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.

17. Chapter 17

"The wards!" Ron yelled, before he whipped back to look at the house. Over the last few weeks, he had learned a lot about noble manor houses. Lords of the manor were innately connected to their properties. Uncle Fabian should have felt someone messing about with his wards, and the house alarms should be going off soon. Or they should have gone off already.

"No shit!" Ginny shrieked, looking in both directions, and Ron grabbed her by the arm.

"You can't leave now," he snapped, his grip a vice. "You have no idea what's past the wards, but it's not nothing! You're going to be flying out into a mess—I get that a distraction is a good time to slip off, but flying face-first into the middle of an army—"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it!" Ginny shook her head, yanking her arm away from him and swinging one leg over her broom. "Get on, we'll fly faster than we run."

"The alarms," Ron said, hopping on behind her and grabbing Ginny around the waist as she leaned forward, and they shot off towards the house.

"What about the alarms?"

Ron shook his head. How long did it take to set off the alarms? For Uncle Fabian, it shouldn't have been much more than a thought, no more than a minute or two, and yet the grounds were far too quiet as they streaked back. Not silent—silence would almost be a good thing, because it would show that something was different. It would show that someone was paying attention, that something had changed, but everything was the exact same as it had been only a few minutes ago.

Both camps still had guards, but it was between patrols, and the disruption at the wards had been at a spot that wasn't easily visible from either the front or the back camps. That was very unlucky—the patrols ran the route of the grounds every forty-five minutes, and the attack on the wards must have just started after the last patrol passed. People were still awake, still talking to each other and even laughing, all of which just made Ron more nervous.

They shouldn't have been sitting and laughing. They should have noticed—someone should have noticed something, Uncle Fabian if no one else, and the alarms should have been going off. Even on a broom, he and Ginny had taken too long to get back, and it was too normal. It was far too normal, and a few of the unit members even called after them as Ginny flattened herself on the handle of her broom to urge it to go faster.

She pulled up so abruptly at the front doors that Ron fell off the broom, a hard, braking manoeuvre that Ron wouldn't have been surprised to see on a professional Quidditch pitch. She seemed completely at ease, jumping off her broom and slamming open the front doors.

They gave, both of the grand, walnut-brown doors swinging open, and Ron scrambled to his feet and ran after her.

Prewett House was smaller than most of the other manor houses, a fact that Ron was very grateful for when they found Uncle Fabian, Mum, and their cousin Dorian in the dining room having a nightcap.

Ginny didn't beat around the bush.

"We're being attacked," she said, ignoring the expressions on their faces. Mum was already starting to frown at the way they were dressed—less so Ron, but Ginny was obviously dressed for a journey. She had a thick sweater, and her broom was in her hand. Uncle Fabian looked more surprised than anything else, but their cousin Dorian was going pale. "Voldemort is messing about with the wards, they're going to break through."

"Now—" Uncle Fabian started, tilting his head. "I don't—"

"It's on the east side, in one of the blind spots," Ron interrupted, shaking his head. "We saw it—a bubble pushing the wards inwards. Someone is looking to break into the manor. We need to set off the alarms, someone needs to send for help—"

"Whoa," Uncle Fabian said, pitching his voice over Ron's. His face was creasing in worry, but he was slowing rising to his feet. "Calm down, Ron. I don't feel anything at all from the wards, but let me send someone out to take a look, all right?"

"How would the two of you have seen anything anyway?" Mum asked, glaring at the two of them. "The two of you had no business being out close to the wards."

"That doesn't matter," Ginny snapped, waving her hand. "We saw what we saw! The alarms need to go off now, we need to get ready now!"

"Are you sure you just didn't imagine something in the dark?" Dorian asked. He was smiling, and Ron thought it was supposed to be condescending, but his voice was too high-pitched, too nervous for the condescension to work. "The dark can trick your eyes."

Ginny turned on him, her eyes narrowed to slits, and Ron didn't even see her draw her wand. It was already in her hand, russet brown and raised in threat. "You."

"Ginny!" Their mother gasped, rising to her feet, her own wand suddenly in hand. Wands were probably a good idea, Ron thought belatedly, pulling his own out of his pocket—to protect Ginny, or to defend against Ginny or Mum, he didn't know.

"I bet it was you, wasn't it," Ginny spat, advancing on their cousin. Dorian stood up, his face milk-white, his hand floating towards his wand as well. Ron, who had seen Ginny in action, doubted that he'd reach his wand before Ginny hexed him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dorian said, but the shakiness of his voice and the sweat forming at his temples told a different story.

"Ginny, what is this about?" Mum demanded, but Ron looked at Uncle Fabian, whose mouth was already turning downwards in an expression of grim disappointment. That, more than anything, told Ron what was up, and his wand was pointed at Dorian too.

"You're one of Voldemort's spies—since the beginning, you were passing him information," Ginny hissed. "You brought something in to help him by-pass the wards, you told him the patrol schedule, you did this!"

"How could you say that?" Dorian replied, trying for an offended tone, but it wasn't working. He was sidling towards the door, an avenue that Ron cut off before he could think too much about it. "Why—why would I do that?"

"Hell if I know!" Ginny shrieked, her wand coming up to hex him. "All I know is, after Hogwarts, my orders were to watch you. And I don't know how you managed to slip off, or where I fucked up, but—"

The ground under them rumbled, an ominous premonition—and just enough time for Uncle Fabian to shake his head, hit his son with an Incarcerous spell, and then the alarms blared. Ron gasped, his hands moving to cover his ears. The Wailing Charms were overwhelming, a wall of sound so loud it was physical.

"Get help," Uncle Fabian ordered, shooting Ron a glare that had him dropping his hands from his ears. Attacks happened in war, and attacks were loud, and Ron had to suck it up and deal. "I can't feel the wards, but that was one of the backup Monitoring Charms. We only have two units. Molly—"

That was about all Ron heard before there was another, enormous crack—it sounded like the ground was splitting, or maybe the walls were breaking, or he didn't know. His instinct was to drop to the ground, but Ginny grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the room before he could. She shoved him ahead of her up the stairs, but Ron needed no encouragement to run.

The Prewett House Portkey Hub was in the attic. There were huge differences between their Portkey Hub and most of the others—most of the Hubs had a carrying capacity of six, while the Prewett House Hub was capped at four. They also didn't have a complete list of the runic shortcodes, only a list of the codes for the houses to which they would evacuate if there was need. It had never been a priority because Uncle Fabian thought Apparation was more useful. He wasn't wrong, as long as Anti-Apparation Wards weren't in play, but now Ron wondered if there was more to it.

Prewett House was shaking underneath them, and Ron could hear shouting from outside as people were finally swinging into action. His hands were sweaty, though he barely noticed with how strongly he was gripping the bannister as he headed for the attic. He slammed into the door for the Portkey Hub, grabbing onto the silver ring and holding on for dear life as the building shook around him. Ginny was right behind him, kicking the door shut. She grabbed the humming rail, and reached to trace a rune that she had clearly memorized into a dark panel barely visible in the dim light.

"Where are we going?" Ron yelled, the pressure building in his ears as they waited, the seconds crawling by, for a response from the destination Hub. He hated travelling by Portkey, but without knowing how the Apparate, he didn't have much choice.

"Rosier Place." Ginny said grimly, not looking at him. The dark panel was flashing a circle, over and over again. Waiting.

"How did—" Ron hesitated, then he barrelled ahead. "How did you know about Dorian?"

Ginny rolled her eyes at him, impatient. "I was a spy for Rosier. After Dad—I couldn't just go back to Hogwarts. I enlisted as a spy. I was posted to Hogwarts first, then to Prewett House for counter-intelligence purposes. Dorian's been a Voldemort informant since the beginning of the war. Coward."

The spell took, jerking Ron behind the collar and yanking him into the aether. He landed heavily in a different room, only barely keeping his feet. Ginny, whom he had decided was probably part cat, was already at the doors to the rest of the manor.

The hallway was a familiar one for Ron, who had been in and out of Rosier Place over the past three weeks to meet the Stormwing trainees. Someone would be coming to meet them, but he was sure he would find someone in the formal dining room—it was always prepared with snacks, since they had people coming in and out and on guard at all hours. Ginny followed close behind him, looking around.

Rosier met them before they even made it onto the main floor.

"Weasley, Cardinal," he said, his golden eyes bright and alert. "It's late. What news from Prewett House?"

"Dorian rolled," Ginny spat out. "I watched him, I did! I didn't think he had gotten off the grounds, or passed any messages, but I don't know. I don't know how he did it, or if he met with anyone else—"

"Prewett House is under attack," Ron cut in, putting a hand on Ginny's shoulder. "No information on numbers. The wards were falling when we left, but we suspect the enemy had inside information. The location of the strike was out of the easy view of any of our sentries, and it was between patrols."

"I don't know how he could have gotten the patrol schedule out!" Ginny cried, running one hand through her red hair in frustration. "I was watching him!"

"The access in the wards could have been laid early, when Dorian had freer reign—and if that's the case, someone else could have been watching and figuring out the patrols." Aldon shook his head. "Lina is in her rooms—she's on-call tonight."

