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.

18. Chapter 18

He was here, he was here!

Chess tore out of the Rosier Place library, Bubbles riding on her shoulder. She had felt John moving closer to her over the past day. At first, it had been an indistinct sort of a feeling, a barely noticeable strengthening of their connection, but it had come into focus sometime around noon. He had told her, of course, during their daily calls that he would be coming. She had known from his itinerary that he would be landing in Britain sometime just past noon, but there was a difference between knowing that he'd be back and feeling it as their connection snapped back into place.

It felt right, knowing directly where John would be, as if there was a line stretching across Britain towards him. For all that John had hoped that their connection might fade in time, Francesca had neither blamed him for his mistake in their first year that lead to the link, nor did she regret its effects. Indeed, she liked their connection—she liked feeling as though John was always around, ready for her to fall back on if she needed him.

She had gotten antsier and more excited as the day wore on. He had a meeting at Potter Place first thing on arrival, he had said, but after that he'd said would come see her at Rosier Place. He hadn't said how long the meeting would be, so she had tried to focus on work, but she hadn't been able to concentrate. She hadn't even seen him at Christmas!

She knew the instant that he had arrived. First, he had been somewhere to the west of her, and then he was here, at Rosier Place a few dozen feet away from her outside the Portkey Hub. And now he was only half a hallway away from her, examining the portraits of Aldon's stern-looking ancestors that lined the hallway to the Portkey Hub.

"We're flooded by Americans," one of them commented, his nose turning up. "So many of them."

John was smirking. "Consider it your boot into the twenty-first century," he informed the portrait, who looked offended. "You need it."

"John!"

Francesca launched herself at him, slamming into him with all her weight. He staggered, before reaching back to hug her just as ferociously. "Hey, Monster. Good to see you too."

"You lost weight!" Francesca's tone was accusatory—John had always been big, on the heavy side, but he seemed to have slimmed down in Switzerland. He was still tall and broad-shouldered, but he no longer carried any extra weight with him. His was tanned, and his brown eyes sparked with mischief. She studied him critically. Did they not give you enough to eat in Switzerland?

Food is expensive in Switzerland compared to the US, John replied, mind to mind, and Francesca could almost dance. It had been too long since she had heard his voice in her head. "But it's higher quality, so less quantity, more quality. How is it here?"

"Oh…" Francesca shrugged, glancing John in the eye and unleashing more information than she could ever put in words. Rosier Place was lovely, but they were at war, and Aldon was strict with the security protocols. They weren't allowed to move freely even through the manor or the grounds, and Francesca hadn't been outside of Rosier Place or another resistance safehouse since before Christmas. But Aldon had gone out of his way to make her comfortable, as had the manor itself and his house-elves, so she didn't have anything she could complain about.

There was a poke in her mind, John prodding her about Aldon. Does he treat you well? He demanded, his brown eyes serious.

He's terrified of making a mistake that will have me running to live at Queenscove. Francesca grinned. In fact, I'd rather he not be so afraid? He could just... ask what my boundaries are instead of walking around on glass around me. I wouldn't mind being shoved into bed and—

Whoa, Monster, too much information, I don't want to know! John shook his head and shut his eyes, closing the mind link, and Francesca heard the sound of someone clearing their throat behind her.

"John," Aldon said, coming forward to greet him. "I hope your journey here was safe?"

"If it wasn't safe, I wouldn't be here now, would I?" John replied, a wicked smile spreading across his face as he draped one arm around Francesca's shoulders. "Aldon, my friend, we should talk, don't you think?"

Aldon paused, his bright eyes narrowing, and he cleared his throat again. "I'd be pleased. Is this a report from Potter Place, or—?"

What's this about, John? Francesca asked, looking in John's eyes, but he wasn't looking at her so he didn't hear the thought. She tugged at his arm, insistent, but he wouldn't look at her. "What's this about, John?"

"Francesca," John said cheerfully, tugging at Francesca's braid, "is a member of the Kowalski family. I'm her older brother, and currently her oldest male relation in Wizarding Britain. If you're going to be carrying on with my sister, we're going to have to talk."

Francesca's jaw dropped. "John!"

"Quiet, Francesca. I need to know if he's good enough." John's grin was still wide and delighted, which was how Francesca knew that John was only adopting the stance to rag on Aldon a little. "The Kowalskis are a prominent family in America, you know. We have to make sure this Lord Rosier has the appropriate means to keep you in the comfort you're used to, and then there's all the political matters, like how this union would be seen in the papers at home—"

"I would be delighted to show you my portfolio," Aldon cut in coolly, a steel glint in his own eyes and a half-smile dancing on his face. "I can assure you that my pedigree is impeccable, and I'm sure that I will be able to convince you of the practical benefits of a union between my family and yours. Why don't we speak in my private study? Francesca, you may come along if you like, though you may prefer to return to your research."

John looked down at her, and in one mildly disturbed glance, Francesca could see that they were in complete agreement. It had only been a joke—John hadn't expected a serious reaction and had expected her boyfriend to splutter and be taken aback. Aldon's matter of fact, but of course response was weird, uncomfortable, and most definitely not even a little bit funny.

"Ew," John said, looking back up at Aldon and scrunching his nose in distaste. "Don't refer to yourself and the word pedigree in the same sentence. You're not a dog. All that matters is whether Monster thinks you're good enough for her, though we will have words if you hurt her, got it?"

"Understood," Aldon replied, his smile triumphant. "I suggest not challenging me as if this were a noble marriage negotiation in the future. You forget, this was the expectation for most of my life—you'd never win. Is there any news from Potter Place?"

"Nah, nothing you don't already know, I'm sure." John waved a hand casually. "MACUSA will help clear the No-Majs out of the area of the Ministry of Magic for the night of the attack. Do you have a room to spare? I figured I'd cool my heels here for the rest of the war."

"He can have my old suite of rooms!" Francesca supplied, a bright, hopeful smile on her face. "Since I'm mostly sleeping with you."

Aldon winced, and John started laughing.

"Trust me, I will know far more about your sex life than either of us will be comfortable with," John replied, with a slightly embarrassed grin of his own. "Just like Chess knows far more about mine than either she or Gerry are really comfortable with. Our mental link makes us sort of a package deal, so you'll just have to accept it. Might as well get used to it now."

Aldon winced again but shook his head. "I suppose that is the most practical option. Why don't I show you the way, and I can explain the security protocols in effect at Rosier Place at the same time."

It was after midnight that Francesca sat upright in bed, the wards tugging at her. "Aldon!" she hissed, but it wasn't necessary—Aldon was already awake, his golden eyes shining and unfocused in the darkness. Francesca recognized the look of him tied into his manor, checking the wards, and a moment later the Rosier alarms blared. She gasped, covering her ears for a second, her heart thudding.

"An attack," Aldon said unnecessarily, pulling the covers off and swinging his legs out from bed. "And not a minor foray strike. Get dressed, Francesca."

The wards tugged again, another complaint. Outside the window, it was still dark, with no moon or stars, no grey light of near dawn. It looked peaceful outside, but the roiling in her stomach and the pull of the wards said everything otherwise.

"It's two-thirty in the morning," Aldon said, answering her unspoken question. "We have a little time for tactical planning, Francesca, at least if we hurry."

Francesca took a deep, shaky breath, and nodded. They had done this before, she reminded herself sternly, making herself breathe, and it had been fine. They had done this before, and they were prepared. She got up and got dressed.

Lina was already waiting in the formal dining room when they arrived, wearing black jeans, dragonhide boots, and a black leather jacket. Her hair was tied up and out of way, clear from her face, and her dark eyes were alive with anticipation. Francesca could see two handguns peeking out from under her coat, and she knew that Lina wore an ACD on her left forearm. Alex was there too, a sword strapped on his back, and his wand in a holster on his wrist—his magical frequency hadn't been in range for an ACD, though he hadn't seemed bothered by it.

"Voldemort is early," Lina remarked, sounding more pleased than anything else. "He wasn't supposed to hit us until after we took the Ministry, but bleeding him now compared to bleeding him later makes no difference. Aldon, numbers?"

"Around a hundred, Voldemort at the forefront," Aldon replied, and Francesca felt her stomach drop. This wasn't like last time—this was far worse than last time. "Master Regulus Black is with him, unravelling our wards. I give him thirty minutes to break them."

"Thirty minutes is better than none." Lina nodded. "Alastor and the other captains are waking their units. We'll need air support, and reinforcements—another three to four units if we can get them. This isn't a foray strike."

"Malfoy can go," Aldon replied. "Do we need more time? I can engage in a ward battle with Master Black—it would likely buy us more time, but I do not think I can hold out against him. He has years of training that I do not."

"I wouldn't rate yourself too lowly, Aldon," Lina said, glancing at Aldon. "The fact that Master Regulus Black is a formal master of Ward Construction means nothing for a ward battle. He might be better at warding, given time, but has probably never engaged in an active ward battle. Your skills were developed in war, out of practical necessity, and in a ward battle whether someone is accustomed to war will be more important. Go ahead and engage with him, there isn't enough light for gunfire to be of any use anyway. Where are they coming from?"

"There are three groups," Aldon started, then he paused when Lina raised a hand. The other captains were coming into the room, Aldon's second in command and John behind them. Francesca exchanged a worried look with John, letting him know what had happened without any words needed.

