide comments to his mother, Parkinson, and Mulciber. They were still holding onto the islands, if only barely, but the resistance had learned that if they blinded the dragons from the air, the monsters would turn on their dragon-keepers and on each other as quickly as attacking the enemy. They had lost three dragons in the ensuing mess, and six of their own fighters.

Rookwood would be reporting to Hogsmeade, where his wife was kept under tight guard. Voldemort always wanted Rookwood's report in person, and that meant that Caelum needed to be there to hear it because he needed to beg an assignment from the man. Rosier had set the plan for tonight, close enough to Hogsmeade to be a plausible meeting point with a spy, but far enough away that Caelum wouldn't be able to get support quickly. Caelum had to be far enough from other support that, in theory, he could be forced into letting Rosier go in payment of the life-debt without anyone being close enough to interfere.

In practice, Rosier would give him a suicide spell, and then they'd cause a ruckus with a staged fight, Rosier would flee when someone was in sight to have observed the supposed fulfilment of the life-debt, and Caelum would be a little safer than he had been before. Caelum could only hope that His Lunacy would be more pleased with the fact that Caelum was now a free agent, without a life-debt hanging over him, than he was with the fact that Caelum had managed to let Rosier escape.

No one else tortured with as much control as Caelum did. His mother would be too likely to get carried away, and it wasn't like the Ice Bitch would sully her hands with torture. Hopefully that leeway would allow him to escape without too severe a punishment.

He spotted the limping figure appearing in the afternoon light. Rookwood was always identifiable by his gait, so Caelum slipped forward from his position on a bench outside and followed him into the Hogsmeade Arms, the largest hotel in Hogsmeade.

A small bell tinkled above the door, and a blast of hot air hit him in the face. He scowled. The transition from cold to hot made his face tingle, a sensation that reminded him rudely of being under the Cruciatus Curse. Not the first round, or the second, but the third or fourth—he didn't want to think about it. It had been more than a year since he had suffered the Cruciatus Curse, and he hated every reminder.

The Hogsmeade Arms was designed to be homely and comfortable, rather than stately and elegant. There were tables scattered throughout the common room, each one polished and shining though they were clearly dated. The chairs were made of a similar stained wood but were mismatched by design, from minimalist to ornate. Red, overstuffed armchairs and sofas dotted the room, the velvet upholstery shiny under the soft amber lights. The chandeliers were gaudy, the glass lampshades covered in poor paintings of roses, while thick red drapes covered the windows and kept the cold out. Every time he walked into the room, Caelum felt as if he had been swallowed alive and was now swimming in someone's organs.

Voldemort had the place of pride by the fire. With the exception of Alesana Rookwood, sitting unnaturally still to one side with a glassy look in her eyes, he was alone. That was rare—most of the time, the madman was surrounded by his sycophants and fanatics, but they were almost all in the Hebrides and the few that had returned with Voldemort seemed to be off menacing the shopkeepers. All the better for Caelum, if he was the only one who would hear Rookwood's news.

"Rookwood," His Lord Madman said, rolling the name slowly in his mouth. Caelum fought a shudder, slipping off to sit in an unobtrusive corner of the organ room. He was close enough to eavesdrop, interrupt and demand that a mission be entrusted to him—but far enough away that the delusional crackpot couldn't read his mind. Voldemort's attention was focused on Rookwood, but Caelum sat facing away from them just in case. "What news from Rosier Place?"

"I spoke to Aldon's wife." Rookwood's voice was emotionless and stark.

"And?"

"She said little throughout my meeting with Aldon," Rookwood replied slowly, and Caelum heard the sound of shifting feet. "Aldon is too careful to tell me anything of value, but he was called away during the meeting. I had hoped that alone, she might prove more loquacious, but I was not lucky there, either. She stated that she is an American Muggleborn with a strong connection to China, and that she liked tea and dance. I attempted to rile her by insinuating that she was interested in Aldon's money and position but was not successful. She was markedly uncomfortable with me and my presence and sought to have me dismissed as soon as possible."

"There is more than that, isn't there?" The eager note in Voldemort's voice was unsettling—Rookwood had never been particularly good at Occlumency, and Caelum could tell that Voldemort had found something interesting in his thoughts. "Tell me."

"I do not know," Rookwood started, but only a moment later his voice picked up. "I only have suspicions!"

Caelum could only assume that the madman had raised his wand towards Rookwood's wife. He suppressed a snort—Alesana Rookwood was clearly under the Imperius Curse, so there would be no point to torturing her now. It would be easier to just order her to scream.

"I didn't see a wand on her," Edmund said, his voice slow again. Caelum assumed Voldemort had dropped his wand. "The entirety of my conversation with Aldon, she served tea in a traditional style, but did not bring out her wand to heat the water. She used traditional Chinese runic magic instead. I found it odd, so I looked for a wand later, but did not see one on her person, nor any pockets that could have been used for one. The American Institute of Magic is a wand-magic school, and I know that she was on their team for the Triwizard Tournament, therefore she must be a wand-user, yet I didn't see one on her."

"So?"

There was silence, before Rookwood spoke again, halting. "She is lying. Either she is not a Muggleborn and is either a halfblood or pureblood from China who learned traditional magic at home, or whatever device some of the resistance is using is in a far more advanced stage that we had previously guessed, to the point where she no longer resorts to a wand."

"I see." The nutter's voice was high-pitched and cold. "And do you know anything about this device yet?"

"No." Even if Caelum couldn't see Rookwood's face, he could hear how much the admission cost him. Rookwood had been spinning on the question of the device for weeks, and yet had gotten nowhere near cracking it than where he had first started. "Magical theory is not my strong suit. If I had assistance…"

"Your wife could assist you, could she not?"

Another pause. "If she were well."

Caelum didn't hear a response for several minutes, though he heard the sound of movement. His Nutcase had to be pacing.