Rosier's strides were quick, leading Ron and Ginny through the common areas of his mansion and into the family quarters. Ron hesitated before he crossed into them, but Rosier hadn't said they should wait, so he followed. Rosier hammered on a light brown door in the first hallway. "Lina!"

It was only a second before the Stormwing appeared, looking sharp for all that she was already in what appeared to be sleeping clothes. Not robes—something that the other Stormwings called a sweatshirt, and thin, cotton pants. She took one look at Ron and Ginny, and her eyes narrowed.

"How bad is it?" was all she asked. "Numbers, methods. You know how to report, now."

"Unknown, likely ward-bypass by means of internal information," Ron recited quickly. "Probably passive assistance, Dorian seemed surprised as everyone else. The wards were falling when we Portkeyed for help."

"I'll mobilize. Aldon, get Abernathy and Donaldson ready for action—I'll contact James for further assistance. If I recall correctly, there's not much room to move on Prewett grounds, but I'll aim for four units." She tilted her head. "Go on, get moving."

"Flint—" Ginny tried. She still had her broom in hand—she had never left it behind. "If I can get to Captain Flint—"

"Flint's air unit is stationed at the Shafiqs," Lina replied brusquely, already shutting the door. "Send him a Patronus and have him join us when he can."

Rosier Place and Potter Place mobilized fast—it was barely fifteen minutes before two units of troops were lined up and ready to move, Lina at their head. No one second-guessed him when he asked to join one of the units returning to Prewett House. He was seventeen, and the only comment made was that it was a good idea, and he'd be able to guide their troops past any remaining defences and into the manor. The fact that the sum total of his training had been, first, Malfoy's Duelling Club followed by the Hogwarts attack had simply never come up.

"Listen up," she said, and Ron shifted anxiously on his feet. Ginny had disappeared—Flint had responded quickly, and he was mobilizing his air units, so off Ginny had gone to join him. "I'll keep it quick. Prewett House is under attack, unknown numbers. Prewett House has two units for defence, and Lord Fabian Prewett has a good head on his shoulders. Lord Potter will have another two units joining us, from Potter Place, and Captain Flint is bringing aerial support. We're going to flatten them between us and the manor, and if any of you see Dorian Prewett, capture him. Eyes up, we're moving out, and I'll see everyone on the other side!"

There was an series of salutes, and Ron grabbed onto Abernathy, who had been given the task of taking him back to Prewett House by Side-Along Apparation. The squeezing sensation, as if he was being squished through a tiny tube, was terrible, but at least he didn't hit the ground as hard as he did with a Portkey.

The grounds ahead of them were already in chaos. Ron couldn't see anything clearly—it was all movement, flashes of light, and yelling. Abernathy looked at him, expectant, and Ron shook his head. The grounds near Prewett House were flat, almost open, and it was easy to see that the wards had fallen.

"Prewett House never had much by way of internal defences—not enough space, too much risk of our own units inadvertently setting them off," Ron said, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard over the distant shouts. "There was only one line of fire close to the wards themselves, but the enemy is well past it."

"From the bodies, I'd guess those spells went off already," Abernathy replied grimly. "We're going in. Stay close to us, Weasley."

Ron stuck close to Abernathy and his unit as they moved into the Prewett House grounds. His heart was beating quickly, his breath coming shorter as he followed behind the fighters. It wasn't his first action, which he supposed had been Hogwarts, but this was the first time that the action would be up close and personal. His palm on his wand was sweating.

They ran into one of Voldemort's units before Ron was ready. Abernathy was fast, Stunning two, and Ron could hear people casting Impedimenta, Expelliarmus, and Reducto around him. A man spotted him and raised his wand, and before Ron could think too much about it he hit him with a Bombarda.

Battle was nothing like Duelling. It was nothing like the tower defence he had commanded at Hogwarts, where he and the other students had still been protected by the wards and stone walls of the castle. There were a thousand things happening around him, and Ron winced when someone threw a shield around him to deflect a spell he hadn't seen coming. He didn't try to thank his benefactor, however, but kept his eyes on his target, completing the hard, upwards flick of another Confringo. His target flew backwards, hitting the wall with a sickening crack. Ron turned, looking for a new opponent.

He moved as part of Abernathy's unit. There was always someone to his left, or to his right, and he made it a point to stick close to the centre. He didn't have the sort of training that the main army had, and as wily as Pansy Parkinson had been as a duelling opponent, she hadn't prepared him for an active battle. His eyes were everywhere, cataloguing immediate threats, non-immediate threats, and not-a-threats, and his wand was moving almost without his conscious thought. Everyone had their favourite battle spells; Ron, it turned out, liked Confringo.

He couldn't see what progress they had been making. Vaguely, he had the sense that their unit wasn't alone, that dozens of people were swirling around them and fighting on their side. From the air, people on brooms were swooping over them, laying down a covering fire. The enemy was falling back, and a spare moment where he could breathe, he could see that half the building had come down in a slew of rubble.

There was a figure climbing out over the rubble. Ron stiffened, recognizing the shape as it clambered over the rocks and started running for the wards. It was his cousin.

He hesitated, taking a few steps back to look at the battlefield as a whole. It was wild, but his quick look around showed that Lina and the resistance backup had everything well under control—the attackers were being squeezed between their forces and the remaining walls of Prewett House with its defenders. He was well behind the front line, and the covering fire was enough that no one would be likely to come after him.

Ginny said Dorian had been a spy, and Ron had no reason not to believe her. Uncle Fabian himself hadn't seemed surprised, only disappointed, when he cast the Incarcerous on him. Dorian couldn't be allowed to get away, not when he might have led Voldemort's forces right into Prewett House.

He ran across the grounds, aiming not to follow Dorian, but to intercept his path—and not in front of him. Dorian wasn't much of a fighter, not from what Ron had seen in the past few weeks at Prewett House, but there was no need to get into a fight with him. The goal was to capture him and hold him for questioning, not fight with him.

"Stupefy, Incarcerous!" He yelled, stabbing his wand twice right as Dorian was in range. Two direct hits, and ropes spun out of his wand. Dorian fell on his face, and Ron pulled on his wand to tighten the ropes. Even if his cousin was Stunned, there was no sense in taking any risks. He looked around—the fighting was dying down, and he could hear the distant crack of Apparation as the attackers fled the scene. The Anti-Apparation wards had to have come down with the rest of the wards.

He couldn't leave Dorian unattended, even Stunned and restrained, but he wanted to see what was happening. No—he needed to see what was happening. Ginny would probably be fine since she was part of the aerial troops, but Uncle Fabian had been in Prewett House. Mum had been in Prewett House, and Ron knew that his mother would have leapt into the fighting. She would never have done anything else, not with Bill leading one of the two defending units.

"Levicorpus," he muttered, pointing at Dorian's prone form, then he headed back towards the half-collapsed rubble of Prewett House.

From up close, the damage to Prewett House was worse than it had initially appeared. About half the upper stories were gone, and it was a good thing that no one had tried to Portkey back into Prewett House. The Portkey Hub was gone. He could see other people picking over the rubble, and he sucked in his breath as he caught sight of his mother, leaning over a prone form.

It was Bill—Bill had been blasted backwards at some point into the wall, and blood was running from a nasty gash on the side of his head. He was unconscious, his breathing shallow. Ron fell to his knees, watching as Mum laid on the Healing spells. Mum had done an OWL in Healing, though she had never followed through with her full certification and Hogwarts didn't offer NEWTs in the subject.

"How is he?" Ron asked, barely noticing as Ginny landed beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Is he going to be all right?"

"I don't know," Mum replied tightly, her wand moving in another spell. "I'm stabilizing him, but there are curses I don't recognize—we need a Healer."

"I'll get someone," Ginny replied instantly, looking around. "There's an on-call list—I think Healer Hurst is on-duty tonight. Let me speak to Captain Flint, I'll get her here."

"The Healers are already on their way, the full complement—Weasley isn't the only one injured." Lina had walked over, looking around with a critical eye at the damage, and she caught sight of Dorian Prewett, hanging awkwardly behind Ron's shoulder. "Good, you caught the spy. We drove Voldemort's army off, but the Lord Fabian Prewett is dead. Blood-Boiling Curse. We need to secure the manor. Who's in the line for succession, other than Dorian Prewett?"

Mum stood up, putting her wand away, and Ron didn't think he had ever seen her so pale. Her hands were shaky, but there was a steely glint in her blue eyes. "No one. But Dorian Prewett will never hold this manor. Not—not after this. Not after what he's done."

She stalked off into the rubble, searching for something. Ron started after her, but Lina held him back. It didn't seem like Mum was going very far anyway—she cast about in the rubble, looking for something, Banishing and Vanishing stone, wood, and other debris out of the way. People seemed to understand that she was not to be distracted, and stayed out of her way. Finally, she reached the floor of what had been the Prewett family room and kicked away the faded, worn rug that had covered the floor for the entirety of Ron's life, revealing a single block of plain, grey stone.