John nodded, understanding. His thoughts were a jumble—he was looking for a reason to argue that MACUSA should interfere, but for only him and Francesca, it probably wasn't enough. Especially not while Rosier Place was still standing, and he and Francesca were still nominally fine. He needed to report the action to MACUSA but based on what Francesca had told him about earlier attacks, Patronuses probably wouldn't work right now, and Francesca hadn't managed to shield his satellite phone yet. Unlike Francesca, John was a formal representative of MACUSA while in Wizarding Britain, so he couldn't fight for them.

"I can go to Potter Place," John said quickly. "I need to report to MACUSA, not that they will be likely to do anything, but I can alert Potter Place at the same time. That's the only thing I can do, so let me do it."

"Fine." Lina didn't blink. "Go. Abernathy, Donaldson, we have Voldemort and a hundred of his on our doorstep. Aldon, continue."

John exchanged another long, worried look with Francesca, which said far more than simple worry, then disappeared out the door. Francesca swallowed, and turned back to the conversation.

"Voldemort has split his army into three groups. Front, back, and eastern side, about thirty in each group," Aldon was saying, his hands gesturing in the directions of the three groups he had enumerated earlier. "Voldemort is at the front—Bellatrix Lestrange leads the back. I don't recognize the man heading the eastern group."

"Damn," Lina muttered. "I was hoping they'd do something stupid like try to surround us, without their Stormwing support. Then we could break the line and clean them up."

"We can't always rely on their stupidity, Lina," Moody growled, walking into the formal dining room. "The units are lined up and waiting in the training yard. I'll go with the front group, I want to see this Voldemort monster for myself."

"All right." Lina breathed out slowly, then she shut her eyes. There was a breath of silence, in which Francesca could feel her own heart beating faster than normal. "Aldon, Francesca, you are in charge of the defensive spells. Aldon, go ahead and engage in a ward battle with Master Black, but don't fight seriously—just get a feel for how he does in a ward battle, and for ward battles yourself. Drop the wards before he breaks through them, we'll be in place within fifteen minutes. We'll be behind the line of the defensive spells, so I leave it to you and Francesca to determine the best time to set them off for maximum damage. We're going to get bloody today, and don't hesitate."

"If we manage to kill Voldemort, we can probably end the war here and now," Moody grumbled. "Let's make that a priority, eh? Him and his top lieutenants."

"My people will take the eastern edge," Alex said, a sharp incisor dimpling his lower lip. "We see well in the dark—an inheritance of our enemies."

"I'll take the back," Captain Abernathy said, a hard look in his dark eyes as he pulled up his sleeve to turn on his ACD. "With Bellatrix Lestrange. Which leaves…"

Captain Donaldson nodded. "We'll take the front."

"Good," Lina said, her voice cutting the air. "No more time. We go, and I hope to see you all after we drive him off."

Francesca followed Aldon out of the formal dining room, towards his study. His strides were long, and she hurried to keep up. She wanted to reach out for his hand, but she didn't think it was the time—not when he was so clearly bent on his study, not when he had a manor to defend. He didn't look at her, but his jaw was set, and she had no doubt that he knew that she was trailing him.

His study felt too large, too open in the darkness. The primal keystone called to her, and she reached inside her collar for her paper spells. After the last Rosier Place attack, she had revised all off her spells for indirect fire, so she had nearly two dozen spells ready in her arsenal. She pulled them out and set the shield-charms to one side on the grand desk, then made to hop onto the desk. With Aldon in the room with her, she wasn't sure where else she could sit to maintain direct contact with the keystone.

Aldon shook his head. "No," he murmured, and his voice was rough as he pulled her into his lap. "Let me hold you."

"Won't that be a distraction?" Francesca asked, frowning.

"It'll help me remember what's important," Aldon muttered in reply, and without any further explanation he locked his arms around her waist and shut his eyes.

She felt the change in the air as Aldon connected with his wards. The ground didn't shake, but there was a feeling in the air like it had, a vibration that rippled across the grounds. It was still and silent in the room, too still and silent considering the battle that would happen. Francesca took a deep breath, assuming that this was Aldon starting his ward battle, and set her hands on the primal keystone.

Information flooded her mind, and she gritted her teeth and rode it. Aldon was indeed engaged in what had to be a ward-battle—he was throwing new wards, obstacles, and traps into his wards, fixing the tears that had been ripped by someone on the other side of them. Francesca could see the other man, since he had his magic entangled with the wards; he seemed to be in his late twenties, with dark hair, grey eyes, and high cheekbones. Francesca was disturbed to see how much he looked like Archie.

Francesca swallowed, and turned to look inside the grounds. Lina and Abernathy's group were taking up position in the sculpture garden; they were using the dark, stone figures as cover, and Francesca trusted that they knew to fall back from it quickly. Each and every sculpture in the garden was rigged to explode, and she would set them off when it looked like they would cause maximum damage. They were probably drawing the back group towards the sculpture garden with their presence.

Alex's unit was in a line, flat on their bellies behind the low rise, and most of them had long rifles. In the darkness, and wearing black as they were, they were barely visible.

The front had an array of low walls, which had been set up to provide cover where there was none. At the last attack, there had been three layers of short, low-lying earthen walls; now, the mounds were even more numerous and confusing. In the darkness, they reminded Francesca too much of burial mounds, but Moody and Donaldson's crew were mixed in with them, sheltering behind them. They were in position.

Everyone was in position, and all Francesca had to do was wait, her breath uneven and shaky in the silence. Aldon was a warm, comforting bulk behind her, and his arms were tight around her middle. His head was resting on her back, and she could feel his tension bleeding into her. One peek at the wards showed that they looked nothing like what she had known before. They were messy, not the neat and even spell-work that Aldon had walked her through so long before, and she didn't know enough about wards to know whether the battle was going well.

Minutes ticked by, the sound of the mantle clock in the room too loud. Francesca watched, and she waited, and the wards gave with a massive shudder. Aldon fell back, but from his control and stillness, Francesca knew that he had chosen that moment to unravel the wards. He shifted behind her, readjusting, and reached out one hand to touch the keystone.

"I will watch the front group, and handle the trench and flood spells," Aldon murmured. "Focus on the back and eastern groups."

Francesca gulped. By taking the trench and flood spells, Aldon would be taking responsibility for what they hoped to be the greatest single-stroke carnage of the war. No matter that she had swallowed, her voice was dry and creaky when she replied. "Okay."

There was no hesitation in this group, not like the first attack. At the back, a woman with wild black curls exhorted a crowd of hard-faced men and women forward. The smile on her face was huge, her white teeth bright in the darkness, and they marched forwards. On the eastern edge, a man with a large, beaked nose and a square jaw was doing the same.

Francesca waited, calculating. There was a poison spell at the back, and if she set it off just before the explosive runes, there was a good chance that the poison gas would ignite. But for that to happen, the back group needed to advance a little, into the centre of the minefield. It wasn't very far in, but waiting seemed to take forever. On the eastern edge, they were almost at the first line of fire.

Aldon laid his hand over her own, squeezing her fingers tightly, as reassuring as he could make it be in the moment.

Francesca breathed out, and she triggered the first line of runes on the eastern edge. The ground underneath them shook with the first strike of the battle, and she knew without having to look that the back group had stopped, looking eastwards. It was only a second, before the wild-haired woman turned, screamed something at her own troops, and they moved forwards again.

No, she realized suddenly with dawning horror. Her calculation was wrong. She needed to release the poison at least a minute before the explosive spells, she needed time for the gas to spread. Belatedly, she pulled at the spell—it wouldn't be enough time, she didn't think, but a small fireball was still better than none at all. She couldn't hear the hissing of the gas, but she knew that the back group did, because their wands came up. They were looking around, confused, and Francesca waited as long as she dared. Fifteen seconds, maybe. Twenty seconds, or thirty, and the group of invaders came forward, suspicious and slow in caution.

And then Francesca set the world on fire.

The boom echoed across the grounds, the cloud of fire and ash rising like a beacon on the dark skies. There was a breath, a moment of shock and nothingness, and Francesca became aware that what was left of Voldemort's army was screaming and charging forward. She pulled at the other explosive charms like one pulled sweet potatoes out of the ground, a seemingly never-ending chain of fire.

The ground rocked again, and Francesca clung to the desk. Aldon had pulled the trench spell, ripping a ten-foot chasm in his own grounds with magic and Lina's blood-magic. The bottom of that chasm would be spiked, Francesca knew, and a second later she heard another rumble and a torrent of water came flowing through the gap, with enough force to crush bones.

There was gunfire, now. On the eastern edge, Alex's group had wasted no time, and they were shooting down the people who were dragging themselves, choking and coughing, out of the new Rosier Place moat surrounding the property.

There were so many bodies—some, on the back end, were burnt beyond recognition, while those in the east were being gunned down with brutal efficiency. In the front, when Francesca had a moment to look, the moat ran red with blood.

They weren't done. One would have thought that they would be done, that this carnage would be enough that the attackers would retreat, but there were enough survivors surging forward, still fighting, that they had only entered a new phase of the battle. Francesca took a deep breath and reached for her stack of battle spells. The back and eastern groups, Aldon had said, and there she started throwing lightning.