"The device is giving the resistance an advantage that must be neutralized," Voldemort said, sounding as if the words were twisting out of his mouth against his will. "Lestrange, no treat for you today. Rookwood, take your wife and get to work. Unpuzzle whatever it is they have done and devise a method for us to counteract it. If you do not, you will feel my displeasure."

"Yes, sir," Rookwood replied quickly, and there was a scramble as Rookwood no doubt stumbled towards his wife. "Thank you, sir."

A flash of anger ran through Caelum's veins. Rookwood had grovelled, and he had spat out valuable information about Rosier's wife, and yet he hadn't told Voldemort about the meeting that would happen that night. The man couldn't even be manipulated properly, the absolute govnyuk! Caelum stood up, ready to head back out into the cold to stew over his next steps, when Voldemort called his name.

"Lestrange."

"Sir," Caelum said, turning sharply. "If you have no need of my services…"

"You will have plenty of scope in the Hebrides tomorrow, Lestrange," Voldemort replied, a smile on his lips. Rookwood was with his wife, now waking from the Imperius Curse, and they were supporting each other. "Have no fear. We'll leave at dawn."

Caelum nodded and bowed, the movements jerky, and stalked out of the room.

The importance of the information coming from Rookwood was so that Caelum didn't look like he had planned the interaction. It had to come from Rookwood, because Caelum needed real memories to throw at the madman, and they had to be corroborated by another source. He needed the memory of hearing the information, just like he needed someone to observe Rosier ordering him to let him go, and he needed it before Rosier arrived in only a few hours.

That meant drastic measures, a short plan cobbling itself in his head. He would disobey the madman, but that was a risk worth taking considering he would have a real memory of running into Rosier. He and Rosier would fight, and he would use the real memories of a fight to throw at Voldemort to show him that there was no longer a life-debt, and he would be a little safer when no one ever asked about the life-debt ever again.

When Rookwood and his wife came out of the hotel, walking towards their own boarding house, he stalked after them. He let them get almost towards their boarding house, as far away from the Hogsmeade Arms as he could, before he drew his wand and cast a Trip-Jinx on Rookwood.

Rookwood staggered, his good leg collapsing under him, and went down heavily. His wife, weak from the Imperius, went down with him. Caelum had her bound and levitating upside-down out of the way in only a second, then he turned back on Rookwood.

"Think you're good, don't you?" he snapped. "Think that just because you can fool Voldemort, you can fool me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rookwood snarled, from the ground. "Voldemort is a Legilimens—do you truly believe that he didn't uncover everything, whether I wished him to or not? You think you're better than he is?"

"No," Caelum replied, twisting his lips into a vicious smile, one that he had stolen right off his mother's face. Blyat, he hated his mother. "But I know you. You care deeply for Rosier, and you would not have spilled so much about his wife as easily as you did unless you were hiding something else. Out with it, Rookwood."

"You know nothing about me," Rookwood snapped, trying to stagger to his feet, but Caelum kicked him in his bad leg, right in the spot that he knew that Rookwood was missing a large piece of muscle. Muscle did not grow back, not unless a Healer got to the injury quickly, and no one had. Rookwood would limp for life. "Whatever our fathers were—we were never friends."

"Normally I would have had to break at least two of your wife's bones for you to say so much," Caelum retorted, then he pointed his wand at Alesana Rookwood and Vanished her clothing. She screamed, struggling to cover herself with her hands, while Caelum laid the first Whip Curse against her back.

Her skin was pale white, pebbled in the cold, and the blood that ran in bright red, pearly drops drew lines down her back. Or up it, depending on one's perspective.

"How many strikes do I need to lay in, Rookwood?" Caelum demanded, flicking his wand for a second curse. A second line of red, a second cry. "Before you talk?"

"Voldemort said that you would have no pleasure today," Rookwood said, going pale and trying to struggle upright. Caelum hit him with a Leg-Locker Curse, and he fell back to the ground. "He said we were not to be touched!"

"I'm sure that once I have whatever you're hiding, he will be happier still that I disobeyed." Caelum flicked his wand again, anger brewing under his skin at Rookwood's suggestion that he enjoyed what he did. He did what he did because he needed to do it, and that was all. He was not his mother, and he did not enjoy inflicting pain. Not the way that she did—never the way that she did. "How many times do I need to lash her for it, Rookwood?"

"You wouldn't," Rookwood replied, but from his tone, Caelum knew that even Rookwood didn't believe it. Caelum had made his reputation too well—or his family had done it for him, and Caelum was living up to the image painted by his forebears.

"Do not tell me what I will not do," Caelum replied, and he started anew. No one in Hogsmeade would interfere—he doubted even Voldemort cared enough to interfere. Caelum rated higher than either Rookwood or his wife in Voldemort's esteem, and if Rookwood was revealed to be concealing information, Voldemort would be far more upset with Rookwood than he would be with Caelum. In that light, it was even better that Rookwood had hidden the plans from Voldemort—their master lunatic would be angrier at Rookwood for concealing information than he would be at Caelum for letting Rosier get away. Not that Caelum would appear to have any choice in letting Rosier get away.

There were eight more lines across Alesana Rookwood's back, five across her front, and the woman had fainted in pain before Rookwood broke. Without the screams and cursing, there was hardly any point in further whipping, so Caelum sheathed his wand and drew the knife he used for harvesting Potions ingredients. He walked over to her limp form; her arms now hung towards the ground, revealing her stripped, mauled body to the entirety of Hogsmeade.

His mother would have found the image beautiful. Caelum wanted to vomit.

"Stop." Rookwood said, sounding completely broken while Caelum contemplated where to begin. The face was always a good place, but he rather thought it would hurt Rookwood more if he started with her breasts. His mother would have started with the face—she had always called a woman's beauty her most important asset—but Caelum was not his mother, he did not enjoy this, and he only wanted results. "Lestrange—stop. Stop. I—Aldon is coming tonight. To Hogsmeade, to meet a contact he called Sparrow. I overheard him, but he knows I did, so I doubt he will carry through. He is too smart to carry through. It is completely meaningless, so please—just stop."