Her wand was already out, and Ron watched as she pulled her sleeve up and drew her wand over the pale skin. Blood dripped onto the stone below, and her words echoed, magically amplified, across the Prewett grounds.

"My name is Molly Iseult Prewett Weasley," she said, in a tone that Ron had never heard from his mother before. Mum yelled. Mum shouted. Mum ruled the Weasley family with a steady, fair, and even hand, but this cold, resolute tone was different. And yet, as stern as her words were, there was an undercurrent of anger and determination, and not even for an instant did Ron think that merely because his mother sounded different, that she was anything less than what she was at any other time. "By right of blood and might, I claim the Prewett title and these lands for me and for my own."

Ron blinked, feeling the power of the words soaking into the Prewett grounds around him. He exchanged a look with Ginny, who was frowning in thought.

"I'm not entirely sure what just happened," Ron said slowly. "But are we noble now?"

XXX

Molly Prewett Weasley, Aldon decided, was a terrifying woman. An absolutely terrifying woman who was bent on justice for the loss of her family members, and who had decided that Dorian Prewett, being a spy, was the best target for her current rage. She had been to Rosier Place every day for the last week, demanding that Prewett be held accountable for his crimes—first making her case to Lina, then to the Lord Potter, Moody and Sirius, and then the problem had been shoved at Aldon since Prewett had been a known informant.

And it wasn't that Aldon disagreed with the sentiment. Indeed, Prewett had much to answer for—while Aldon doubted that Prewett had intended on setting up his own manor for one of Voldemort's attacks, the blunt fact was that he did, and in doing so had caused one of the biggest alliance losses since Wales. They had lost fifteen in the Prewett House attack, including Lord Fabian Prewett, and another seven, including Captain Weasley, were in the Healing ward set up at Queenscove and not expected to recover for weeks yet. That was more than two units out of action, and Prewett House heavily damaged and effectively useless as a safehouse. Prewett had to answer for it.

The Lady Prewett wanted him to summon Justice to stand in judgement of her nephew. There was only one problem with that: Aldon would rather run stark naked across his manor and beg to join the dhampiri Order as a permanent addition to Alex's unit, thereby signing up for a lifetime of having his face shoved in the mud, than summon Justice for a second time.

He wouldn't have been able to describe the sensation of being possessed to anyone if he had tried. He remembered stepping on the circle in the courtroom, spilling his blood, and then he remembered the control of his body being yanked away from him. He remembered his mental self being shoved away, powerless, grappling for even a semblance of control, while Justice made him wear the dress and crown and other accoutrements that She preferred. He remembered Justice sorting through his memories, even the ones that he hadn't wanted to show anyone—he remembered the feeling of the incarnation working through his magic, drawing on something greater, and he remembered the pain of too much wild magic swimming in him.

The last time he had been possessed, his world had fallen apart around him. Aldon was sensible enough to know that the path to his world falling apart had likely started much earlier, that his blood-status would have come out in one way or another at some later time, and that the Incarnation had in fact made the transition easier by making him simply not care as it happened. But the fact remained that the last time he had been possessed, his world had fallen apart, and it had not been a pleasant experience.

While he would not say that he liked his current, war-torn world, he also had no interest in it falling apart. This time, there was Francesca to be thought of too. He did not want Francesca to see him during even the hour or so a day when he would be somewhat in control of his body and senses. He did not want her to see him as being anything other than perfectly solicitous, caring and in control—and he would not be that if he were possessed.

Fortunately for him, he had a ready-made excuse.

"I can only summon Justice from within the courthouse," Aldon said steadily, fixing an apologetic expression on his face as he looked around the table at the impromptu group that he had assembled to discuss the problem. Lina was there, looking both annoyed and exhausted, along with Robin to provide legal advice. Hermione Granger had come as well—much as Aldon would have preferred either Sirius or Archie, both the Blacks had said that Hermione was better placed to tell them about the likely international blowback. "I need the summoning circle—and I don't have the ability to recreate it. Not without free and ready access to the summoning circle in the courthouse at least, and perhaps not even then. Summoning Justice is not an option for handling Dorian Prewett."

"We're in a bit of a legal grey zone anyway." Robin shook her head, reaching for one of the slices of lemon poppyseed loaf on the table. "We aren't a state, much as we try to argue that we are one. What would we charge him with? And by whose authority? We aren't the Ministry. We aren't a government, or we aren't one yet. Yes, we could charge him with the same laws that we had prior to Voldemort's takeover, but what keeps him from arguing that it's unjust because we aren't the Ministry and a legal government, other than our strength? There's only so far I can go on established caselaw, and then there are the issues with the changing situation. How long has Prewett been passing information? Arguably, Prewett can say that he was following the law by giving information to the Ministry, the legitimate government, or that he believed he was at the time he started doing it, and that he kept doing it out of duress."

Lina grimaced. She and the main army had moved onto planning their next strike, and the planning meetings went late into the night. The extra-large mug of black coffee in front of her had already been refilled once, and if it hadn't been for the fact that Aldon had specifically asked her to be involved in this meeting, she would certainly have left it to him and gone to bed. "What about court-martial proceedings? Could we not set up court-martial proceedings? The new Lady Prewett is… rather keen to see something done."

Robin thought about it, picking off pieces of lemon poppyseed loaf and eating them piece by piece. "I don't know. It depends on how we characterize Prewett's status in the war. The problem with the major houses is that their Lords might have enlisted and might be in a position where we could set up something like a court-martial, but their family members? Prewett himself never enlisted. He has a very good argument that he's been a civilian this entire time, which means we can't court-martial him."

"We did largely leave it to the Lords to keep their family members under control," Aldon said, inclining his head and reaching for a slice of the loaf himself. "Similarly, most of the Queenscoves have not enlisted, nor most of the Light faction. Not formally."

"But for the Queenscoves, this wouldn't really be a problem," Robin replied with a shrug. "Even if most of the Queenscoves haven't individually enlisted, by their very actions they've declared themselves to be combatants in the war. They defend Queenscove, they fight with us against Voldemort, they act with colour of right as part of our army even if they answer directly to Lord Queenscove. Most of the other Houses are the same. Has Dorian Prewett ever participated in combat as part of our troops?"

Aldon looked over at Lina, who was shaking her head. "No. Gideon and Fabian were both in the Malfoy Manor attack, but Dorian was left behind, presumably to defend Prewett House. He did not volunteer for any other actions, was not involved in the main army training as some family members of other Light faction houses were and did not volunteer for any other actions. He did not participate in the Scottish campaign."

"Lady Prewett isn't going to let this go." Aldon sighed, rubbing his eyes. The Lady Prewett's demands became louder and more exhausting by day. He half-expected the woman to be camping in his study before long. "I told Fabian Prewett to keep an eye on him after the counter-intelligence interviews."

"From an international perspective, I don't think the technical procedure really matters as long as we develop one," Hermione said, pursing her lips. "We'll want to be transparent and fair, but as long as that's met, then I don't think the rest matters so much."

"We do also want to set an example for the rest of the army," Lina added with a nod. "It must be public, and it has to deter anyone from doing the same, but neither do we want to be like Voldemort."

"I've said it before, but the laws of armed conflict don't technically apply to us as an internal conflict." Robin's voice was thoughtful. "There is nothing preventing us from setting up our own process, but I am going to warn you ahead of time that it's unlikely that we can really convict Dorian Prewett of anything. If we treat it like a criminal case, then we have serious problems—we aren't the government, or at least we aren't one yet, there are issues with his mens rea at the time of the offence, which we haven't really nailed down. If we try to treat it like a court-martial, it takes care of the authority and intent issues, but then he has a very good argument that he was never an enlisted soldier or part of our forces at all. The best thing I think I can do is have him attorn to our jurisdiction for a court-martial, that is make him agree that he was a part of our army, and then come to an agreed statement of facts and then a guilty plea."

Aldon frowned. "But if his case is so good, why would he plead guilty?"

Robin popped another piece of the poppyseed loaf in her mouth. "For protection. If he wasn't an enlisted soldier or part of our forces, then we have no reason to keep him in any of our safehouses. From what it sounds like, Molly Weasley isn't going to offer him sanctuary at Prewett House. We would be entirely entitled to turn him out and he's almost certainly more frightened of Voldemort than he is of us. We make a deal with him—he agrees he was a soldier, he pleads out on court-martial, we give him some sort of status that merits his protection, and he doesn't run the risk of getting captured and tortured for everything he knows by Voldemort."

"But what would we be promising him?" Aldon leaned back, rubbing his temples. He didn't like the sound of this, and he doubted that the Lady Prewett would be satisfied. She wanted Justice; putting Dorian Prewett in a position where he would be protected didn't seem like it would lead to the justice that she wanted. "I don't see how this is going to address the issue."

Robin smiled, a little sadly. "We get a guilty plea, which will be better closure than Lady Prewett might get otherwise, and without a full court proceeding where she'll have to relive everything again."

"What sort of protection deal are you thinking?" Lina raised her coffee mug to her lips. "I admit, I'd be more comfortable with him very far away. We don't know what Fabian might have told him."