She didn't know how much time passed, nor how it was going. She saw Alex swap to his wand midway through the fight, and one quick look to the front showed her Moody engaging with a handsome man with dark eyes who seemed far too young for the amount of power he was throwing around. She threw lightning at him, which he dodged, but it gave Moody a moment of advantage. At the back, she saw that the wild-haired woman had survived, and she was now exchanging spell-fire with Lina, who looked no worse for wear. She could feel the subtle pops of Apparition on the ground—reinforcements, she realized, Sirius and the Lord Potter at their head. Three units, it looked like, and there were people in the air on brooms laying down a covering fire as they advanced.

Her eyes were everywhere at once, and she saw the moment that Voldemort's jaw tightened, and that he called the retreat, sending up smoky green sparks. She threw her last lightning spell at him, which seemed to have no effect at all, but the man was gone. Around him, she could see what was left of his army Apparating out with him, and then they were gone.

The beautiful Rosier grounds were destroyed. The lawn was turned up and ruined, and the moat was a dark, haunting gap. The bodies were everywhere—enemies mostly, she hoped, but there would be friends there too.

There were so many bodies.

Francesca took a deep, shaky breath, and started to cry.

XXX

Archie hurried through out of the Portkey Hub, every other Healer and person trained in first aid from Potter Place with him. Dad said that it would be bad, very bad, and Hermione was already gathering the other Healers to join them.

Dad met him on his way to the front doors, his clothing stained with grass, soot, and blood. Archie raised his wand to check him over, but Dad shook his head. "I'm fine, Arch—the blood isn't mine. We have a dozen injured of our own, and probably a dozen of theirs. Lina requests that you focus on ours first."

"How many dead?" Archie couldn't help asking, even as he frowned. "And we'll triage and Heal in the order of priority, Dad. By need, and not by status. Like always, you know that."

"I told Lina that that would be what you would say," Dad replied, with a small shake of his head, and he turned to lead Archie out of the manor. "But I can tell her I passed the message on. At least thirty-five confirmed dead of Voldemort's; five of ours for the moment."

Archie nodded. The numbers were better than he had expected—he had heard worse numbers from the port strikes, and even Healing there hadn't made miracles. He followed Dad out the front doors, and immediately sucked in a breath.

Rosier Place was carnage. He barely recognized the grounds, not even in the dim light. It wasn't yet dawn, though the sky was becoming grey in the pre-dawn, and there were Lumos charms bobbing throughout the front yard. The ground was churned and messy, dark with soot and blood, and the small hills that Aldon had formed in his front yard for cover had huge chunks torn out of them. The air carried a sour tang in it, like the aftereffects of a gas, and there was a heavy scent of smoke and ash. In the distance, Archie made out a stream that hadn't been there before, a silent and probably deep trap. Uncle James stood by the surging river, helping to drag bodies out of the water and checking to see if they still held a pulse. Most of the time, he shook his head and directed them to be lined up with the rest of the bodies nearby.

There were so many bodies, lined up in neat rows by the moat, that Archie felt ill. Far more than the numbers that Dad had told him—Dad must not have had accurate numbers. There had to be more than fifty bodies, and Archie could see that someone had left a thin strip between the bodies of Voldemort's followers and their own dead. There were far more of the former than the latter, but in death, they all looked the same. They were no different in death, and they would all burn in the same funeral pyres.

Lina crossed the ground to them, her expression grim. "Alastor is dead," she said, and for all that her voice was calm and matter-of-fact, Archie sensed that there was grief underlying her tone and expression. "Do you know where Ronald Weasley is stationed? Which unit?"

"He's not formally enlisted yet, but he's at the Longbottoms with what's left of the Prewett House units," Dad replied slowly. "Why?"

Lina held up a silver ring. "Stormwing token. Alastor left it to Weasley—said the kid has promise. He—" She cut herself off abruptly, looking out on the battlefield, and coughed. "He didn't have any other family or friends. Most of us don't, but these rings—mine goes to Aldon, of course. I had wondered at the time if Alastor was joking, but Alastor never joked. Not that we ever joke about these things."

"No need to say anything further," Dad replied quickly, saving Lina from having to make any other awkward explanation. If there was one thing that Archie had worked out from watching Lina, it was that Aldon's talent for emotional repression had most likely come from her. "Where are we laying out the injured?"

Lina nodded, all the thanks that she seemed capable of giving, and tucked the ring away in a zippered pocket. She pointed. "To the west of the building. Black, do focus on our own fighters first."

"We'll focus on whoever needs Healing the most," Archie replied, polite but firm, and he gestured for the Healers behind him to follow. "When the other Healers come through, direct them to the wounded, please."

For all the bodies that he had seen in the front, the group of injured seemed very much manageable. Among Voldemort's soldiers, the wounds seemed to be mostly burns, though there were the usual blunt force trauma and spell-damage as well. Their own fighters had fewer burns, but more spell damage. With the ease of practice, the Healers trailing Archie went to work triaging, and Archie went to the first man that he could see.

He was one of Voldemort's soldiers, that much was evident simply by where he was sitting. The people bringing the injured to the make-shift Healing ward were splitting them, their own injured to one side, and the enemy injured to the other. This man had a gunshot wound to his shoulder, seeping plasma and blood. That wouldn't have stopped him from Apparating out—but his broken legs and apparent wandless state did.

"Get away from me," the man snarled, twitching his legs away and gasping from the pain. "Bastard. Blood traitor. Muggle-lover."

He said it as if this was the very worst thing that one could be, as if Muggles were little better than animals. Archie fixed the man with a beady eye. "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way," he said calmly. This was not the first time that he had taken abuse from a patient, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. "But if you're this feisty, you'll survive. Ferula."

Bandages appeared, snapping the man's legs into the right position and wrapping them in the right position for Healing. With only a gunshot wound and two broken legs, this man was not a priority. The man spat on him, but Archie disinfected himself without a pause and went onto the next, unmoving patient. When they were injured, they were patients first and foremost, and Archie would worry about their political beliefs when they were Healed.

The Rosier Place attack saw a total of six dead for their side, with one person passing away of wounds sustained in battle. They confirmed at least forty-eight dead of Voldemort's forces, along with a further seven prisoners of war, who were promptly shipped north to a camp in the Clans. It was a devastating blow to Voldemort's side, one that the alliance followed up on a week later with two more devastating blows on Southwold Port and the Ministry of Magic.

Archie dared to hope that the endgame was in sight. After this, there was just Malfoy Manor. Again.

XXX

It was a wet night—not raining, at least not in the way that anyone thought of raining, but water hung in tiny droplets in the air. Late May it might have been, but it was cold, the chill of the air seeping through Draco's Muggle clothes. He hadn't wanted to wear Muggle clothes, but Rosier had insisted. The thick denim of the jeans was rough against his skin, but the fluffy fleece of the pullover kept the wet out better than he could have expected. He also moved better in these clothes than he could have in his robes, so while he had a lingering sense of discomfort with them, he couldn't deny their practical use. He'd never wear these kinds of clothes again, but for now, their practical benefits outweighed the simple fact that Draco was a wizard and that he should dress like one.

Blaise and Abbott were with him, Abbott slipping forward in the undergrowth, leading the way. Of the shifters, she knew these grounds best, having been in charge of the surveillance unit that had watched Malfoy Manor for most of the past year. She was the one who calculated figures, noted the comings and goings, and assessed the common habits of the people who were within Draco's traditional manor house. She had said that the manor was quietest between the hours of about three in the morning and four-thirty, when both the late owls and the early birds were sleeping.

She was leading them to a small gully, near the back of Draco's manor. The ground dipped underneath his feet, and it was even more wet in the narrow, low ditch than it was in the trees around his manor. He knew where he was—there was no part of Draco's manor that he did not know—but it had been many years since he had been in this area. Not since he was a child and had gotten his robes covered in mud and algae.

The water squished in his boots. They were dragonhide, but water still bled through the stitching. His feet were slowly going numb, but he ignored it in favour of trudging forwards. If he succeeded tonight, and he would, Pansy would be free. The Rookwoods would be free, and he would be magically the Lord Malfoy. He had several weeks of splitting headaches and illness to look forward to, but after that, he would be an invaluable resource in a Malfoy Manor strike.

In and out. Nothing off the plans, and no heroics. Even with Voldemort's losses at Rosier Place, Southwold, and the Ministry of Magic, he still had more than eighty people at Malfoy Manor. That was fewer than the number of people who had hit Rosier Place only a few weeks ago, but not by much, and the news out of Voldemort's army since then had been awful. Lestrange reported that the Rookwoods had taken the blame for the Rosier Place attack, though they were miraculously still alive. Draco reached behind him, touching a pouch of potions that Harry had given him—a few helpful potions, like her flying potion were included, but they were mostly Healing potions.

Draco was not a trained Healer, so whatever she had given him would have to do to get the Rookwoods out. Aldon had added that Edmund knew how to Heal, so Draco could also lend him his wand for a few minutes if needed. They only needed to be well enough to travel, not completely healthy and Healed. Their Healers, Harry included, would look at them all when they got back.

"This is as far as we can go with you," Abbott whispered, turning around. In the darkness, her blonde hair shone. "We'll wait here, but if things get hairy, you—you can run in whatever direction off the grounds works for you. I have other people on watch, and they can provide you with a bit of cover before breaking and running for themselves. We—we won't cross through onto the grounds, but we can cause a diversion if you need one."