"Meaningless, is it?" Caelum paused, turning back towards Rookwood. "That is something for Voldemort to decide, not you. Is that everything?"

"Yes," Rookwood choked out, his eyes wide and desperate as he looked at his wife. "I swear it, Lestrange. By Merlin, by Voldemort himself. Please, let her go."

Caelum snorted, sheathing his knife. If Rookwood was prepared to swear it by Voldemort, there was likely nothing else, or that was what he would say to Voldemort if asked why he hadn't questioned them harder. He released the spells on Alesana Rookwood, and she fell with a heavy thud into a puddle of her own blood. "We'll see about that, Rookwood. I'm going to find Rosier, and I'm going to exact my revenge for the duel, and you can rest assured that I will be telling Voldemort about this."

He stalked off, leaving them both crumpled in the street.

Caelum spent the evening walking a spiral patrol through Hogsmeade and its environs, building memories that he would use to throw at Voldemort. Rosier had given him almost no details about exact time or location—Caelum was always intended to get the information from Rookwood. These memories would be a distraction, something that Caelum could use alongside his anger and hate to deflect attention from the other things that Caelum needed to keep hidden. His Occlumency was not non-existent—merely growing up with his mother meant that he had some minor grounding in the technique—but it was nothing against Voldemort's powers.

The houses were beautiful in the winter, a layer of snow covering the sharply pointed roofs. The cobblestone streets were elegant, but the few people on the streets averted their gaze and scurried away or inside when he passed. Caelum saw people watching him from the windows, but the curtains would always twitch shut when he looked at them, and the windowpanes became blank squares of yellow, or red, or orange as he passed by. It was cold, but still nothing compared to northern Russia.

On his third spiral patrol pass, Rosier was waiting outside the gates of Hogwarts.

"Rosier." Caelum spat the name out, drawing his wand. "Such a pleasure to see you."

Rosier whipped around, a gun in one hand and his wand in the other. "Lestrange."

"Foolish of you to come here," Caelum taunted, smiling slightly at the hint of nervousness in Rosier's eyes.

"It was a risk worth taking," Rosier replied, the nervousness disappearing as his jaw set and he levelled the Muggle weapon at Lestrange. There was a click as his thumb moved, but the gun didn't fire. "So, Lestrange? Where do we stand, or shall we get on with it? You're in enough trouble as it is, should you be found out. We should be quick."

Caelum was tempted to let the silence draw out, but Rosier wasn't wrong. Instead, he shook his head, lowered his wand and sheathed it. Seeing the movement, Rosier slowly lowered his gun, clicking whatever it was a second time and putting it away. His eyes were wary, but he took a few steps forward.

They examined each other for a few minutes. The war had been good to Rosier, Caelum thought; he was now the Lord Rosier, and he carried himself with more confidence than he had previously. Rosier had always been foppish, but now there was an edge of underlying determination that put it in another light. If before he had been a well-dressed fool, he was now simply well-dressed.

Rosier seemed to be studying him just as intently, then he raised his wand and cast a ward. The runes spilled out into the air, hiding them from sight, sound and smell.

It was Caelum who broke the silence next. "Rookwood didn't give you up. Not to Voldemort. I had to follow him and secure the information myself."

There was a flash of something in Rosier's eyes. Regret, he thought, so Caelum snorted and looked away. "Don't go feeling too soft for your old friend. He quite happily gave up everything he knew or guessed about your wife, and you're doing an absolute shit job of pretending like she is less than she is. Rookwood knows that she is behind your device, and that either she's lying about her background, or the device is much further along than you've shown so far. He and his wife have been ordered to unravel it, though they haven't had much success thus far."

There was another pause, before Rosier lowered his wand and stepped forward again. "And they won't," he said, his voice a mixture of both pride and sadness. "Neither of them has the background to even begin unravelling it. Where do you want the suicide spell, Lestrange? It should be someplace that no one is likely to see or check."

"If anyone is seeing it, I have bigger problems," Caelum muttered, but leaned over, unlaced his right boot, and sat down in the dirt. "Do it fast, Rosier. The less I have to cover with my sraniy Occlumency, the better."

"This will hurt," Rosier warned, and Caelum gritted his teeth as Rosier knelt beside him and got on with it.

Blyade-mudinniy pizdo-proyob. The curse dug into his skin, for all the world like Rosier was carefully flaying off a part of his skin. It felt like Rosier was rooting around in his foot with a dagger, drawing something. It was nothing compared to the torture that Caelum had gone through in the past, but it was still more pain than Caelum ever really wanted to experience ever again.

A painless life. Imagine that.

The marking took only a few minutes, which was still longer than Caelum wanted. When it was done, Rosier stepped away and drew a symbol in the air with blue light. "This is the rune I've tattooed onto your foot. Know it's there—you don't need to memorize it, but if you need to use it, just send magic to your foot with the right intention, and it'll activate to stop your heart. I hope you won't ever have to use it."

Caelum shook his head roughly, grabbing his sock and boot and pulling them back on with a scowl. "Save the platitudes, Rosier. I don't need them. I'm not here of my own free will, and they are better spent on those who are."

"But your work is valuable, and I think it appropriate that I express my gratitude." Rosier paused, then he clarified. "This is me expressing my gratitude. I am… aware that the limits of the life-debt do not meet this situation, and that we are far beyond any debt you could have possibly owed to me."

Caelum snorted again, picking himself back up and turning away from Rosier. There was an unsettled feeling across his shoulders; Rosier's words felt wrong, and he couldn't help but look for the trick. There had to be a trick, and it was best that he move on and get out before he could see it. "Enough. Let's duel, Rosier. Or pretend to duel. I need the memories, and we need to draw attention."

"Should we succeed, after the war…" Rosier paused again, then he cleared his throat awkwardly. "If you need anything, do let me know."