"Send him north to the Clans. One of us can hold him pending the end of the war." Robin paused. "But for after the war, I think we'd have to promise a free release. Not that there won't be any other consequences—everyone will know what he's done, and he isn't likely to find a welcome in any of our Houses. He'll have to find his own way after that, and I doubt that will be easy."

"Fine," Lina said, with a quick nod. "In terms of proceeding, what are you thinking?"

Robin shrugged. "I don't know what court martial proceedings look like around the world, though I'm sure there are several models. What would you suggest?"

Lina gave Robin a pointed stare. "I was a mercenary, Clearwater. Even when I did contracts with the Order, I was not subject to the same rules."

"I think there are certain things that we're going to need for transparency and fairness," Hermione interceded, leaning forward. "It should probably be an open hearing, first, and whoever is hearing it, if not Justice herself—"

"It can't be Justice herself," Aldon interrupted quickly with a small cough. "No summoning circle."

Hermione shot him a look, a faint hint of amusement on her face. "As I was saying, if not Justice herself, it should be an independent decision-maker—preferably someone who doesn't have a relationship with the Prewetts at all. And if it doubles as a court martial process, it should be someone with a command—another safehouse Lord, or unit captains, or someone like that."

"That will be difficult to manage," Aldon replied, the tension going out of him as it became evident that Hermione was not seriously considering summoning Justice again. "As a noble family, there are few people who wouldn't be familiar with the Prewetts. Worse, most of the people within the alliance were Light faction, meaning most were either friendly with or allied with the Prewetts."

"We can do a panel," Robin suggested. "A panel of three, and as long as none of them are too familiar with the Prewetts, they also don't need to be utter strangers. It's harder to challenge on bias when there are three unanimous decision-makers, rather than one. Make me a list of unit captains and those with commands, and we'll draw names and set up a panel. Percy will have to recuse himself from representing Dorian, since it is his brother that was attacked and his uncle who died, but he'll refer Prewett to one of his defence friends and I can begin working on a plea agreement."

Aldon nodded. "What shall I do about the Lady Prewett, in the meantime?"

Robin grabbed another slice of lemon poppyseed loaf. "Tell her that we're setting up a court-martial proceeding, and any further inquiries should come to me."

Aldon breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Thank you," he said, and he meant it. "I will do that."

The morning of the court-martial proceeding was damp, but bright. They were holding it in front of Rosier Place—while Aldon would not be summoning Justice Incarnate for the proceeding, Robin had deemed it in their favour to have him there as a Truth-Speaker only. Veritaserum took at least a month to brew, and while Aldon could not say that he was keen to be pulled away from other work to sit through a court-martial proceeding, it was far better than having to summon Justice for a second time, and Robin had taken rather a lot of strain off him in the past two weeks. The Lady Prewett bothered Robin instead of him, and instead of Lina, the Lord Potter, Moody, or Sirius, which allowed them all to get on with their own duties.

Lady Prewett was already seated in the small array of chairs on the grounds, a mix of the Weasley children near her. Not Cardinal—Cardinal had requested a transfer to Flint's aerial unit, one that Aldon had granted, and they were preparing for a strike in a few days. The eldest Weasley, too, was still recovering in the Queenscove Healing ward, and the second-eldest was still in the Hebrides. The remainder, however, were standing with her in support. Aldon caught Percy's eye, and Percy acknowledged him with a brief nod.

The Weasleys were not alone—there was a myriad mix of people waiting to watch the proceedings, and Aldon had had to allow several transfers into Rosier Place which he hadn't really wanted to do. But transparency was important, and more than one house had sent a representative to watch the proceedings. Most of them were, at least, people who had been there previously, but Lina was putting all three of the Rosier Place units on alert anyway. Archie was there, a notebook and pen out, taking notes for Bridge.

The three panelists were already setting up at a long table—Kingsley Shacklebolt, Graeme Queenscove, and Gareth the Younger of Naxen, Aldon recognized. It was a good mix. Kingsley Shacklebolt had been an Auror before the war, and a well-respected one, and while he was considered noble, he was far enough from the succession that he had had next to no personal interaction with the Prewetts. Graeme Queenscove, of course, was Neal's eldest brother and had no previous relationship with any of the Wizarding British nobility. Gareth the Younger of Naxen, the panel chair, was the Heir Naxen and therefore better able to explain the intricacies of noble obligations to the other two, but Naxen was a northern holding and had no especially close relationship with the Prewetts in the south.

Aldon cautiously took a seat to one side of them, at the end of the long table. There were stacks of parchment, and someone had dug up a dictation quill to record the session. Two smaller tables sat in front of them, one of which had Robin behind them reviewing her notes, the other with Prewett and a witch that Aldon didn't recognize. Another of the defence lawyers, he would presume.

Robin had said that today wouldn't take long. Aldon hoped that she was right.

At precisely ten in the morning, Gareth the Younger of Naxen cleared his throat. "We all have things to do today, so why don't we begin? Miss Clearwater?"

Robin stood up at her table. "Mister Chair. As you already know, we have the matter of Dorian Prewett today. Mr. Prewett had been charged with aiding and abetting an enemy of the state, particularly, by the provision of information. We anticipate a guilty plea based on an agreed statement of facts. Mr. Prewett is represented by counsel, Ms. Audrey Smith, and in attendance for your assistance is the Lord Aldon Rosier acting as Truth-Speaker."

The woman at the other table, a short, curvy woman with brown hair that framed her round cheeks exactly, stood up. "For the record, it's Smith, first initial A. Prosecutor Clearwater is correct."

Naxen sighed and waved a hand. "Very well. Go to."

Dorian Prewett was a round, pale-faced man whose hair was beginning to go on the top of his head, though he didn't seem old enough for it. Aldon would have guessed him to be in his early to mid thirties, and certainly no older than his forties. His hair was closer to blond than it was to red, and Aldon saw very little resemblance between him and the Weasleys, though they were cousins. He was sniffling, and he didn't look behind him at the new Lady Prewett, who was glaring at the back of his robes as if she could set him on fire with her gaze alone. He didn't seem to notice, but his motion when he stood up was jerky, and the scroll of parchment shook in his hands as he unfurled it and began to read.

"My name is Dorian Jeremy Prewett," he began, and his voice was weak, barely audible. "I am the son of the former Lord Fabian Prewett and Lady Rosalind Rourke, both of whom are—are now deceased. I was the Heir Prewett. I am a Light wizard."

He sniffled again, and unfurled the parchment a little further. "In June of 1996, I became concerned with the actions of my father and my uncle, Gideon Prewett. They had discussed, and I had heard, that they were becoming involved with the group behind the rebel paper, Bridge, and that they had been invited to negotiations to form a resistance coalition against the Ministry of Magic. I was—I was not a part of these discussions and had my father or Uncle Gideon spoken to me, I would have contested them openly."

"He lies," Aldon identified, feeling the tremble in his core. "But it is a partial truth."

Prewett's eyes flickered to him, and the man swallowed. "That—that's—my father and Uncle Gideon spoke to me about their plans. I didn't agree, and I lost the ensuing arguments. I was upset, and even more so when my father informed me that they had joined with the resistance coalition. I wrote to the Ministry of Magic, and in July of 1996, I met with Auror Dale Turpin in Diagon Alley to report my concerns. I—I believed, at the time, that my father and uncle had joined with a dangerous organization and considered it my duty to report it to the Ministry of Magic. I hoped that, by doing so, that when it inevitably fell apart, I would be able to plead for clemency on behalf of my family. In return, Auror Turpin requested that I provide him and the Ministry with ongoing information from within the alliance. I agreed.

"From approximately July 1996 until November 1996, I provided information to the Ministry of Magic and, more specifically, to Auror Turpin about the alliance or resistance forces. The information that I passed included the names of people that I had seen and the known fortifications and maps for safehouses such as Potter Place, Rosier Place, and Prewett House. I trusted that that the Ministry of Magic would act rightly and legitimately in handling the resistance. However, at the end of November 1996, I began to worry that I had done the wrong thing."

Prewett paused, taking a deep breath, and his lawyer handed him a glass. He took few loud gulps of water, and then he continued. "I—I tried to get away from the Ministry of Magic and Auror Turpin, and I avoided providing more information to them as much as I could. I—I do not recall passing more information after November 1996—"

Aldon interrupted him with a hard laugh, his core thorny and irritated in his chest. "He lies. And this time, he knows he does. Try the truth, Prewett."

"I—I—" Prewett looked down, his face flushing in shame as the hand holding the parchment dropped. "I did not want to pass information, but by then—Auror Turpin had the information about Prewett House. He knew our fortifications, and Uncle Gideon and Uncle Arthur had died, and I couldn't—I couldn't tell Dad what I had done. But stronger counter-intelligence measures were put in place, so it was harder for me to get information out, and harder for me to learn new information. Nothing I passed on after that was of any importance, I am sure of it."

"It would be good if we knew exactly what you passed on after November 1996," Queenscove said mildly, though his green eyes were cool and considering. "How would you know if what you passed on was of any importance?"