"Thank you," Draco replied automatically, drawing his wand as a precaution. Aldon had offered him one of the new ACDs, but Draco had declined—he didn't have the time to learn how to use it properly, and something about the device and the way it sat on his arm made him feel profoundly uncomfortable. It was a strange weight, and on a mission so dangerous, he wanted to keep as many things as he knew as usual.

"The gods go with you," Blaise added, the traditional shifter farewell unusual coming from him. Blaise had never used it before, that or any of the other shifter phrases that Draco had heard Abbott use without thought. His friend radiated nervousness, but the look he gave Draco was long and understanding. "See you later."

Draco nodded and turned to face forwards again. After a moment of thought, he cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself—even if he was out of sight, the extra precaution never hurt.

He knew when the boundary to the Malfoy grounds were in front of him. His grounds called to him, stronger now than it had been when he had run from them almost a year ago. Though, a year ago, he had been in too much shock to feel much of anything as he ran.

Right now, his grounds itched. Malfoy Manor was filled with people, but none of them were the Lord or Lady Malfoy. His manor felt like it was infested with fleas, but it didn't know what to do about that absent a Lord and Lady Malfoy. It wanted a strong Lord or Lady Malfoy, one to tell it what to do, and it wanted to know if Draco was here to help.

Draco focused, trying to reassure his grounds. He was the Heir Malfoy, and he was here to help, but his grounds would have to help him too. He needed safe passage on the grounds—he needed his manor to disguise him and suspend the new spells that the invader had cast on his grounds for him.

There were so many invaders, the manor complained. So many invaders, and they made a mess, and it wasn't right. The manor didn't want them, it wanted them to go away. It wanted a Lord or Lady Malfoy.

That would happen, Draco replied mentally, trying to soothe his fretting grounds. Rosier had said that his grounds were quiet, giving him information on his demand, but that the Queenscove grounds had a childlike sort of sentience. Draco thought that his grounds were closer to Queenscove, which made sense given that both Malfoy and Queenscove were Book of Gold houses. His grounds had a very firm desire to be free of invaders with a strong Lord or Lady Malfoy at its helm.

He doubled down on the grounds. He was here to help, but it was difficult. It would be a few steps, and he needed the help of the manor to get onto the grounds and to get to the primal keystone. Once that was done, he'd have to leave and come back with reinforcements, but they would expel the invaders, and everything would be right again.

His manor hesitated, but then he had a strong sense of agreement, and a feeling that the wards in front of him lifted. Draco took a deep breath and headed onto his grounds.

The manor could only help in terms of the wards and hidden traps. If Draco was caught by another person, there would be very little the manor could do to save him. He kept himself low to the ground, listening hard for any hint of movement, any whispered conversation, any sign that he was not alone.

The gully ran out well before he got to the back gardens, and it was a hard run of fifty feet between the low-lying ditch and the shadows of the back garden. He was making for the labyrinth—one advantage of being a Malfoy was that he knew the labyrinth maze inside and out, and it would provide the best cover for him to approach the manor.

He could see no one on the grounds. The mist in the air kept him from seeing very far in the distance, and it muffled all sound, but he still could see and hear nothing. With nothing for it, he bolted for the back garden, throwing himself into the shadows behind the statue of the first Lord Malfoy. The stone, grey and pitted with time and covered in wet, green moss, was icy against his back. He inched to one side of the plinth, and, seeing nothing, made a dash to the next shadow of cover.

Leapfrogging from statue to bush, or fountain, or bed of flowers, he found his way to the edge of the labyrinth. Inside, he allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief—he was well within the grounds, and he hadn't been caught. The labyrinth was well shielded from sight, so he could slip through it quickly and quietly. He was aiming for the windows at the end of the one of the wings of Malfoy Manor.

The Rookwoods were his first priority, because they knew where the Rookwoods were being kept, and because the Rookwoods would be able to provide Draco with at least some information on the inner guards through Malfoy Manor. Rosier's other spies spoke little about the guard schedules within the manor, and Abbott's surveillance group had established a schedule of positions and hours on the grounds, but not inside the manor. The guard schedule within the manor had seemed less important for an attack, though it was critical for infiltration.

The end of the labyrinth came too quickly. He eyed the windows, lined at the end of the wing. They had to be in one of those windows—they were the only windows that had a view of both the centaur statue and of the phoenix rising from the ashes. An upper floor was most likely, so they couldn't open their window and escape.

He looked around. He could see no one on the grounds, and with his Disillusionment Charm, he didn't think anyone could see him. A deep breath, and he dashed towards the shadows under his manor.

Still no one. He breathed for a minute, listening, but it was silent. That was good.

It took him a moment to find the levitation potion that Harry had given him, along with the other two that he would give to the Rookwoods and the Finite Incantatem Potions that they would need to stop the spell ahead of time. They didn't know enough about the inside of Malfoy Manor, and information from Malfoy Manor said that they were heavily guarded. Indeed, their intelligence from inside Malfoy Manor had suggested that the Rookwoods were being used as bait for a trap.

Other intelligence suggested, however, that the Rookwoods were in deep trouble. They had taken the blame for the failure of the Rosier Place strike, which was the largest loss for Voldemort since Scotland; no one thought they were likely to last. Indeed, Rosier guessed that they were likely to be executed in short order if they were not extracted, and both the articles in the Daily Prophet and their informants agreed on that point. There had been a show trial, and they both had been convicted of treason for failing to provide relevant information to the Ministry of Magic, to wit the extensive prepared defences of Rosier Place, the known residence of one of the Ministry's most violent and dangerous terrorists.

Rosier had been deeply worried, and Draco understood. The Rookwoods were not Draco's closest friends, but Pansy was still in his manor. Pansy might not have been in the same sort of danger—in fact, Rosier had apprised him several times that she was safe and doing well—but just being near Voldemort and his people was dangerous. Several times, Rosier had looked to be on the verge of saying something else, but he had always shaken his head and gone on to discuss another part of the plan.

He threw back the levitation potion, and a minute later, he felt himself floating upwards. He moved slowly, carefully—this part would be dangerous. Floating in the air, he would be in the open, his only disguise his Disilllusionment Charm; he could only hope that he found the Rookwoods quickly.

The second floor window was dark—he stopped for a minute, peering inside, but he couldn't see anything except the shape of furniture. Squinting at the sill, he could make out a fine layer of dust—not this one. He slipped around to the next window, sucking in a breath when he saw it wasn't empty, and surging back to just out of view.

The grounds were still quiet. Draco didn't know whether to be relieved or worried, but it didn't matter. He was here, one way or the other, and he had a job to do.

He peeked in the window again. It was not empty, but it looked like there was only one person, sleeping in a chair by the window. A sentry, he realized—but one that had fallen asleep. He was close.

He swam upwards, towards the next window. A look inside, and he could tell it was the right one. He could barely see the shapes of the two people in the bed, but the residue of fear that radiated from the room was unmistakeable. It was stronger here than anywhere else, and the lock-spell on the window, which he identified with a quick passive magical identification charm, only supported the conclusion. He would have to break this spell, but there were probably alarm-spells attached to it.

Draco breathed out slowly, reaching for the manor. He didn't know if this would work, but it was worth a try. I need you to open this window for me, he thought to his manor. Without setting off the lock or alarm spells. Please?

The manor grumbled, seeming to think about it for a minute.

I can't claim the manor unless I can get in, Draco told it reasonably. You need to let me in, and not just here, either. You aren't breaking any rules by doing it—surely other Lords have left you locked behind them before, then died, and then you had to let the Heir in past the lock spells, right?

There was a strong sense from the manor that those Heirs had used their wands to unlock it and get in.

But you weren't occupied by invaders then, were you? Draco pointed out. This is a bit different.

There was a pause, then the window scraped upwards. Draco let out a sigh of relief and drifted into the room.

The Rookwoods were sleeping, but woke the instant Draco was inside. Alesana Rookwood gasped, while Edmund Rookwood reached for, not a wand, but a stick of wood the approximate size and shape of a cane. Draco hastily reached up with his own wand, cancelling the Disillusionment he was wearing.

"Malfoy," Edmund whispered, barely audible even in the silence, but his voice was filled with surprise. He lowered the makeshift cane. "I didn't—"

Draco shook his head sharply. "No time," he replied, keeping his voice as quiet as possible as he handed out the levitation and Finite Incantatem potions. "Get dressed, then out the window and make for the borders—someone will intercept you and bring you back to Rosier Place. Are you well enough to travel, or do you need to use my wand for Healing first?"

Edmund took the potions with a shaking hand. "We are well enough. Thank you. What about you—you'll be coming back with us, of course?"

"I need to get Pansy," Draco replied, glancing at the door. "Where is she being kept?"

"No one keeps Pandora Parkinson," Alesana hissed, her eyes narrowing as pulled herself upright with some effort and scooted to the edge of the bed. She was moving stiffly, as if she was hurt, or she had been hurt recently. "Pandora Parkinson keeps us."

There was a pregnant silence, and Edmund cleared his throat softly. "I'd advise against getting her," he said quietly. "She… isn't the person we remember."

"Pansy's personality has always been a little flexible," Draco said, shaking his head. He hadn't fully understood Pansy's explanation in their third year, he had only accepted it as fact, but he was sure that whatever personality she had adopted for the moment was only done for her protection. Her protection, and theirs—she had sacrificed herself to save him, and his mother, and her parents only a year ago. He couldn't forget that. He wouldn't forget that. "Whoever she is, whatever she's done—it's for survival only."