"After the war, we won't talk," Caelum snapped, turning back on him and drawing his wand. "After the war, I want nothing but peace. I want my Potions lab, and I want you and everyone you're associated with to stay as far away from me as possible. Enough talking. Let's fight. Take the ward down."

Rosier tilted his head, a resigned expression on his face, but he drew his wand and tore down the wards. The second he did, Caelum fired a loud, guttural Binding curse at him in Old Slavic, while Rosier ducked out of the way and drew his gun.

They were better than they were a year ago—both of them were far better than they were the last time they had duelled, fake or not. Rosier was fast, turning and firing two very loud gunshots in Caelum's general direction, while his wand moved in the pattern for a Stunning Spell. Caelum blocked, moving forward with another curse on his lips. He was aiming to capture, not to kill, and he felt himself hampered as he picked through the spells he could use.

It had to be loud, and it had to be fast. Rosier fired multiple Blasting and Bombardment Curses at him, and Caelum responded in turn. Neither of them bothered keeping their spellwork non-verbal—the point was to draw attention, to put both of them in a situation where someone would raise the alarms. Rosier looked away, the barest moment of distraction, and Caelum took the opportunity to cast a Binding Spell on him. Rosier's arms snapped to his side, held by invisible ropes; he struggled, and toppled over into the snow.

"Well, what do we have here?" Caelum drawled, stalking forwards as if it were their first meeting that night. "You missed. Several times. Your aim is awful."

"Unfortunate," Rosier spat, rolling over to glare at him. "Let me go, Lestrange."

"Now, why would I do that?" Lestrange spread his hands, drawing a knife. "I have much humiliation to pay you back for, and I'm sure that Voldemort will appreciate it when I hand the rebel spymaster to him."

"The lights are on in Hogwarts Castle," Rosier replied, struggling harder, and his voice carried a note of warning. "So are the lights in the village. Help is coming for me—Lord Dumbledore himself is probably only a few steps away."

"If they have heard us, then so has Voldemort," Caelum retorted, squatting down beside him and lightly tracing a swirling figure in the air above Rosier's face. His mother would have started with Rosier's odd, orange-yellow eyes, he thought. But he just needed to make a picture for anyone watching—a picture, to throw at Voldemort. "I, too, will have backup."

"Let me go," Rosier repeated, his eyes widening. "I am closer to Hogwarts Castle than you are to Hogsmeade—Dumbledore or the professors will be here faster than any support from Hogsmeade. I order it, Lestrange."

"Order it, do you?"

"Yes." Rosier stopped struggling, glaring at Lestrange. "In the name of the life-debt you owe me, let me go."

There were sounds from both Hogwarts and the village—people yelling and running feet. Lestrange froze, a picture of struggle, and he hoped that someone could see him. He counted down from twenty, twenty very long seconds, before his wand moved and Rosier was released.

"Get out," Lestrange snapped. He spat in the snow and scrambled backwards. "This once, Rosier. Once only, and next time, I will kill you."

Rosier didn't miss a beat. He twisted in the air and Apparated away.

Caelum cursed, turning around and watching one of Voldemort's other followers racing up the hill towards him. McFadden, Caelum thought.

"Rosier," Caelum snapped at the man. "I had to let him go. Life-debt. Get me Rookwood, and I need to see Voldemort immediately."

It took him only a few minutes to slide his most dangerous memories under his thin Occlumency shields, but the entire walk back to Hogsmeade to appropriately stoke his rage as Voldemort needed to see. Rosier had been here. Rosier had been here, and because Rookwood hadn't given Voldemort the information he ought to have given upfront, they hadn't been prepared. And Rosier had gotten away, and Caelum hadn't gotten his revenge, and in fact he was only more humiliated than he was previously.

By the time he confronted Voldemort, his anger was bubbling to the surface. Rookwood was already there, his nervousness obvious in the way he shook, and Caelum hated him—for his cowardice, for his past stupidity, for his honour that reared its ugly head at the most inconvenient of times. He could barely speak with his rage, and instead he only looked at Voldemort in the eyes and threw memories at him.

One of the afternoon, of Rookwood spilling the information to him while he held his wife in his grasp—the other of this evening, of Rosier invoking the life-debt to force him to let him go. The memories seethed with anger and hate, and Caelum felt everything anew as Voldemort dug his mental fingers into them and flipped through them.

Caelum had almost had his revenge. And because of a life-debt that he never truly believed that he owed, he didn't get it. And he was angry, and he wanted to have his revenge on someone, and was there any reason why it couldn't be on their fool spy who was still too loyal to the enemy?

"Why not, indeed?" Voldemort murmured, and he motioned for his other followers to shove Rookwood forward. "Don't kill him, Lestrange. Have your fun but leave both him and his mind intact. And you will still be needed in the Hebrides tomorrow, so do try to preserve your magic and strength."

XXX

Lina leaned over the table in the head tent, staring at a map of Scotland in front of her. Two colours flickered over the surface of the map, representations of which areas had been won and which were still held by Voldemort, at least ostensibly so. Red, for the resistance; blue, for Voldemort's holdings.

Magical warfare was a strange thing. Borders were defined largely by who obeyed whom and where the residents of a region believed that they lived. There was no reason why witches and wizards needed to abide by the borders used by their Muggle neighbours, but for myriad reasons, the wizarding borders did largely follow Muggle ones.

A British witch or wizard still tended to think of themselves as British, just as a French witch or wizard thought of themselves as French. Culturally, witches and wizards still tended to be closer to their Muggle neighbours than they did to witches or wizards of other countries—wizarding or not, they often shared history, language, attitudes, and the million other things that fed into an identity. Over the last century, that had only become more true with the explosion of Muggle consumer technology, especially the radio and television. A French witch or wizard still spoke French, still had coffee and a croissant for breakfast, still looked down their nose at the British and Germans both, and therefore answered to the French Ministère de Magique because to whom else would they answer?