Prewett swallowed. "I got out one message about the Scottish campaign, about five days before it began. That's all."

There was a pause, and Naxen looked at Aldon.

"He speaks truth," Aldon said, his tone begrudging. "Or, at least, he believes he does."

"I've passed on nothing since then. Nothing—I don't know how they got past the Prewett House wards. I did not help them on the night of the Prewett House attack. All I ever did was pass on information, I never—I never actually helped them."

Shacklebolt snorted, his eyes narrowed to slits. "I would call passing on information, especially about our people and our fortifications, part and parcel with helping."

"Is that everything?" Naxen asked, his brown eyes beady and focused. "Or have you more to say?"

At this, Prewett glanced back at what remained of his family members sitting behind the prosecution table. "I'd like to say that I'm—I'm very sorry that this happened. I had no idea that my decisions would lead to this. I didn't let them into Prewett House on the night of the attack, I swear it. I didn't mean for this to happen, and all I was trying to do was protect my family in the best way I knew how. I'm very sorry, and I regret my actions."

Aldon's lips twisted in disgust. The panellists looked at him, but he shook his head. "He speaks truth," he said. "Whether or not his belief that selling out his family to Voldemort would protect them was well-founded does not negate the fact that he speaks truth. For whatever reason, he believed that he was trying to protect his family, and he does regret his actions."

There was a pause, and papers rustled as Naxen shifted them on the table.

"Very well." Naxen coughed, and Aldon had the sense that regardless of how well he was handling the role that had been thrust on him, he was profoundly discomfited by it. "Miss Clearwater? Miss Smith?"

The defence lawyer motioned for Prewett to sit back down. "Mister Chair," she said, rising to her own feet. "The prosecution and I have come to an agreed recommendation on sentence. We recommend that Dorian Prewett be remanded into the custody of the Clans pending the end of the war. After the war, we recommend that a conviction for aiding and abetting an enemy of the state, particularly by the provision of information, be entered into his record, but that he be released with no further consequence. Our reasons for the recommendation are as follows.

"First, Mr. Prewett did not have a conception of the risk that he was undertaking when he began to act as an informant for the Ministry. In the summer of 1996, it was less clear to the public than it is now that Voldemort holds an illegal government, and it was more reasonable then than it is now to presume that Voldermort's government was legitimate. Once an informant, it was difficult for Mr. Prewett to leave, and Mr. Prewett acted, to the extent possible, to minimize his own effect once it became clearer that Voldemort's government was illegitimate.

"Second, we note that Mr. Prewett was never an enlisted soldier in the alliance forces. The Lord Fabian Prewett was a sworn part of this alliance, but Mr. Prewett never enlisted personally and took no actions on behalf of the alliance. In that sense, Mr. Prewett is little different from the myriad members of the public who hesitated to join either side, or who even aided Voldemort elsewhere—were it not for his unusual access to information and the serious consequences of his actions, which ought not to be downplayed, what he has done is little different than what has been or is being done by others across Wizarding England.

"Finally, Mr. Prewett profoundly regrets his actions. We note that he has personally lost his father and his home as a result of his actions, and that his title has been wrested from him. It is our shared opinion that the conviction and sentence sought are appropriate. Thank you."

She sat back down. Aldon chanced a look at Weasleys—most of their expressions were grim and resigned, and none of them were satisfied. Still, resignation was acceptance, which meant that Robin had successfully bargained the Lady Prewett into accepting the end result. Aldon owed Robin a very nice bottle of wine, he thought. He knew personally what a nightmare Molly Weasley had been to deal with on this issue.

"Do you agree, Miss Clearwater?" Naxen asked, his eyes flicking to her direction.

Robin half-rose at her table. "I do, Mister Chair."

Naxen sighed. "Then, I suppose the panel will adjourn to discuss our decision, which will come in writing. Thank you, all."

To no one's surprise, the panel's decision was released not even a day later. Despite the lies that Aldon had identified, the panel was still of the view that the proposed sentence was appropriate in the circumstances. Dorian Prewett was remanded to the Clans and would, much to Lady Prewett's somewhat-begrudging pleasure, spend the rest of the war in the secured and isolated Shetland Islands.

And Aldon could focus on his next plans: getting Ed and Alice out of Malfoy Manor.

"I spoke to Harry and Hurst, and to Blaise and Abbott," Malfoy said, keeping his voice down. There was no real need to—they were in Aldon's study, and he knew better than anyone that no one was listening in on them. But there was something furtive about their discussion anyway because they hadn't discussed the proposed extraction plan with Lina, Moody, or anyone else, and Aldon had the sense that if Lina knew, she would have stopped them.

Technically, they didn't need to discuss their extraction plans with the main army. Aldon directed espionage and sabotage, Harry and Leo ran their own missions, including extractions, as a small-scale strike team, and Abbott and the shifters managed their own surveillance operations. They didn't need to collaborate with the main army, and indeed it was often better that they didn't. Still, it was considered good practice to at least keep the leaders of the main army informed of their actions, and certainly Aldon had always at least informed Lina of any missions that might affect the main army. He expected Harry had done the same with her father in the past.

"And?" Aldon prompted. Malfoy had paused, examining him carefully.

"Their opinion is that an extraction mission is too dangerous." Malfoy replied, leaning forward across the desk. "There are too many people living at Malfoy Manor. Abbott's surveillance operation has estimated a hundred and sixteen people living full-time there, with another forty to fifty coming in and out regularly. The wards don't bar entry, but Abbott thinks there are strong Monitoring Charms on the perimeter. The shifters have issued orders to only allow shifters with innocuous forms, such as rabbits, squirrels, and so on anywhere near it, which upsets Blaise to no end. It's too crowded and too busy for an extraction plan to work, they said."

Aldon nodded, letting out a disappointed breath. He wasn't sure if he had expected any differently; Voldemort would not have put Edmund or Alice in a place where an extraction would have been easy. But he could have hoped for better news.

"However…" Malfoy drawled, a determined glint in his eye as he continued. "I am the presumptive Lord Malfoy. I had a look at the intricacies of noble manors. Even if I am under seventeen, I should be able to simply claim Malfoy Manor—the regency rules are a matter of formality, not of magic, and a fairly recent addition at that. As the presumptive Lord Malfoy, the manor should give me some advantage if I go in."

Aldon straightened, thinking. That was an idea, if a risky one. "There are limits, Malfoy. The night I felt the wards on Rosier Place fall—the manor could tell me very little until I had claimed it. I couldn't see everything as I can now, on a whim, nor could it warn me as easily as it does now."

"But you had some control, didn't you?" Malfoy pressed. "You were able to tell some things about the manor and the grounds."

Aldon hesitated. He remembered Apparating onto Rosier Place, remembered sending his power out and demanding to know if anyone was there. He remembered the grounds' uncertain response, only telling him that his father was not on the grounds and that his mother—well, that the woman he had called his mother his entire life had never been the Lady Rosier. But what he had known then was very little compared to what he had access to now, and he suspected it was even less than what Francesca had access to now. On the other hand, Neal had said that Queenscove, even unclaimed, had managed to draw him in and direct him to the primal keystone, suggesting that perhaps Book of Gold manors were different.

"Your manor may be different, but I was able to tell very little," Aldon said finally. "Though I admit that I didn't explore my abilities with the manor unclaimed. My priority was claiming Rosier Place."

"Yes, well," Malfoy went on after a brief pause, sounding a little deflated. "I think that I might be able to slip into the manor without being seen. The manor's native power might let me override the new wards that are up, and if I use a Disillusionment Charm, I might be able to sneak in and claim the manor."

"Even if you claim the manor, there will be up to a hundred and fifty people to be expelled." Aldon shook his head, skeptical. There were a lot of mights in Malfoy's plan. "That would be a difficult task, even if you were able to grapple control of your manor that quickly."

"I'm not expecting to be able to expel anyone from the manor," Malfoy corrected him. "I understand I probably won't have strong enough control to expel everyone that quickly. Claiming the manor would only be to give me an additional edge while I free Pansy and the Rookwoods, and it would give us an advantage later. My manor is Voldemort's stronghold—we'll need to strike at it sometime. Having the magical Lord Malfoy with you would be, tactically speaking, a huge advantage."

Aldon couldn't help but agree—the power of having the proper Lord Malfoy, with even some control over Malfoy Manor and its grounds, would be a blessing in any later attack. But the process for getting there seemed peppered with too many unknowns. Would Malfoy Manor allow Malfoy in without alerting Voldemort and his people? What about the many other people on the grounds? Would the primal keystone be left unguarded?

The location of the primal keystone was often only known to the Lord and his immediate family, so if the Malfoy primal stone was in an obscure location, there was no reason that it would be guarded. Aldon couldn't ask—it was rude to ask about another noble family's primal keystone. He would simply have to trust that Malfoy knew the probability of success better than he did when it came to accessing the primal keystone.