Edmund's lips thinned. "She has done… quite a lot more than necessary for survival," he murmured, even as he reached for his robes and pulled them over his nightclothes. He tossed another robe to his wife. "She can most likely be found in Voldemort's bed, right now."

Draco gulped.

"Edmund is right," Alesana whispered, struggling into her own robes with pained gasps. "You should come back out with us. Leave her."

"No." Draco shook his head, his jaw set. It didn't matter what Pansy might have done. She was still Pansy, and he knew Pansy better than anyone—he, Harry, and Pansy, they were a trio. And he knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that whatever Pansy had done had been for her survival. Pansy was not violent, and she was not the conniving woman that people described. He knew her better than that, and he had things to do. "Let me Disillusion you, and you can be on your way. I have a couple other things I need to do. If not Pansy, what is the emptiest part of the manor? Where would be the easiest to enter without being noticed?"

Edmund's eyes flickered towards the door. "Not here," he said, a tone of finality in his voice. "I do not know the entrances, but I do not think many people linger in the cellars. They're too cold, and being underground, are not considered at risk for an attack. No sentries."

Draco nodded, swimming in the air back to the window. "Thank you. There are windows I can use for the cellars." He hadn't been down in the cellars himself for many years, but this was his manor, and he knew his home.

"Do you…" Edmund glanced at Alesana. "Should I come with you?"

Draco raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Without a wand?"

Edmund hesitated, and Draco smiled wryly.

"Exactly," he said, and he cast Disillusionment Charms on both of them before refreshing the spell on himself. Making his way to the window, he examined the grounds critically—they were still and silent, covered in a light mist. Without hesitation, Draco slipped out of the window and floated outside. The Rookwoods each took one of the levitation potions and joined him, and he led the way down to the ground.

The silence of the mists was a lie, and belatedly Draco realized that even if a Disillusionment Charm might work at any other time, he was a disturbance in the mist. Water droplets clung to his physical form, outlining him, even if it tried to hide him. There were a dozen figures on the ground, and he knew he had been seen when one of them raised its wand at him.

"Don't land!" he yelled up, the time for silence over. He thrust himself upwards, as if against a current, trying to swim upwards. Forget the rest of the plans—now was the time to run. There were too many of them, and of he and the Rookwoods, he was the only one with the wand. "Forward—away—make for the edge of the grounds!"

It was too late. The Hover-Charm-imbued potion made them fly, but they moved slowly, too slowly, as if they were swimming through the air. A loose tendril of the Incarcerous Charm snaked up and twined around Draco's ankle. He twisted in the air, casting a series of curses, and hexes, but there were no less than twelve of them and one of him, and he felt himself being reeled in, a fish on a line. He slashed at the rope with his wand, breaking free for an instant, before someone hit him with a Petrificus Totalus. His arms snapped to his sides, his wand falling from his numb grasp, and another Incarcerous spell completed his capture.

"Well, well, well," a voice said, and it was a voice that had been burned into Draco's memory, a voice that reappeared often in his nightmares. Voldemort. "What do we have here?"

XXX

Aldon was pacing in his study. His shoulders and back ached—he was too young to have back pain, so it had to be his chair. He had been sitting for too long, waiting.

Malfoy had left around one in the morning. They expected him back around dawn, or shortly afterwards. It was now mid-morning, and there was no sign of his second-in-command. No sign, and no message from any other safehouse.

That was not necessarily a bad sign, Aldon reminded himself sternly. It was not ideal, but there were any multitude of reasons why Malfoy would not have been back on schedule: he might have been delayed, he might have had to go into hiding, he might have had to run for a different safehouse and forgotten to make contact. The fact that Malfoy was not back on schedule meant only that he was not back on schedule, and Aldon should not jump to any conclusions whatsoever about the mere fact that Malfoy was late.

The circle that he was pacing around on his floor spoke differently. He was not calm. He could not be calm. Malfoy would have checked in had he been able, and Aldon was sensible enough to know that if Malfoy was not back on schedule, something had gone terribly wrong.

It could have been minor, he reminded himself again as the minutes, then the hours, ticked away. Past nine in the morning, in fact, no news was probably good news. No news meant it was likelier that Malfoy had simply gone to ground somewhere and hadn't been able to contact him. If something had gone drastically, drastically wrong, then Aldon would have heard. One of his informants would have contacted him about it.

The spotted hyena flew into Aldon's study, and his stomach plummeted.

Vulture's Patronus dropped its lower jaw, its tongue lolling out as it panted. "Draco Malfoy captured at Malfoy Manor. I downplayed any and all information he provided last night, but Voldemort was watching. He is held in the cellars."

The Patronus turned on its tail and disappeared. One message only, too dangerous for a reply.

Aldon stared at the fading misty wisps, his mind completely, utterly blank. Automatically, he deciphered Vulture's message—Vulture, as Voldemort's key torturer for information, had been given Malfoy for the night. He had managed to downplay or dismiss all the information that Draco had given last night, but Voldemort was watching. Voldemort had probably been watching most of the night, Aldon realized, because Voldemort was a sadist. There was little else that Vulture could do, not without risking himself.

He breathed in. And then he breathed out, fighting to make his idiot brain work. They knew this had been risky—Malfoy knew that this had been risky. They had planned for half a dozen eventualities, a full dozen signs that Malfoy should abandon the plans and run for it. There were contingency plans upon contingency plans, but somehow they had never talked about what would happen if Malfoy was captured.

Malfoy knew too much. He had not known very much in the beginning. At first, when Aldon suspected his loyalties and tested him nearly every day or every other day, Aldon had given him only the least sensitive of his informants to manage. Messages from the Guilds, or the Wizarding Wireless Network, or shopkeepers in Diagon Alley or what was left of the Alleys had gone to him for decoding, while Aldon had taken everything from the Ministry, the Daily Prophet, and Voldemort's inner circle. In time, Aldon had grown to rely more on Malfoy; it had only been a month or so before Draco started handling some of the Ministry correspondence as well, since there was simply so much more of it than there was of the rest. And eventually, when Aldon noticed that it had been weeks since he had identified any uncertain loyalties in Malfoy, he had taken on some of the inner circle correspondence as Aldon was called to more meetings with the military leaders and spent more time building the defences for his manor.

Malfoy knew, or if he did not know, he had very good guesses, for nearly three in four of Aldon's informants. More than that, he knew at least a third of the runic short-codes for the Portkey Hubs, along with a fair number of their supporters in Diagon Alley, the Guilds, and among the former Dark nobility. He knew their refugee routes, and their inner organization—where was best defended, where the Healers were stationed, where Flint's air support units stayed when not on campaign. He knew more than anyone about Aldon's operation than anyone except Aldon himself.

Aldon knew perfectly well what he needed to do. It was the promise he made to every informant who ever stepped forward, often paired with a slightly mocking smile: a quick death. What his informants did was dangerous, it was meant to emphasize, and Aldon would not be able to rescue them if they were in trouble. The only thing he could, and did, promise his informants in the case of capture was a quick death.

He did not want to do it. He could not do it. Not now. Not without exhausting every other option.

Lina was walking a patrol of Rosier Place. Since the last Rosier Place attack, which had gone very badly indeed for Voldemort, she had walked at least one patrol daily around the manor to add to its defences. The good thing about the Rosier Place attack was that they had laid a devastating blow against Voldemort; the bad thing was that he and Francesca had triggered almost every single defensive spell laid in the ground over months. If they were attacked again, they would not have the strength that they had had before, though the new moat still sat, stinking, a physical barrier on his grounds.

He hesitated, and then he ran out for Lina.

He caught her examining the moat. It was deep—the trench was intended to be some ten feet deep, and it had blown wider than they had anticipated. At almost eight feet wide, it was wide enough that it could not be jumped, not without any other preparations. Few witches or wizards could fly unaided, and Voldemort didn't have an equivalent to the resistance air support units. Harry and Leo had seen to it that there was a "broom importation shortage" and Aldon had seen to it that any brooms they did have were sabotaged.

"Lina," he said, and then he stopped. He didn't know where he was supposed to begin.

Lina straightened from her examination of the moat. She took a moment to study him, and her eyes narrowed.

"What have you done?" she asked, her voice a warning. "I know that look on your face, Aldon."

"I—" Aldon paused, trying to find the words. "I might have… erred in my judgement."

Lina shut her eyes. "You knocked up your girlfriend."

"No!" Aldon flushed.

She opened her eyes, still suspicious. "You're addicted to cocaine. Or heroin. Or Draper's Folly, or whatever the newest magical drug is?"

"No, why would you think such a thing?" Aldon shook his head. "I don't even know what those are."

"For good reason," Lina grumbled. "You're typically only an idiot in your personal life, not in your professional one. What is it?"

Aldon let out a slow breath, gathering his nerve. "Malfoy and I—we launched an infiltration mission into Malfoy Manor. After the Rosier Place attack, Ed and Alice took the blame, and their position was always precarious. The mission was supposed to be half extraction, for Ed and Alice and for Swallow, if she wanted it, and then Draco was supposed to claim the manor as the Lord Malfoy and return."