In a magical war, the problem was convincing enough residents of an area to change their beliefs about who they were, and who they wanted to lead them. Within Scotland, most of the population already saw themselves as Scottish rather than entirely British, but the resistance still needed to win enough victories that they stopped seeing themselves as being ruled by Britain. That meant destroying or taking any signs of Ministry power: from the dozen Ministry Auror outposts spotted throughout their country, to the dragon reservations held by employees of the Ministry of Magic's Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, to any bases or camps held by the enemy.

Over the last four weeks, they had swept Scotland. Most of the islands had fallen quickly—Shetland hadn't even fought, its inhabitants quite cheerfully setting the Ministry outpost on fire themselves, and the Orkneys had posed little more of a fight. They had wasted most of a week in the Outer Hebrides, and Lina made a note that if they survived, Marcus Flint would need an award for coming up with the plan to turn the dragons on their own by blinding them in air. He was now the leader of their air force, a critical unit that they had had to reorganize the troops to accommodate. Captain Flint took only the best fliers, but air support had been critical on the Outer Hebrides. The low number of casualties there could solely be attributed to him.

Then, the dragon reservations secured and under the watchful guard of the Scamanders and Charlie Weasley, the resistance forces had moved onto the Isle of Skye and the Inner Hebrides. Portree, a small wizarding community, had put up a fight, and had been the first time that Voldemort unleashed a vampire coven, much to dhampir pleasure. Alex's unit had routed the coven, forcing a retreat, while Lina's units had cast fire-spells and focused on Voldemort's army.

The Highlands, thick with the Clans and Clan supporters, had fallen next. This had been a sweep over only a little more than a week, since these were the home grounds of Clans Ross, Cameron, McAllister, McLeod, and McKinnon. The Clans knew their lands, and guerilla tactics had effectively picked off any of Voldemort's units who strayed into them. Taking the Ministry outposts throughout the Highlands and burning them down had been a matter of time and careful planning only. The Auror offices near Inverness and Aberdeen had gone down next, largely through the actions of Clan MacMillan, in whose traditional territories they had fallen. By now, there were only three major locations left to take: the wizarding port of Inchcolm, the Portkey Hub in Edinburgh, and finally, Hogsmeade.

The port and the Portkey Hub were key. They were Wizarding Scotland's primary links to the international community. Once they were under Clan control, the Clans would have free, independent access to the international community, critical for trade. It would also be a symbolic victory, since the Clans could exert control over what could come in and out of their country by those routes.

Once both connections were taken, they would finally move on Hogsmeade, Voldemort's Scottish stronghold.

Hogsmeade was a problem. There were too many civilians in Hogsmeade, too many people who supported he British Ministry of Magic, and it was too close to Hogwarts. They had avoided Hogsmeade because, until the rest of Scotland was taken and it was an island in a sea of unfriendly territory, it would have been too much of a risk. With the rest of Scotland gone, Lina would have to hope that the residents of Hogsmeade and its surroundings would be open to accepting the new reality.

But it was a problem that could, at least, wait until after they had taken both Inchcolm and the Edinburgh Portkey Hub.

Alastor was the first of the commanders to walk into the tent, his magical eye spinning wildly around. They were as safe as anyone could be in the Boyd Clanhome, which was both close to the Muggle city of Glasgow and one of their safehouses. For a man of nearly seventy years old, Moody carried himself with the energy of a much younger man, and a bright vigour shone in his eyes. Stormwings were born in and made for war, and Alastor was thriving on the adrenaline.

James and Sirius, walking in behind him, seemed the opposite. Both of them had gained lines in their faces over the past few weeks—the groove between James' eyebrows which had started appearing in the last six months was now permanently etched on his face, while Sirius had new lines around his mouth. They were both handling the stress well, for people who did not make their lives on war.

The Clan Lairds and Ladies came in next, chatting quietly. Most of the ones from the Highlands had a jaunt in their steps, while several others were worried or tired. The new Lady MacLaggen was clearly awake only by virtue of a Wideye Potion—over the past few weeks, she had been putting down internal revolts within her Clan as much as fighting against Voldemort's forces, and it showed in too-sharp way she looked around and the shake of her hands. The new Laird McLeod too had a bit of the same look, but a Highland victory for his Clan meant that it had been nearly a week since he'd faced either a challenge or an assassination attempt. The Lady Ross was with them, her eyes sharp as she took the first available seat at the table; briefly, Lina wondered who was teaching Transfiguration at Hogwarts with her personally leading Clan Ross.

Captain Aleksandr Willoughby Dragić walked in next—his unit had seen more action since Skye but had been operating more or less independently. With a coven to track, Alex and his unit had struck off on their own, and while the lines of communication remained open between them, they had put their noses to the ground and tracked the coven using their traditional methods. The only sign of their success was that Lina hadn't seen much evidence of the vampires throughout Scotland.

Flint was the last one in the room, the newest of the captains. Since his battlefield promotion, he had spoken little, and Lina did not know much about him. His entire family still stood by Voldemort's side, but Marcus Flint alone seemed to have split off for reasons of his own. Were it not for his actions in battle, from the Malfoy Manor strike to the present, and her son's clearance of him, Lina would have second-guessed his loyalties.

"Inchcolm and the Edinburgh Portkey Hub," Lina announced, straightening from where she stood over the map. "We have everything else in Scotland except those and Hogsmeade itself. The Edinburgh Portkey Hub is in the Muggle city, so I expect it'll fall easily—Voldemort is as hampered as we are in a Muggle area. I would expect Dementors, but a fifth of our joint forces should be able to take it. As for the rest, we should strike at Inchcolm at the same time, splitting his forces. We should have the numerical advantage there. Thoughts?"

Alastor examined the map critically. "Riskier than we need, I think," he said. "Voldemort will not make defending the Edinburgh Portkey Hub a high priority. He's a xenophobic nationalist, and like Lord Riddle before him, he cares little about the international community. But he will want to protect the port—Potter and Hurst have hit them too hard on the supply chains for him to do otherwise. We should throw our full forces at Inchcolm and pick up Edinburgh Portkey Hub on the way to Hogsmeade."