No one knew that Malfoy was still in Britain either, Aldon remembered suddenly. Or, more correctly, Aldon didn't think that the information that Malfoy was still in Britain would have gotten to Voldemort's ears. Aldon had told Ed that Malfoy had been sent abroad to his mother in Geneva, and during Ed's infrequent visits, Malfoy had stayed out of sight. Even the plan with Lestrange had kept Malfoy hidden behind a door, his voice altered. The few times that Malfoy had left Rosier Place, it had been to secure houses where Aldon was confident that there were no informants. Voldemort and his troops would not expect a Lord Malfoy to challenge their control over Malfoy Manor.

"Even if you succeed in claiming Malfoy Manor, it will be a challenge for you to leave the grounds," Aldon said slowly. "The magical backlash…"

Malfoy shrugged. "I can handle a headache."

"For months?" Aldon raised an eyebrow.

"If it means getting Pansy out, then yes." Malfoy's mouth was fixed in a stubborn tilt.

Aldon studied Malfoy for a minute, hesitating. No matter how Malfoy put it, it sounded risky. There were more than a hundred people at Malfoy Manor, and even if Malfoy managed to convince his manor to override Voldemort's wards and assist him throughout, it seemed improbable that he'd be able to claim his manor and free the Rookwoods and Swallow without being detected. Ed and Alice would be heavily guarded, Aldon expected, and Swallow, having now regained Voldemort's favour, would probably be close to him. Moreover, the fact that Lina had said it wasn't possible, and that even Harry and Leo had recommended against it…

But this was Ed. This was Ed, and with Ed came Alice.

Aldon wet his lips. "It'll be dangerous," he said, looking at Malfoy carefully. "It'll be very dangerous."

"I can handle dangerous."

Aldon let out a breath that he didn't realize he had been holding. "Then we'll need to plan very carefully and make sure that you are as prepared as it is possible to be before you go."

XXX

It had been a long month since the Prewett House attack, Lina thought, striding into the Rosier Place formal dining hall. As far as any month at war could be considered quiet, they had even had a quiet month—Voldemort's army had been badly hit during the Scottish campaign, and someone had managed to convince the psychopath that his new conscripts needed some basic training before throwing them onto the battlefield. Voldemort had also exhausted the easy supply of people who had at least been in combat-adjacent fields, including Aurors, Improper Use of Magic Officers, and magical creature wranglers, and he was now left with an array of shopkeepers and paper-pushers.

It was good for the resistance, though Lina couldn't help but wonder how much of Wizarding Britain would be left after the war. She didn't hold out much hope for the male population between the ages of 18 and 40, at least.

The Heathrow Portkey Hub had been taken by a joint MACUSA and Wizarding Canadian force nearly five weeks ago with barely any fuss at all. Terminal M was located right within the Muggle aeroport, a fact that had come in very handy when a hundred American and Canadian Aurors had flown in on three well-timed Muggle flights and raided the Portkey Hub as their first action. The small Ministry force that had been left to guard the Portkey Hub had been outnumbered nearly five to one, and their commanding officers had simply surrendered. Then, they had begged to be taken prisoner and shipped out of Wizarding England as soon as possible.

Since the Prewett House attack at Easter, the resistance had taken two out of three remaining Wizarding English ports. Holy Island had gone first—it was the closest to their northern safehouses at Goldenlake, Naxen, and Queenscove, and was well within the resistance's zone of control. Since Holy Island was also close to Scotland, the Clan assistance had come in useful. With the English north effectively taken, the population of the Isle of Man, led by their own council, had declared their loyalty to the resistance.

Somehow, the younger Black and his girlfriend Granger had then convinced the Irish to take care of the defence of the Isle until the end of the war. Lina suspected they had agreed because Man was right in the strait between England and Ireland and would serve has a good launching point against Ireland if Voldemort attempted to retake the country another time. Irish ships now patrolled the strait, and Sirius carried word from the ICW that the newly independent Scotland and Ireland were loosely allied and pushing for greater aid for the resistance. Neither new country wanted Voldemort on their doorsteps.

The next port, taken only a few days ago, was at Weymouth in Dorset. Like Holy Island, Weymouth was arguably within the resistance's zone of control—it was close to Potter Place, Longbottom Manor, and Shafiq Mansion. However, being at the other end of England, it also lacked proximity to their other allies, and the fighting over the port had lasted nearly four days.

Alastor was already seated in the dining room, his magical eye spinning around wildly, though Lina had confidence that Aldon had secured Rosier Place to the extent possible and then some. While Aldon had never been good at Defence Against the Dark Arts, or Duelling, or anything that involved physical activity as opposed to sitting in a study and thinking, he made up for it with his careful attention to the wards and the other security spells set in the grounds. Aldon was sitting on the far side of Alastor, his eyes half-shut and arms crossed in thought.

Rounding out the meeting were James and Sirius, who were sitting side by side across from Alastor and Aldon. Lina didn't bother with a greeting as she slid into the remaining chair at the end of the table. "Casualty numbers?"

"Twenty-one—we lost one more last night, complications from a poison-spell interacting with a Blood Curse," Sirius said, the lines around his mouth creasing. Lina nodded in resignation—the first thing that any of them did after an action was calculate the casualty rates, but the numbers always changed a little in the following days. His son being a part of the Healing team, Sirius always had the most up to date numbers. "And another eight are out of commission for at least the next two to three weeks. But Bill Weasley is finally out of the Healing Ward and fit for combat."

"That's good." Lina paused, thinking for a moment. Weasley was a good captain, though most of his unit had been killed in the Prewett House action. "We'll have to find a place for him. Or pull together enough survivors from other units or new recruits for a new unit for him."

"In terms of ACD numbers, Francesca advises me that they've salvaged the parts from the ACDs of the fallen and they should be able to repurpose them for another unit," Aldon added, looking up and uncrossing his arms. "She would like to know which units to prioritize for testing and assignment."

"The next strike location will be the port at Southwold," Alastor said, with a shake of his head. "So, Shacklebolt Mansion. These ACDs—as useful as they are in combat, the fact that they need to be matched so closely—"

"They aren't matched any more closely than wands," Aldon interrupted sharply. "Rather, the fact that we can salvage parts and reuse them as efficiently as we do is a credit to the invention. I will ask Francesca to prioritize the units at Shacklebolt Mansion."

There was an awkward pause, then James cleared his throat. "I think it safe to say that we've secured most of the north of England, as well as much of the southern coast. I can also advise that Godric's Hollow is in as much open rebellion as I think we can expect from the communities—they've ripped down the Ministry checkpoint, and any time anyone tries to set it up again, it's gone by the next day. There were a few attacks as well, but Harry says that it's pro-resistance witches and wizards striking at pro-Ministry witches and wizards, and mostly about the checkpoint. Any thoughts on whether we should be interfering? Stopping the fights would demonstrate the resistance's claimed authority as the proper government."

"But it takes our units out of the safehouses." Lina grimaced. "I don't like it. It sets them up as easy targets for either the pro-Ministry community members, or for Voldemort himself at a time and a place where they'll be hard put to defend themselves."

"We are going to need to start interfering in these kinds of disputes eventually," Sirius said reasonably. "Auror work had its risks too. If we're holding territory, then I think we're already a state of some kind. Part of being a state is enforcing order, and that means patrols through the wizarding communities that we can call ours."

Alastor looked like he had a rotten smell put under his nose. "I agree with Lina—this is too risky. Auror work and a war are two different beasts, and we are still at war."

"I'd also add that the kind of patrol that I'd be willing to risk on that sort of control operation would be large enough that it would seem heavy-handed and threatening." Lina shook her head—James and Sirius did have a point, but they were still at war, and their units were better occupied elsewhere. "I'd recommend against it at this juncture. We don't have enough units that we can afford to risk them so needlessly. We've only taken the outskirts, and by my estimation, Voldemort's conscripted forces might actually be ready to act now."

James sighed. "You're probably right. Southwold Port, then?"

"It'll be harder to take the Weymouth," Lina replied grimly, pulling out a map and spreading it on the table. It was a map of most of England, but she stabbed her wand at the eastern shoreline to enlarge the wizarding port. "It has none of the advantages that Holy Island or Weymouth had—we have no close safehouses that might act as good launching point. In terms of other support, I do not expect the Clans to assist, it's too far south for them, and it's on the opposite shoreline from the Irish. There is a Muggle settlement a short way north of the wizarding port, but the most I expect we'll be able to do is have one or two of the ICW peacekeeping units sent there as a precautionary measure. They won't want to interfere in the strike itself."

"Terrain?" James asked, leaning forward to study the map. "Not as friendly as either Weymouth or Holy Island, I see."

"The port borders on a magical creature reserve—we might want to pull one of the creature specialists in on this." Sirius tapped one hand on the map, on top of the reserve in question. "If we can get Scamander or Weasley back down here, we should be able to advance through the reserve itself and push any of the port defenders into the sea…"

"That's one idea," Lina agreed, considering the map. The area around the Southwold Port really had nothing to recommend it other than its deep bay. Catching the defenders between the forces advancing from the shore and the sea would require manpower, and more of it than either Holy Island or Weymouth. "We'd need to surround the port from the land, but remember that it is a port. Even if we set up Anti-Apparation wards, they'll be able to flee by boat, and there's the risk that, once notified, Voldemort will come swooping down on us. I don't think the difficulty with Southwold is capturing the port. I think the challenge will be holding it."