Lina stared at him. "I told you that extracting Edmund and Alesana Rookwood would be too risky."

Aldon looked away. "I know."

She crossed her hands over her chest. "I told you, weeks ago, to tell them to hang tight and hold on. Six months, maybe."

"I know." Aldon squeezed his eyes shut.

"And instead you risked your second-in-command on a foolhardy mission intended to extract the Rookwoods and another one of your spies who may not need rescue, and to secure an advantage over the manor," Lina finished. Despite her words, she only sounded like she was reciting the facts, without a hint of anger, or annoyance, or frustration.

Aldon would have preferred all of them over this cool, calm recitation. "Yes," he replied, with a slight flinch.

"I don't know why you're speaking to me, then," Lina concluded. "You know exactly what needs to be done. You're not stupid. You're here to ask me for a miracle, and I have none to give you. We are not going to be prepared to move against Malfoy Manor in time for your second-in-command—the earliest we'll be ready to move against Malfoy Manor is still weeks away. You and your second-in-command took the risk when you came up with your plan, and you need to deal with the consequences."

Aldon swallowed. "I can't. Not without trying, even once, to extract him. I'm calling Harry and Leo over to see if they'll launch a rescue mission. Will you—perhaps you might have advice to give?"

Lina studied him, and then she sighed. "My advice would be that you threw your dice when he left, and that you do what you know you must. But I better be there to ensure that you do not do anything else foolhardy."

Harry and Leo were at Rosier Place within the hour, along with Zabini and Abbott. Abbott was worried, as were Harry and Zabini, but as Slytherins, they did not show their emotions so openly. The house-elves, too used to catering for meetings by now, had produced a plate of biscuits, but they were too dry, tasting like nothing in Aldon's mouth.

Harry's bright green eyes seemed accusing, across the table.

Aldon cleared his throat, setting down his biscuit without more than a single bite. "Malfoy was captured," he said, his words short. "One of my spies was able to intercept much of his information and prevent it from reaching Voldemort, but he cannot do so indefinitely. He has warned that he is watched, and there is little he can do. Malfoy is being kept in the cellars, and none of my informants would be able to free him from there. It's simply too risky for them. If we—if we cannot extract him, and soon, I will have no choice."

"No choice but what?" Harry asked quietly, her eyes narrowing.

He stared back, his face pale. "Malfoy knows too much. He knows, or has good guesses, for most of the other spies. He knows at least a third of our runic short-codes for the Portkey Hubs. He knows the identity of our supporters providing us supplies in Diagon Alley, the Guilds, even among the former Dark nobility. He knows our refugee routes, our inner organization—if we cannot extract him quickly, I will have no choice but to issue a kill order for him. My spies cannot smuggle him outside of Malfoy Manor without risk, and they are critical. I cannot lose them as well as Malfoy. But one or two of them should be able to carry out a kill order without too much risk."

Harry looked away, her expression darkening. "How much time?"

"Dawn tomorrow." It was as long as Aldon dared—Malfoy even knew Vulture's identity, from helping Aldon plan his mission to Hogsmeade, and while he would trust Malfoy with much, he could not trust anyone under Voldemort's methods. Voldemort was a strong Legilimens, and anyone would break under torture. They couldn't afford longer.

"Even that may be too long," Lina said bluntly, sitting beside him with her arms crossed. "Were it up to me, I would have issued the kill order already."

"What about our plans for Malfoy Manor?" Leo asked, his expression revealing none of his private thoughts. "Could we accelerate them?"

Lina shook her head. "We overreached on the Ministry of Magic strike—too many injured are still in the Queenscove wards, and we used our complete stock of Muggle incendiaries. We're preparing for a strike on Malfoy Manor, but our earliest estimates of any action are at least three weeks away."

"We cannot wait three weeks," Aldon said, the words coming out roughly. "Malfoy knows too much—leaving him—"

"Leaving him is not an option," Harry interrupted, with a firm shake of her head. "He isn't safe there. We need to get him out. Blaise, you and Hannah were going with him to the edge of the Malfoy estate, weren't you? What happened?"

Abbott's mouth was pinched tight in sadness and worry, but she pulled out several large sheets of parchment and unfolded them on the table. Leaning over, Aldon saw that the first was a highly detailed map of the Malfoy Manor grounds, and a quick glance at the sheet underneath showed that they were rough plans of the interior of Malfoy Manor. Abbott pulled out her wand and, with a wave, the grounds appeared in relief over the map.

"We t-took him along the gully that runs along the back of the property," Abbott explained, pointing out the path with one finger. "It's covered from sight, and not closely patrolled by Voldemort's sentries. He crossed over onto the Malfoy grounds without a problem, and without raising any alarms. It was misty that night, so it was hard to see him after he passed about twenty feet into the grounds. I could hear him moving, but even that faded away. We sat and we waited, and he never came out, but we weren't—we weren't too worried. Once he was finished, the plan was for him to make for whichever boundary was the closest to him at that time."

"Our watch ended at dawn, and while we hadn't seen him, we didn't realize he hadn't come back until we made it back to the Warren," Zabini finished, leaning forward in his seat. "But we had hope that he had gone to ground or gone into hiding within Malfoy Manor itself. We understand that was one of the contingencies."

"That was," Aldon agreed, but Harry interrupted.

"What are the sentry positions?" she demanded. "And their patrol schedule?"

Abbott waved her wand over the map again; small red crosses and lines appeared. "These are the spots of his usual sentry positions. They stay close to the manor house. The lines show the usual patrol routes, but V-Voldemort doesn't have them patrol very much. It—it used to be every four hours, before the Scottish campaign, but since then, maybe twice a day. We can't see very well into the back garden or the labyrinth, there are t-too many obstructions, but Voldemort's army uses it as a sort of leisure park. During the day it's busy, but it's quiet at night."

Harry nodded, studying the map carefully. "Does the map not track the movements of people on the grounds?"

Abbott gave her a puzzled look. "No—how would we do that?"

"Some wards might allow for tracking," Aldon explained shortly. "Rosier House wards allow for this kind of tracking, but having it appear on the map would require the shifters to have tapped into the Malfoy Manor wards. Unlikely, especially if the wards are new."

"I see." Harry paused, looking up from the map. "When is it quietest?"

"Between three and four-thirty in the morning," Abbott replied, pushing the first sheet of parchment at Harry. "You can—you can keep these maps. They're only a copy of our master copies. We took Draco there at three in the morning. The rest of these are a map of the inside of Malfoy Manor, but most of this is done off Blaise's memory, and as—as you can see, they aren't very complete."

"I was not a close childhood friend of Draco's," Zabini acknowledged, with a slight, regretful tilt of his head. "There are areas that I have not seen, the cellars among them."

"That's fine," Harry said, glancing through the other maps. "It doesn't change what needs to be done."

"You know that Voldemort will be waiting," Lina cut in coolly. "Voldemort expects us to come to Malfoy's rescue. If the Rookwoods were important enough that we would risk an extraction plan, then he knows that he's holding someone of value, whether it be the Rookwoods or Malfoy himself. We've never otherwise attempted an extraction from Voldemort's headquarters."

Aldon grimaced at the mention of Rookwoods, but no one commented. If he hadn't wanted to rescue Ed so badly—but he had, and they were where they were now. He pushed the feeling, mixed discomfort along with a knot of other things that he didn't want to handle, away from him to focus on what was necessary.

It was necessary that they plan. It was necessary that he add as much as he could, that Harry and Leo might succeed in their mission. "Malfoy also had particular advantages on these grounds," he added delicately. "He is the Heir Malfoy, and the grounds sit unclaimed. The intent was for him to talk the grounds into letting him in without setting off the wards. You will need an alternative."

"I can help there." Leo looked up from his own examination of the maps. "I have a runecatch—we'll need someone to carry it in, but once there, it creates a vulnerability that we can exploit to slip onto the grounds. We can drop it in one of Voldemort's people's pockets today when they're in Diagon Alley. There's always someone in Diagon Alley, checking up on the shopkeepers. It'll allow in a small group, no more than three. It's not powerful."

"Three…" Harry sucked in a breath. "Very well. Leo and I will go. Tonight. We'll have to improvise the details, but we have no other choice."

"This is foolishness," Lina remarked, studying Harry closely. "Aside from the sheer odds, you lack too much information. You don't know the interior of the manor. You don't know precisely where Malfoy is being kept. You don't know how things might have changed between last night and tonight—Malfoy's capture will have changed Voldemort's sentries, his patrols, potentially everything. He will be waiting, and watching, and hoping to catch more of ours in the same trap he used for Malfoy. This is too much risk."

"Nothing is too much risk for Draco." Harry stood, rolling the maps up with a wave of her wand. "Not when your solution is to kill him."

"Malfoy wanted to take the risk," Aldon said, though it didn't make the tight feeling in his chest any better. "You'll remember that Malfoy was eager to take the risk, that he went to you for potions for this mission. He knew the risk, and he wanted to do it. The kill order—I have no other choice unless you can extract him. He knows too much, and even a day may be too long. We don't know how much Voldemort may already know. This is not something that I want to do, Harry."

His explanations fell on deaf ears. Harry was already striding out of the room with the maps under her arm.

"I'll go with her," Leo added, standing up from his own seat. "I'll make sure she gets out, with or without Malfoy. My word on it."