Lina shook her head, her mouth stubborn. "Voldemort is too proud, and he has lost too many people through the Highlands—he'll fight for every location he can, because he cannot afford to be seen doing otherwise. Even if the location were meaningless to him, he would fight for it for the symbolism only. If we hit both at once, we force him to split his forces."

"We wouldn't be able to bring our full forces into Edinburgh anyway," Lady McAllister said, looking at the map. "We do outnumber him—even more so, after the Highlands. I think the question is whether we can take Inchcolm without our full forces. MacLaggen, this is in your traditional territory—what's the terrain like?"

"It's an island," the Lady MacLaggen said irritably, crossing her arms over her chest. "Most of it is hidden from Muggle eyes, but it's an island, and not a big one."

"If it's not a big island, then too many of our own and we'll be tripping over ourselves," Laird Cameron added with a grimace. "I also would like to move onto Hogsmeade as soon as possible—we can't let the momentum we're building drain away."

"But our decisions are paid in lives, Laird Cameron," James pointed out, not unkindly. "It's better to take a more risk-averse approach—if we lose too many people here, to injuries or otherwise, they won't be able to support us on a Hogsmeade attack."

"We can't fly in Edinburgh." Flint shook his head. "Too much risk of breaching the Statute of Secrecy. If we had another two days for healing and broom repair, we could field nineteen at Inchcolm."

"Edinburgh is more attractive to vampires than Inchcolm—they need to live in places where there is a free supply of humans who can act as their prey." Alex, like Lina and Alastor, wore the last few weeks of action with casual, confident ease. "We believe there to be a nest in Edinburgh, and I have two scouts searching for it already. Voldemort's hold might be strong enough for them to help defend the Portkey Hub, so I would suggest any strikes there wait until we are through with them."

"We attack with the Order, then?" the Laird Boyd added, though he was frowning. Among the Clan leaders, he was the weakest at military strategy, but Lina suspected that he was good at consensus-building, which would be more important after the war.

"Not necessarily." Alex shrugged. "You'll want to bring your strike after ours, but whether we're in the process of killing them or if they are dead, that makes little difference."

"When do you think you'll be in position to take out the Edinburgh nest, then?" Lina asked, somewhat annoyed. While Alex's unit had been excellent at keeping the vampire threat occupied, they were unused to working with any except their own, and the resistance's aims were different from the Order's. But as fighters, there were none better, and she would also take what she could get.

"Hopefully, within a few days," Alex replied, ignoring her tone. "But that is dependent on my scouts locating the nest quickly. It could be later."

Lina shook her head. "Hardly a way to plan a war."

"I don't think there's any other way to plan a war, Lina," Sirius said, with a bark of laughter. "We're always dependent on some factor or another, so why would Alex be any different? It sounds like our troops on either side will be limited anyway, and we do outnumber Voldemort's forces—let's plan for a simultaneous strike, and if we need to delay the Edinburgh action to account for Alex, we'll do that and reassign a couple units to Inchcolm."

It was effectively her plan with an inbuilt contingency, so Lina conceded. "Very well. I will participate in the planning for the Inchcolm strike—Flint, MacLaggen, I assume you'll be with me, and most of the Clans?"

"Edinburgh is close to my traditional territory, and it's a city, so I will be on the Edinburgh strike," Laird Boyd volunteered. "I think my forces alone should be enough."

The Boyds were one of the largest Clans, since their traditional territories covered much of the populated area around Glasgow and the Lowlands, and they were the most integrated with the Muggle population. Lina nodded, glancing around the table to see that no one objected.

"I'll be with you too," Moody said gruffly. "One of us should be with you, and if Lina goes with Inchcolm I'll work on planning for Edinburgh with you. Dragić, you'll let us know exactly when you will be in position?"

"As soon as I know," Alex replied, with a tilt of his head. "I'll Patronus you."

"Fine." Lina sighed and pulled out her wand, waving it once at the map to narrow in on the area near Inchcolm, shaped like a hook in the strait. At the other end of the table, Moody, Alex and Boyd were gathering to focus on the Edinburgh strike, while the other commanders stood up to get a closer look at her map. "Lady MacLaggen, tell me more about Inchcolm. What can we expect? Usual winds, terrain difficulties, port organization—everything you know."

XXX

The room was too hot, crowded, and overstuffed. It was as if the proprietor of the Hogsmeade Arms thought that more furniture was necessarily better and kept finding increasingly kitschy items that simply had to be added to the collection. Either that, Pandora thought, or they had simply never thrown anything out and had kept amassing furniture, year over year, generation after generation, century after century, and had thrown it all together in the common room.

After weeks in the field, Pandora was simply glad not to be freezing to death. As far as she was concerned, the last weeks had been nothing but an unmitigated disaster. As soon as they had lost the dragon reservations, they had lost Scotland. They simply didn't have the public support to maintain the region, and most of the Ministry outposts hadn't been worth defending at all. They should have pulled back immediately and fortified their position at key locations, particularly Inchcolm and Hogsmeade, but instead Voldemort had been persuaded by the most bloodthirsty elements of their organization to fight every step of the way.

Voldemort was such a wizard, Pandora thought, annoyed. He couldn't handle a slight to his pride, and what was a bigger slight than the resistance successfully taking his territory away from him? And with Bellatrix and a half-dozen others promising results by chasing the rebels into the Highlands, Voldemort had found it all too easy to ignore her. Because she was only a woman, and a pretty one, and what did beautiful women know about war?

More than half the idiots around him, she thought. A third of those who had gone into the Highlands had not come out. None of them were people that Voldemort cared about losing—indeed, there were precious few losses that Voldemort would mourn—but the bare numbers still meant something to the man.