"We don't have the power to hold alarm spells the way that Voldemort has been able to do," Aldon said, considering the map. "But I do have a piece of good news for you. Parkinson Palace is across the magical creatures reserve from the port."

"And that is good news?" Alastor's eyes were sharp. "From what I had heard, Lady Parkinson shut herself up mourning in her manor after Voldemort's coup. No one's seen or heard from her since."

"For very good reason," Aldon replied coolly. "Parkinson Palace was one of our primary refugee holding centres and transportation hubs. Less necessary now with the ICW peacekeepers holding the Muggle cities, but very much critical at the beginning of the war. The Lady Parkinson will permit you to use Parkinson Palace as a staging ground for the Southwold strike."

"That's one problem solved, then," Sirius said, with a quick, considering look at Aldon. Aldon's face was perfectly blank, revealing nothing. "We stage our units at Parkinson Palace, then we take positions, circle Southwold, and assault it."

"Voldemort will be expecting it, but given the size of the port, he can't keep a large number of his units there—Southwold has always been smaller than either Holy Island or Weymouth, there's just too many Muggles in Suffolk." James stared at the map, his face pensive. "Six units should overwhelm it, with aerial support."

"We'll need enough people to cast an Anti-Apparition Ward, the better to capture the defenders—it will delay Voldemort in his response." Lina looked over at James—James and Sirius knew the army better than she did, particularly which units had soldiers with unusual skills. "We can entrench if we buy ourselves time."

"At the scale you're looking it, it would most likely be a group cast." Aldon was leaning over the map, examining the terrain. Even without a Mastery, Aldon had somehow amassed a wide range of knowledge and practice with wards. "Four to six wizards could do it in concert."

"Four to six wizards familiar enough to ward construction to handle an Anti-Apparition Ward?" James was thinking. "We can put on Units 3, 4, 7, and 9—they all have someone who can do wards. Fill out the complement with 6 and 11, I think. They're seasoned and in good condition. Captain Flint can back us by air. They could come forward with us on the ground, then take to the air when the fighting starts. Will that be enough to buy us a delay?"

"Not as long as we would want," Alastor replied, with a slight shake of his head. "As Lina said, the challenge with Southwold isn't winning it, but keeping it. The Anti-Apparition Wards might let us take some prisoners, but the wizards at these ports will probably be able to take a boat out of range. We can't buy more than twelve hours, I wouldn't think. Then Voldemort will be on us, likely using almost the same tactic and shoving us into the sea."

"Unless…" Aldon was smiling slightly. "We strike something that has more value to Voldemort at the same time. Southwold is strategically important for cutting off importation, but it doesn't have the same emotional impact as another target. Something like the Ministry of Magic, for instance?"

There was a lengthy pause.

"With six and the air units at Southwold, we could have another five at the Ministry of Magic without overextending ourselves." James was frowning. "But the Ministry is underground, and it's a warren—five units won't be enough. With the limited exits, it'll also be bloody. Not just Voldemort's main army, but the people who continue to work there, whether they want to or not."

Aldon shrugged slightly. "It's in London, and it's relatively isolated. The ICW peacekeepers patrol the city, and we know that Voldemort keeps at least one vampire coven there. We'll have support from the dhampir. As for the civilians, Lord Potter, they cast their dice when they chose to continue working at the Ministry. We have been at war for a year; every Ministry worker has had time to decide whether they wanted to continue taking the risk of working at the Ministry in a time of war or not. At this point, we must assume that if they continue to be by Voldemort's side, if they continue to work at the Ministry and continue to do his work, that they are on his side."

"That's harsh," Sirius said, raising an eyebrow. "People are frightened. Sometimes, the easiest thing to do when you're scared and the world is falling apart around you is to stick to your routine."

"It has been almost a year," Aldon repeated flatly. "This issue is not one that will simply disappear. The Ministry workers, more than anyone, should know the risks. If they haven't left by now, then they won't leave at all. We can't keep hoping that if things just become bad enough, the ones that are not truly on his side will leave. The civilians at the Ministry may get caught in the crossfire. It is what it is. It shouldn't stop us from advancing the war."

Lina studied him closely—while he had shown signs of ruthlessness before, this was a rather different level than he had previously espoused. Aldon hadn't hesitated to kill in defence of Rosier Place, and he had once told her that he would execute prisoners himself if he needed to, but Lina somehow had difficulty putting this Aldon together with the boy that she had raised. That boy had been academic and rather overly attention-seeking, and she would never have guessed that he had anything like this brand of ruthlessness.

Circumstances had certainly changed him.

"Aldon is not wrong," she said, turning back to the rest of the table. "At some point, the Ministry of Magic will need to be taken. This is a good time for it—as Aldon says, the Ministry is a relatively isolated target within London. We are never going to reach a point where the people in the Ministry are only Voldemort's soldiers. Once taken, the Ministry of Magic will be Voldemort's priority—it is a far more high-value target."

"If we take it, it will also be far more defensible than Southwold," Alastor added, his low voice considering. "The ICW peacekeeping force will prevent Voldemort from re-taking it through the Muggle entrance, and we can bottleneck or collapse the Floo to cut off the Ministry entirely."

"How do we get in, though?" James turned to Alastor, tilting his head. "If it's that well-guarded—we'll be picked off one by one."

"Not necessarily," Aldon corrected, his mouth tilted in a half-smile. "There is a key difference between our forces and Voldemort's, and it is that we have connections in both the Metropolitan Police and the ICW peacekeeping forces. The ICW may not be fighting for us, but their primary consideration right now is that the Statute of Secrecy is protected and that we don't draw Muggles into our conflict. We set it up like a Muggle police raid—we use Muggle tactics to breach the emergency exit of the Ministry. Muggle battering rams, Muggle grenades, Muggle bombs. Once the way is clear, we go in. Forewarned, they'll cooperate and keep Muggles out of the way, then they'll help keep Voldemort from doing the same."

"Once we're in, we can also just let people go if they run," Sirius said, though the expression on his face was still concerned. "The orders can be—anyone who is not resisting or running, we don't attack them. We let them go."

"We're still going to have to do a room-by-room clear-out." James shook his head, but it wasn't in disagreement. "We've done enough of that in the Alleys—we know what that's like."

"So, it's messy. War is messy." Moody grunted. "But it's a good plan, and I support it, though we'll need to work out further details on both the Southwold and Ministry of Magic strikes. In terms of the larger war, this forces Voldemort into a position where he has no choice but to try to strike at our high-value targets himself: Potter Place, Rosier Place, Queenscove and the other noble manors. The Ministry of Magic, with the foreign forces all over London, will be too hard, and his supporters would never be satisfied with a small port like Southwold. He'll need a major victory."

"And inviting him to hit our manors is a good thing?" James raised an eyebrow, and the faint hint of a smile on his face showed it to be more of a jibe than a serious question.

"It is. Because when he throws himself against our manors, we have the chance to bleed him," Lina replied, ignoring the joke and straightening in her seat with a humourless smile. "And we need to bleed his army. We need to get their numbers down as much as possible before we can begin our final strikes against Voldemort's own strongholds—Lestrange Manor, Malfoy Manor, Diagon Alley, whatever else he still holds. After the Ministry of Magic, though, the only stronghold of any true value is Malfoy Manor. I suggest we destroy Lestrange Manor before we take Malfoy Manor, if only to deprive Voldemort of a retreat location, but Diagon Alley will probably just fall when Voldemort falls."

Aldon nodded in agreement. "The Guilds cannot afford to be anything but neutral, but they and the shopkeepers are increasingly frustrated with Voldemort's requisition orders, especially when they are running out of supplies for themselves. Gringotts has always been neutral, but the ongoing war is impacting their trade. Among the population, my informants suggest that we have broad public support. They have not forgotten the massacre of the Lower Alleys."

"Would it be strategic to take Diagon Alley before Malfoy Manor? Or even the Ministry of Magic?" Sirius asked, leaning back in thought. "It's also in London, we would deprive Voldemort of another source of supplies, and we have the Rogue of the Lower Alleys on our side—"

"But it's the largest wizarding community in Britain," Alastor said. "Between the size, the terrain, the access to Gringotts, the Guilds, and other shops—"

"We just can't hold it," Lina finished. "Too porous, too many people coming in and out, too many Floo access points. Voldemort would stop at nothing to take Diagon Alley back for the banks and the Guilds. It's not worth it, especially not if we think the community will fold for us after we take Voldemort out."

"Fine." James let out a long sigh, raising one hand to ruffle his hair. "Then, it's just Malfoy Manor, again…"

"I could have a plan for something that would assist with Malfoy Manor," Aldon said, almost off-hand. "But nothing is yet fixed in stone. I will advise if I succeed."

"Do you need any assistance?" Lina asked, looking Aldon over. His hawk-like eyes held a determined glint, but his mouth was small and tight with worry.

There was slight pause, one that made Lina's eyebrows twitch, before Aldon replied. "No, to both questions. It is an espionage and sabotage mission only, and fully within my area. Strictly need-to-know. Thank you for thinking of it."