"We'll put on a larger than usual surveillance group too," Abbott added. "Should—should things come to the worst, we can at least cause a diversion for you."

Leo nodded. "Dawn tomorrow. We'll report back, one way or the other."

Aldon shut his eyes and nodded. A day was the best he could give, and realistically, they had one try. If they failed tonight, there would be no time for a second try. They either succeeded tonight, or they failed, and he would have to deal with the consequences.

He did not want to issue the kill order.

But he would if he had to do it. Malfoy knew too much, and he would.

XXX

Leo had never seen Harry so focused, and considering that this was Harry, that was saying something. Harry had a tunnel-like focus, she always had—from potions, to learning how to duel, to anything else she attempted. She was gifted in her ability to block out anything and everything else. While Harry took care of brewing a cauldron of her shaped imbuing base, Leo dropped by Diagon Alley with Harry's Invisibility Cloak and dropped the runecatch into Bellatrix Lestrange's pocket while she harangued Master Tate in Tate's Apothecary over the ingredients for a Love Potion.

It felt odd, not finalizing their plans over many careful hours and weeks, but they hadn't the time. There wasn't much else to finalize in any case—the only things left to decide were when they should enter, where, and how they would remain undetected. The answers to those questions were: that night after the sun fell, wherever appeared to be the least busy, and the Invisibility Cloak.

The skies were clear when they left Potter Place. The moon was rising, bright against the dark and starry sky—a beautiful night, and a poor one for disguises. The Lord Potter looked distinctly unhappy and on the verge of hexing Harry to stop her when they left, but somehow, he desisted. Leo had no idea what Harry had said to him to let her go, or maybe it was that she had the stubborn look on her face that had said that she simply would not accept no for an answer. She was going after Draco Malfoy, no matter what anyone around her said. Leo said only that he would ensure that she came home, to the best of his ability, and the James' nod had been short and stiff in reply.

The shifters were silent as they led the way to the outer edge of the Malfoy estate. Zabini and Abbott were exchanging grim looks as they walked, but they didn't communicate in any other way that he could detect. More than once, Leo wondered if shifter soulmates had some sort of telepathic connection, or if they simply knew each other well enough by now to be able to read the minute changes in each others' expressions. Their footsteps rustled through the grass, but they left no mark behind them.

They stopped well before the estate boundary, Abbott's blonde pigtails twitching as she stopped to listen, and Zabini wrinkled his nose.

"They—they're out on the grounds," Abbott whispered. "Patrols. Multiple patrols, I can identify at least eight separate footfalls."

"Nine," Zabini muttered under his breath. "Nine scents. Not Voldemort. This is as far as we can take you. Get under cover, and if you keep going northwest, you'll hit the Malfoy boundary in about thirty feet."

"We're going to shift." Abbott added. "We have a larger number of people on surveillance tonight, both to help if—if Draco escapes, or if you need help. It includes people like Blaise, who can fight. Just—just cause a ruckus if you need help, I'll hear it. We'll—we'll be waiting until dawn."

"The gods go with you." Zabini looked at Harry, who arched an eyebrow slightly at him. It was a very traditional farewell, one that had largely gone out of use, but Leo had noticed that many of the shifters still used it.

"I'll be back," Harry said firmly. "With Draco."

"I hope so." Zabini nodded, and he turned and shifted. A black wolf lay down in the grass, its eyes half shut, while a small rabbit sat beside him with her ears twitching towards the manor. Abbott, Leo presumed.

He looked up. The sky was dotted with stars, without a single cloud in the sky. Harry offered him one half of the Invisibility Cloak, and he stepped under it with something like relief. It was too clear, too open, and even if Abbott had said she could hear the patrols, he could hear nothing yet. The silence pressed against his skin, grating with the tension in his muscles.

Harry didn't say anything, and only started moving towards the Malfoy grounds. Moving under the Cloak was awkward—it was made to comfortably fit one adult man, which was exactly what Leo was. Harry was not longer as short or as small she once was either, and in order to keep their feet hidden, they were crouched over and too close together. Their feet caught on each other, and it was only through careful, slow movements that they didn't trip and fall.

The world was strange through the tightly woven fabric of the Invisibility Cloak. The Cloak was transparent and permeable, but what he was able to see was limited by his crouch. He didn't like it—he felt like he could need to draw a wand to defend himself at any time, and he didn't like the feeling that someone could sneak up on him. His back felt bare, vulnerable, and the quiet whisper of the Cloak swaying around them was distracting.

At the boundary, he could see shapes moving in the darkness—they were still some distance away, indistinct, as blurry as the dark manor that loomed in the distance. He should have been able to see it. On such a starry night, the manor should have been clear as day.

"I think we can enter here," Harry said, her words only a breath in the air. "There's enough space between us and those people—we can follow the boundary around until we see a spot where can get closer."

Leo nodded, a short movement, drawing his wand and setting it to the other half of the runecatch. A breeze threatened to rip the Cloak off him, but Harry held onto its edges with a tight grip. The runecatch sensed its partner inside the grounds, and with a snap, created a small gap in the wards, marked with a faint grey light. Harry pushed forward, shuffling through the gap in an awkward, sideways fashion, and the catch broke behind them.

Through the wards, suddenly the sounds were clearer. Voices carried in the breeze, indistinct, but enough to get Leo's guard up. There were too many people on the grounds. From his current, crouched position, he could make out at least six figures about forty feet away. Too many people, and too close.

Harry quietly pushed him towards the right, leading him a path that seemed to cut across the ground in a diagonal. It wasn't a straight line—there were far too many people on the grounds for it. Leo couldn't count how many people were out on the grounds, patrolling or simply enjoying the night-time air, but there were far too many people. It was before midnight, so there might have been people out who might have otherwise gone to bed if they had waited until three, but both he and Harry had thought more time better than less.

More people on the grounds meant fewer in the manor, at least. Or so he hoped.

Harry didn't speak, and they drew a wobbly path across the Malfoy Manor grounds. They couldn't afford to speak—the Invisibility Cloak did not make them inaudible, nor insubstantial. Every time Leo spotted someone's eyes passing over them, or a heard a pause in the murmurs, his guard rose. He was too experienced to twitch, or to freeze, but the desire to do both crept over his shoulders.

They made it to an ivy-covered wall of Malfoy Manor. Carefully, he looked up—there was an open window on the first floor, no doubt left wide to let in the beautiful evening breeze.

"Look," Harry whispered, barely audible, pointing out the same window. "Entry. A closed window or door would set off alarms."

"But we can't both climb under the Cloak," Leo whispered back. "It is early enough—we should wait by one of the doors and slip in there. We have time."

Harry hesitated, her worry for her friend warring with her need for caution, but she nodded and sidled along the side of the wall, making for the back entrance. Fortunately, few people hung close to the walls, and while they came closer to people than Leo was happy with, there didn't seem to be any other option. It would only get worse inside, Leo was sure, and especially in the cellars. Hallways and corridors did not tend to wideness.

There were two sentries at the back entrance, and Leo swallowed. They hadn't been noted on Abbott's map, the first sign that things had indeed changed in the manor. They stood about three feet in front of the back doors, with just enough room for one person to enter or exit between them.

It was tight. He nudged them into standing right behind one of the sentries, the only place where they had a hope of slipping into the manor behind someone else. The sentry shifted, coughing, and both he and Harry froze.

"Did you…?" The man asked, tilting his head to look at his partner. "Hear something? Feel something?"

"I hear a lot of things," the woman replied, glancing at him with annoyance. "First and foremost among them, the sound of your mouth-breathing. Keep your eyes up, Robertson."

The sentry looked forward again, and Leo and Harry both breathed a very silent sigh of relief. Standing behind him, neither he nor Harry dared to move—they were still as stone, waiting long minutes for someone, anyone, to either come out or go inside.

As tense and alert as they were, the slam of the door opening was still a shock. They had watched for it to open, but not to be flung open with such violence. Pansy Parkinson strode out, her blonde hair streaming behind her, and Leo was taken aback by the cold sharpness of her blue eyes. Harry had spoken of her often, but Leo had pictured someone very different than the young woman who stood in front of them.

The woman that stood there was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. Her skin had a faint tan to it, though Leo knew that alabaster-pale skin was prized among the nobility, and she had the high cheekbones, delicate nose, and pointed chin of most purebloods. Her face was oval, the locks of hair near her face clipped to frame it. The remainder of her hair was left free, flowing nearly to her waist. Around her neck, she wore an emerald necklace that Leo thought might have fed the orphans of the Lower Alleys for two years, and her light blue robes would have kept a Lower Alleys family fed a winter. From her regal bearing, Leo could tell that she was heavily favoured in this new administration.

There was no smile on her face, none of the kindness or gentleness that Harry had always mentioned.

"Carrow," she snapped. "Where is Lestrange?"

"Which one?" the woman on sentry asked, sounding deferential. Leo poked Harry—Parkinson had left the door wide behind her, but Harry stood frozen in place, staring at the woman in front of them.

Parkinson rolled her eyes, seemingly annoyed. "The wild one with a questionable hold on reality," she clarified. "She was not in the dining room, and I have not seen Voldemort either."

"Ah, Bellatrix." Carrow seemed to think for a moment. "I did not see her come outside, nor did I see her leave the Manor. She is normally with Voldemort, is she not?"