A part of her wanted very much to remind the man that she had recommended a retreat to Hogsmeade straight after the Hebrides, but she knew well enough how poorly that would go over. Whatever else the man might be, he was also incredibly powerful, and perfectly aware of that power. She had to be careful about what she said, because if she pushed him too hard, she would lose her own place of influence. How incredibly annoying—it reminded her too much of her old life, hiding her thoughts and smiling at every insipid comment she heard around her.

"What do you mean, you—" Voldemort snarled, and the man kneeling at his feet was shaking. Pandora identified him at a glance—it was one of the Notts. Not an important one, but unlucky, to have been chosen to deliver this message.

"I-Inchcolm, my—sir," Nott corrected himself. "We've lost it. Their air support units came on us as a surprise, and they must have had collaborators inside the port. They—they blew up one of the piers, and then when we drew towards that section, believing that they were attacking there, they moved in behind us and we were caught between them and their units from the sea. We only just—"

"Silencio," Voldemort snapped, and Nott fell silent, still grovelling. "Get out."

Nott needed no further prodding before he got up and ran. Pandora snorted. Voldemort had only killed a messenger once, and Pandora thought that there had to have been extenuating circumstances. Voldemort was a Legilimens, and there was no hiding anything from the man.

He looked around the room, seeking his various advisors. Pandora took a moment to scan the room—Travers and McNabb were missing, in charge of the Daily Prophet and the Ministry of Magic respectively, but they were the only ones. Bellatrix Lestrange, wearing a completely inappropriate low-cut robe, was hovering to Voldemort's left; Rodolphus Lestrange was not far away from her, his expression stone-cold as he watched his wife making a fool of them both. Rabastan and Mulciber were sitting at a table with two pints of ale, while Dolohov and their two hired mercenaries sat across the room from them murmuring quiet comments to each other in Russian. Caelum Lestrange, the only person in the room that seemed to prefer the cold over the fire, was skulking in the corner closest to the door.

Voldemort's eyes sought out the two mercenaries—Zajac and Ozturk. "Well? Ideas? They will be striking at Hogsmeade shortly."

"Hogsmeade is not easily defended," Ozturk advised, looking over with bored expression. Neither mercenary had any real interest in the war aside from their pay, which had been given half up-front. Despite paying them, however, Voldemort was not always interested in their advice, and they had both learned through the Scottish campaign to provide counsel only when Voldemort explicitly requested it. "Had we more time, we would have recommended constructing more defenses—either magical or physical, it doesn't matter. Right now, the most we can do is put in basic explosive defenses around the town."

"We may be able to barricade some of the streets, as well," Zajac added, though his voice suggested that he doubted Voldemort would listen to them. Not incorrect, based on the last month. "Especially if we commandeer raw materials from the townspeople."

"But if Hogsmeade is not well-defended, why don't we move to somewhere that is well-defended?" Bellatrix broke in, with smile that was somehow both sickly sweet and cruel. "Hogwarts is well-defended and has walls."

Far beneath the surface, Pansy stirred. Not Hogwarts.

There was a pregnant pause.

"Hogwarts does have stone walls," Mulciber murmured, considering the idea. "Dumbledore has not publicly taken a position. He must be forced—either he allows us in, or he stands with the rebels and we would be entitled to attack given the fact that Scotland is effectively lost."

"Scotland is not lost," Bellatrix spat, whirling on Mulciber. "Scotland is not lost until Hogwarts, and Hogsmeade, are lost."

Mulciber glared at her for a second but turned back to Voldemort without replying to her. "Hogwarts also has incredible symbolic meaning. If we hold Hogwarts, it will strike at the rebels' morale."

One glance at Voldemort's face, and Pansy knew that Voldemort was entranced with the idea. His eyes were wide, considering, and she had seen the many times he had looked up from the village to see the castle. She imagined that, for someone who had never been able to go to the esteemed school, Hogwarts would hold a powerful pull.

"And all those children, too," Bellatrix crooned, a mad light in her eyes. "Mostly the children of the rebels. We could have the whole war wrapped up, and all our losses returned in one fell swoop."

No. No, that was a terrible idea. But how could Pansy, from so many layers beneath Pandora Parkinson, convince Voldemort of it? It had to be a reasonable objection, or it had to sound reasonable, and one glance around the room showed that no one else would be objecting.

These were mostly Voldemort's fanatics—those that weren't, like the hired mercenaries and Caelum Lestrange, who was openly here for revenge on Aldon Rosier only, had not gone to Hogwarts. They didn't understand, not the way she did, why Hogwarts needed to be left alone. There were the children at school, of course, but there was also so much more. They would be attacking their own history if they struck at Hogwarts, one of the biggest symbols of Wizarding Britain. They would be attacking something that united them, tarnishing the good memories of thousands.

But that was the point, she realized. That was why it would be so good for striking at the rebels' morale.

They hadn't struck at Hogwarts before because the risks were too high. Striking at children, especially when the rebels were active elsewhere and Dumbledore hadn't taken a position, was politically too dangerous when they were trying to secure their hold within Wizarding Britain. But now, with most of Scotland gone, and Hogwarts the only school for the entire British Isles, many in the south would argue that they needed to take Hogwarts. They needed to keep the only school for Wizarding Britain within their accepted borders.

Pandora might accept that, but Pansy wouldn't. There were children at the school. What would be the point of her undercover operation if she couldn't affect things when she needed to?

She searched her empty head for an argument. She had always been more cunning than most had assumed, and she forced herself to think. There had to be a reasonable-sounding argument that she could make to dissuade Voldemort from Hogwarts.

There were two things that she could use. First, Hogwarts was well-warded, and she trusted that Dumbledore would have ensured that all the wards were strengthened once the war had started. Doubled, tripled, or more—Dumbledore had always tried to keep the children in his care out of harm's way. To her knowledge, it had always been Riddle and his schemes that placed them in danger, and he had to have increased the school defences. They didn't know what they would be facing, and maybe striking at Hogwarts would be as hard as striking Queenscove had been.