That wasn't entirely like Aldon either. He wasn't normally so long-winded with his denials, nor did he thank people for offering their assistance. But his expression seemed consistent with Aldon when he was worried, which she knew he had been more and more as the war wore on, and she couldn't quite pin anything in particular that she would need to push him on.

Aldon had always told her about his planned missions, if only to keep her informed. Perhaps the fact that it was an espionage and sabotage mission was all that Aldon could tell them, and if it was in the early stages, then it would logically still be strictly need-to-know information.

"Very well," she said finally. "Let us know when you are able, Aldon. Or if you need any assistance."

"I will," Aldon replied, with a tense half-smile. "Or—you'll know."

XXX

John stepped off the plane at Heathrow Airport, a pack on his back. Britain didn't look like a nation at war, which wasn't surprising—he was on a No-Maj flight, and the war was supposed to be kept strictly to magical areas. It hadn't been, but through the miracle of the mages embedded in the Metropolitan Police Service, most of the No-Maj deaths had at least been covered up. More than a thousand of them in the last year, if he remembered right.

He scanned the crowds, the buzz of people's thoughts hammering him as they usually did in the No-Maj world. Complaints about a delayed flight, a man's uncharitable thoughts about his ex-wife, someone daydreaming about the first thing she would do as soon as she set foot back on American soil; he ignored those in search for his contact. John might have been the primary MACUSA liaison with the resistance, but it had still taken him weeks of arranging things for MACUSA to let him back into Wizarding England. Without Gerry, unfortunately, because the Germans had too few people on the ground for an in-person liaison to be necessary. Only John would be needed to liaise between the resistance and the ICW troops on the ground.

He spotted his contact as before the man saw him. Auror Allan Thurston was tall and rail-thin with a mustache thicker than the hair on his head. He was dressed in a severe, navy-blue No-Maj suit, and he was standing rigidly at attention—a military Auror, that meant, not one of the ones versed in policing. In America, the same term was used for both, though there were huge differences in training, command structure, and work.

John recognized him from his thoughts: specifically, that he sincerely hoped that John Kowalski, sixteen years old and a Kowalski, was better than his nepotism would suggest. John grinned.

"Auror Thurston," he said, striding up to the man and thrusting out his hand. "I am a lot better than my nepotism would suggest, thanks for the thought. I'm told you're my handler?"

Mental shields slammed into place behind the man's brown eyes. "John Kowalski?"

"The one and same." John smiled, with a hint of humour. He could understand the skepticism—he wasn't even yet seventeen, and he had ruthlessly used his family connections to secure his spot in the war. But he had also been involved in the war a lot longer than any of the new American units that had arrived, and unlike most of them, he also had very personal reasons to be involved. "I'm the alliance liaison. Mind debriefing me?"

Thurston nodded, and out of amusement, John pinged at his mental shields. A cursory dive into his mists told him that Thurston's Occlumency was strong enough—Aurors were trained at the skill, but most of them wouldn't be his equal. Auror Thurston was a good Occlumens, so while John though might be able to break it if he really wanted to try, it would probably hold up under most assaults. The twitch of Thurston's eyebrows told him that the man had noticed his foray, and that he was not impressed.

"I can give you a debrief without the need to resort to other measures," the man said stiffly, breaking eye contact and walking towards the exit to the airport. "We took Terminal M the day we arrived. Since then, we've divided up the forces—MACUSA has the most units on the ground, so we've taken a lead in the peacekeeping initiative. We're holding London and most of the southeast. The Canadians are on the ground in the smaller cities in Wales, while the European coalition, mostly German and Scandinavian, are holding Manchester and Liverpool."

"Any trouble?" John asked, keeping one eye alert on the area around him. Snatches of people's thoughts came in and out of his head, most of them easily ignored. "Reaction from the Ministry?"

"None. They know we're here—the Met reports that suspicious Muggle deaths are down since we arrived. No communications from the Ministry, and no attack on us, but our presence itself is having a chilling effect." Thurston paused. "I think we outnumber them."

"That's not it," John replied absently, hitching his bag higher on his shoulders as he looked around the crowded No-Maj airport with a wary eye. "They were decimated in Scotland, so they needed time to train new troops. They were trying to pick easier targets—they went after one of the alliance safehouses not long ago. Otherwise, the alliance has also been chewing them up in a couple other offensives over the ports. What time is the meeting, again? Do I have time for a snack?"

"No. It's in twenty minutes," Thurston said, leading him towards what looked like a blank wall. John reached out a hand—for a second, it was solid, and then the wall gave under him like it was made of foam. "Do you know what it's about?"

"An offensive on a magical location in London." John leaned back against the illusion wall and sank through it. Thurston followed with barely a pause. "They want us and the Met to help clear No-Majs out of the area and to put together a cover story when they take the location. Apparently, it's underground and heavily fortified, with vampire involvement. Possibly werewolves, too, for all we know. They want to discuss details, and pry us to see if we'll help further, I think."

Thurston shuddered, his face twisting in disgust at the mention of vampires and werewolves. "Fine. Will you be returning to London with the regular troops after the meeting? You didn't specify, so secure arrangements will need to be made—"

"No need." John grinned. "I'm the MACUSA liaison with the alliance, Thurston—if MACUSA has troops on the ground here, I'm best placed if I stay with the alliance, aren't I? I'll stay in one of their safehouses, so you and I will probably need to set up a communication system. Patronuses are prone to failing at the worst moments, but it can be a fallback until we figure something else out."

Thurston grimaced slightly. "We have mobile phones. Will they work?"

John took a moment to think about it—Monster would probably be able to shield it, but he didn't know if he'd be able to get a signal in a magical environment. "Mobile, probably not-I'll be out far enough that I doubt there will be a signal. Satellite might work though, I don't know. We can try a satellite phone, and if it doesn't work, I'll send you a Patronus. I'll need a supply of batteries for it, though."

"Very well." Thurston nodded. "I understand that you have the codes for the alliance strongholds?"

"I do," John acknowledged, looking around Terminal M for the first time. The Portkey Hub didn't even seem like a part of Britain. The dozen or so Aurors he could see patrolling the airport and Hub all wore the MACUSA uniform, dark blue robes cut in the American style above the knee with gold MACUSA pins on their collars, and the words he caught in the air were said with an American accent. On the other hand, the Heathrow Portkey Hub was a lot smaller and quieter than any Portkey Hub that John had ever seen before, with only about a dozen transport rooms. It was too quiet, too empty to be in America or anywhere else that John had ever seen, so he could only be in Wizarding Britain. "Any transits in or out of the Portkey Hub?"

"None." Thurston replied, with a shake of his head. "It's eerie. Heathrow is one of the major Portkey Hubs for this country, but there have been no transits at all since we've taken it over. The staff we captured said that normally, there were only a couple transits a day."

"Britain was small enough that most people used Floo and Apparition to get around," John said absently, shrugging and heading into the closest transportation room. "The Hubs were never a common mode of transportation here, they were mostly used for transit to other European countries. Most of the transits probably started moving through the Edinburgh and Dublin Hubs once the war started."

It took him a few minutes to find the inner panel to request a transit—Monster had said that every Portkey room was equipped with one, though at the big Hubs, there was an external operational surface as well. He traced the series of runes that Monster had given him, and waited. They were due at Potter Place, and Monster had said that Archie knew to expect them.

There was a yank behind his shoulder blades, and he and Thurston reappeared in a much smaller room, one that looked like a repurposed cellar. He barely had time for his eyes to adjust when the door flew open, and a shape threw itself at him in a bear hug.

"John!" Archie's voice was instantly recognizable. "I'm so glad to see you—I was so excited when Chess said that you'd been transferred to the American troops in Britain, and I'm sorry we couldn't just meet at Grimmauld Place. We blew it up, you see? Oh, sorry, I think you might have left some comic books at my place—"

"Monster told me." John grinned, pulling away to look Archie over. Archie's grey eyes were bright, as was his grin, but the bags under his eyes told a different story. "It's fine. Potter wants to see us, right?"

"Uncle James does, yeah," Archie confirmed, then he looked over at Thurston. "And you are?"

"Auror Allan Thurston." Thurston was stiff, pulling his hands behind him into a reporting stance. "I'm Mr. Kowalski's handler."

"Handler, is it?" Archie grinned. "There are so many jokes I could make with that, but I won't. Have you eaten? I can get you both a bite before the meeting. And are you staying? I can get a room ready if you are, or—"

"Nah." John grinned in reply, wicked plans already in motion in his head. "To staying, that is, not the snack. I'm starving. But after this meeting, I'll head to Rosier Place. Older brotherly duties, and all—Aldon will put me up, and where better to be through the endgame of the war?"

XXX

ANs: Ramping up to the end of this fic, finally! Thanks as per usual to meek_bookworm and the lovely readers who leave me a comment or review or who come hang out with me on discord. As a fun note, before the next chapter is posted will be RBE round 2, which should have a few rev arc related fics revealed as part of the collection, so hope you check it out!