Parkinson's face twisted, and Leo shook his head. He poked at Harry again, motioning for them to go through the open door. The window of opportunity was shrinking, so whatever this was about, they didn't have the time to listen. Harry shook herself, facing forward with a determined expression on her face, and they sidled together through the door.

The corridor was wider than Leo had anticipated. Without the Invisibility Cloak, it would have been a nightmare—it was too open, with little cover, and the floors were bare stone. He would have preferred carpet, which muffled sound, and even with the Cloak, he felt too uncovered. They gravitated towards one side of the hallway, but they had only gone a few steps before someone strode down the hallway straight for them, and they had to scramble out of the way.

The hallway was not quiet. It was not empty. Halfway down the length of the building, Leo realized that it was a matter of status—those that were higher in Voldemort's favour walked down the centre of the corridor, which he learned when Parkinson stormed back into the manor, an expression of deep resentment on her face.

They had a reasonably good map of the first floor. While Harry had been inside Malfoy Manor only a few times, Zabini had visited periodically throughout his childhood and had a good memory. The cellars weren't accessed by the central stairs, which only led upwards. Zabini had only ever taken the central stairs, but he had noted out two possible stairwells which might go into the cellars. Harry thought that both would probably go into the cellars, simply because it was foolish, in such a large manor, for there to only be one set of stairs in and out of the underground levels.

He and Harry made for the closest one, pausing and freezing when people passed them. The door to the stairwell was, thankfully, open when they reached it. With a small breath of relief, Leo saw that there were indeed stairs that led downwards, though the stairs were far narrower than he would have liked. They were built for one person, and while two might squeeze, it would be impossible to slip by anyone on these stairs. Two would mean that both would have to suck in their stomachs, and they would brush against each other nonetheless.

It was these stairs or find the other set to see if they were any wider. "So?"

"Nothing for it," Harry whispered back, her words a breath against his ear. "Let's not waste time."

"No dust," Leo muttered, running his finger along the bannister. "It's been used recently."

"We'll move quick," Harry said, and she tugged him into the stairwell.

They took the stairs as quickly as they could, under the Cloak. The steps twisted as they went down, turning in the circle. Most stairwells had only something like sixteen to twenty-four steps between two floors, or even fewer in older buildings where the stairs tended to be steeper and underground floors had lower ceilings. They had just crossed the twelfth step when Leo heard a sound that he dreaded.

Speech. A woman was angry, muttering something while she stormed up the stairs. He yanked at Harry's arm, pulling her back up the last few steps, but then—

The heavy tread of feet, striding down the stairs.

He looked at Harry, whose eyes flickered between the steps up and down. They'd have to fight, and the question was—forward, or back?

"Bella," the voice from behind them said, high-pitched and cold, and then it paused. Leo swallowed. He knew who it was without need for explanation, his magic crawling over his shoulders in warning. The blood drained from Harry's face, and the steps from behind were coming closer. In front of them, Bellatrix Lestrange was only perhaps six steps away.

Bellatrix Lestrange, or Voldemort himself. Leo turned upwards, thinking of using their only advantage to Stun them both and either move on or get away, but Voldemort was already there, and his wand was raised.

"We have intruders," the man said. He was young, maybe even younger than Leo himself. There was a tilt of his thin lips, and a twist of his wand, and Leo was screaming.

There were no words to describe the pain. His stomach was burning, coiling in on itself, and every nerve ending he had was on fire. His limbs were twisting and cracking, and he had no control of them at all. He fell against Harry, a heavy weight, and there was not a thing he could do about it. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything except scream. There was nothing in his world except blinding, burning, roasting pain. Leo was on fire, being burned alive.

He didn't feel it when Harry blasted a hole in the floor. He only knew that he was falling, they were falling, and a Wailing Charm was ringing in his ears. It hurt, but not as much as that spell had, and he staggered to his feet. Shocks of pain were still rippling down his arms and legs, but he ignored them.

"We need to get out," he rasped, flicking out his wand. They were standing in some sort of cupboard, and the stone hallway in front of them was narrow and lit. People had been down this path, and Voldemort knew where he and Harry had gone, and the alarms were sounding. Already he could hear people running after them, catching up to them. "Now."

"Draco—" Harry looked down the hallway. "We're close."

"No." Leo's word was final, and he pushed her ahead of him. Voldemort might have been momentarily distracted by setting off the alarms and calling for backup, but that wouldn't last. "If that was one round of the Cruciatus and I can barely stand, then Draco would need quite a lot more help than we could give him, if he's even still alive. We can't carry him out. They have had him almost a full day. We need to go."

"But—" Her face was torn as she looked down the hallway towards her friend, as she took in Leo, who was still shaking, and as she glanced up. "We can't go back that way anyway. Come on."

She shoved the Cloak back in her bag and took off at a run down the hallway, blasting holes in most of the doors they passed. She was still looking for Draco, Leo knew—looking for a miracle, looking to make a miracle, as she so often did.

Leo went after her. He was going to die here, he knew it. He would go before her, he decided, and he would go down fighting. He'd get her out on the grounds at least, and maybe Zabini and the shifters would be able to cause enough of a diversion that she could escape. There was always the possibility that she would come back, because Harry was nothing if not devoted to her friends and family, but he could pray that against these odds, even Harry would balk. Even if he had to give his life for hers.

Each of the rooms they passed was dark, without a hint of life in them. One room, he saw, was filled with bottles of wine; another, with preserves. A third had shelves and shelves of potions ingredients, and a fourth was filled with art that the Manor's inhabitants had collected and then, apparently, decided not to display. Leo could hear people in the cellars with them now, shouting and making no effort to be quiet, but there were enough of them that it didn't matter that Leo could hear them. They were simply everywhere, and he and Harry had never had a map for the cellars of Malfoy Manor. Both of the stairwells they knew of would be blocked by now. In desperation, Leo focused to see if he could try to Apparate, but the Anti-Apparation Wards were still in effect. He couldn't break this—he didn't have the power for it. Especially not after the Cruciatus Curse.

A sliver of light, pooling from one of the doors that Harry had broken. She had moved on, not seeing Draco, but Leo grabbed her arm. "A window," he gasped, towing her towards that room, his grip a vice. "We need to go, Harry!"

"Just a few more doors," Harry cried. "They're far enough away—I can check just a few more doors for Draco—"

Leo shut her up by pressing his lips against hers. It was a rough kiss, nothing like the kisses that he had once dreamed of giving her, and it was long before she was ready. But if he would only have one kiss with her ever, it would have to do. "I will die for you," he said, his voice rasping. "I will die for you, most probably here, and the only thing I want right now is for you to get out. Please, Harry."

She looked stunned, then she took one last, lingering look at the hallway, and scrambled into the room where pale moonlight shone.

The room was filled with shelves, the items on them covered by dark cloth. Leo didn't waste time looking at any of them, bent on the bright window on the other side of the room. It was a small window—Harry would fit, though Leo was less sure about himself. That didn't matter, though. A stand here was as good as a stand anywhere else.

He broke the lock on the window with no ceremony and forced it open with an aching arm. A new alarm sounded, no doubt telling everyone in the manor exactly where they were, but he didn't care. He cupped his hands, a silent request for Harry to please, please allow him to hoist her up and out, and she took it. She pulled herself up and out of the window, then she reached a hand back in for him.

Leo shook his head. "I'll hold him here," he said. "Go."

"Absolutely not," Harry snarled back. "I might have lost Draco, but I am not losing you. Take my hand, you oaf—he isn't here yet, and the faster you move, the faster we'll both move."

There was a howl on the grounds. A loud, echoing howl, and Leo knew that it was their diversion. The shifters weren't much for fighting, so they would only buy distraction and time. He looked back up at Harry, whose hand was still outstretched. She was crying, a tear winding its way down her face, but her mouth was stubborn. He hesitated. He should stay—hold Voldemort here, and buy more time for her to run.

"Hurry up," she said. "Hurry up, and live, dammit. With me."

He swallowed. He did want to live. He did want to live with her, and he could always turn around and hold Voldemort off on the grounds if they needed it. He took the proffered hand, and Harry pulled him up.

"They're here! Incendio!" He heard someone screaming, a woman's voice, and his legs were on fire. Literal fire this time, and his grip slipped, but Harry caught him and dragged him out. He put out his legs with an Aguamenti spell, the cold liquid sizzling agony against his skin, and Harry pulled him upright.

The howling was far to the left of them, and now it was interspersed with several loud yips and barks. The grounds were emptier than he remembered, people either having run inside to Voldemort's alarm, or after Zabini's distraction. They couldn't miss this chance, and he shambled forward in a sorry excuse for a run, Harry by his side.

The edge to the grounds was only a few hundred feet away, but they felt like miles.

XXX

AN: meek says I'm evil for leaving you hanging like that, but it's been too long since we've had an ending like this, isn't it? Whee, so much action, and here we go crashing towards the finale! Other things: RBE Round 2 on AO3 was finished, and I have 2 rev arc works included in that collection, which will slowly wind their way over here as part of Flashes once author reveals happen. Thank you for the artists who drew for me! As a further note, it's my birthday coming up in a few weeks, and there's nothing I love more than fanart or recursive rev arc fanworks, and I have a special hankering for Aldon/Chess fluff. Must I write my own fluff for them? Really? Anyway-leave me a comment or review, and chapter 19 will come at you in 2 weeks.