Second, if they tried and failed, they would only look worse to the public. Even without Bridge, a strike of this magnitude could not be hidden. They would need to address it in the Daily Prophet and the Wizarding Wireless Network, with Bridge and The Underground shouting a far less rosy view from the rooftops. Attacking a school rarely looked good.

She had to say something. She threw memories of Hogwarts, of Hogwarts' defences and the innocence of the children, at her alter ego, and prayed that Pandora, conniving and cruel Pandora, would at least see the sense in advising caution.

"Sir," Pandora said, standing from her seat close to the fire and interceding with delicacy. "Voldemort, may I say something?"

The man turned to look at her, and Pansy burrowed herself a little deeper underneath her cover. There was always a risk when the man looked right into her alter ego's eyes, that he would look and see her looking out at him. "Yes?"

"Sir, if I might suggest caution?" Pandora said, her voice polite and considering, if firm. "Hogwarts has always been well-defended. Even before the rebel activities, the wards were strong, and Dumbledore is known to be sympathetic to the rebels. No doubt those protections have only increased in the last few months. Should we succeed, it would be a devastating blow for the enemy, but should we try and fail, we will be in a far worse position than if we simply retreated and fortified our English holdings. We will be in a better position in England where the population is still largely supportive of us, but if we attack Hogwarts and lose, that could change."

"You want to run away, Parkinson?" Bellatrix sneered at her. "Afraid of getting your hands dirty?"

Pandora glared at her, her lip curling in disgust. "My record speaks for itself, Bellatrix. And a measured, calculated retreat is by no means running away. We cannot only be thinking of the immediate circumstance, but the wider war. Yes, if we succeed, we will have almost certainly won, but if we do not, then we are in a far worse position than if we had never attacked at all. That needs to be considered."

"Then, are you counselling a retreat, Pandora?" Voldemort's voice, always surprising in its high pitch, was dangerous. Pansy flinched—she was treading dangerous territory, but she couldn't control Pandora further. Pandora was separate from her, and while she could influence Pandora with specific thoughts and memories, she couldn't control her. And Pandora, who valued her freedom and ability to speak her mind, would not be stopped once started.

"I am suggesting that we consider all the options," Pandora replied coolly, shooting another glare at Bellatrix before walking forward into the firelight with a courage, or perhaps a foolishness, that Pansy did not share. "The options seem to be as follows: first, we can fortify Hogsmeade. I don't think anyone, even Mr. Zajac or Mr. Ozturk, believe that to be a good idea.

"Second, we can strike at Hogwarts for a better position." She paused, tilting her head, and considered for a moment. "The advantages of this seem to be that if we succeed, it could well end the rebellion entirely. However, we could also be putting ourselves in a much worse position, because if we fail, we will not be able to hide the fact that we attacked the school. Taking children hostage never works well on a population—if we fail, it will turn people who are currently supportive of the Ministry against us. Even if we succeed, a success based on hostages does not a stable state create.

"Finally, we can abandon our position here and retreat south." She took a deep breath, and Pansy hoped her alter ego knew what she was doing. "Scotland is unusual—it had a pre-existing system that could step in as a government, and a national identity separate and apart from being British. If the rebellion wants to go further, they will need to come back into England and strike at us there, where we are much better positioned. It may be more strategic to retreat, fortify our bases, and wait for them there. If we win in England, taking out most of their troops, we can return to take Scotland."

"And leave the only school educating our children in the hands of the enemy?" As high-pitched as it was, there was still something icy about Voldemort's voice. Many layers underneath Pandora, Pansy shuddered. "You believe we cannot win, Pandora?"

"Forgive me for saying so, sir," Pandora said, her tone rivalling Voldemort in its coldness, "but you have not won in these past few weeks. I am only suggesting that it may be time to retreat and reconsider our position."

Pansy didn't need to see the flash in Voldemort's eyes, or hear the slight rumble running through the rest of the inner circle, to know that Pandora had said precisely the wrong thing. Pandora had no softness to her—Pansy would have tried to cajole, convincing Voldemort that pulling away from Hogwarts was his own idea, but Pandora cared less about speaking her mind. That was, indeed, the basis on which Pandora's personality had been born. And Pandora was the only one of them that could face Voldemort, because Pandora was not the spy.

She didn't see the movement of Voldemort's wand.

Instead, a blast, explosive and aimed right towards her, sent her flying. Her back hit something with too much force, and there was the sound of cracking wood as she slammed into the wall. She gasped, struggling to breathe through the sharp, jabbing pains new in her chest. Something was broken—it hurt too much for there to be any other answer. There wasn't enough air. She couldn't get enough air into her lungs.

"Lestrange," she heard Voldemort snap. Despite the pain, she opened her eyes to see Bellatrix stepping forward eagerly, only to be dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Not you. Caelum Lestrange."

"Sir," Lestrange said, his voice bland and emotionless.

"Take her outside and discipline her." Voldemort's face was a mask of fury. "I want to hear her screaming but leave her mind in one piece and summon a Healer afterwards. I would like to hear some heartfelt apologies from her tonight."

"Sir," she heard Lestrange acknowledge, and then she felt a tug behind the back of her neck as he levitated her and took her outside.

XXX

ANs: Bit of an odd start to this chapter, I know-it happens before the last scene of the last chapter, and messages aren't instantaneous unless they are emergencies. Caelum also would have been more concerned with his personal risks after his scene at Queenscove last chapter and might not have reported the withdrawal because he was focusing on himself, and messages take time to be delivered and decoded. Hence, sometimes the information filters out back to the forces after it's lost any relevance whatsoever. A weird thing to think through, just like all my hands-in-the-air screaming about how magical borders even work. How does one enforce a magical border when people can just... Apparate?!

As always, I thrive off your reviews and comments and would greatly appreciate being left one! And thanks to meek_bookworm as per usual, this time for understanding more about the ACD than I do and cleaning up most of Francesca's thoughts on it. Bah, technology.