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.

19. Chapter 19

Aldon waited—not in his study, this time, but in the formal dining room. The house-elves had left all three of the chandeliers lit for him, along with a carafe of coffee and a tray of his favourite biscuits and snacks. He didn't know what Harry had planned—neither she nor Leo had given him any details—but he couldn't say he cared. If he got his second-in-command back, he did not really care how they did it.

Francesca had come by sometime in the evening, her worry for him obvious in her face. She had sat with him, and with her and John there, he could hardly do anything except eat dinner and attempt to put a good face on for the two of them. He didn't remember what dinner had been, because it had been completely tasteless, nor did he remember what they had talked about—he only remembered the awkward smile he'd tried to put on, and his failing attempt to be as normal as possible. For all he knew, he'd promised to invest the entirety of the Rosier Investment Trust into the ACD project. He did remember the kiss that Francesca had pressed onto his cheek before she left, presumably to read in bed before turning in, as was her usual habit.

Lina, too, had disappeared—to report the development to the Lord Potter and Sirius, no doubt. In her stead, Ronald Weasley had joined the Stormwing trainees in their patrols of Rosier Place. With Malfoy in his clutches, though, Aldon doubted that Voldemort would be making any strikes anywhere else tonight. Malfoy was too important a treasure, and in his position, Aldon would have spent every resource at his disposal breaking him and obtaining every possible scrap of information that the man had.

He didn't know how much Malfoy would have spilled in the last day. He did not dare hope that it was nothing—Voldemort was not constrained in his ability to torture, and he knew for a fact that the man was a sadist who preferred it, though Veritaserum was more effective. The man was also a Legilimens, and Aldon had never taken the time to challenge Malfoy's mental shields.

Why hadn't he done that? Why didn't Aldon, as a matter of practice, challenge all his informants with Legilimency? Probably because, absent his Truth-Speaking ability, Aldon was a trash Legilimens, and the mind arts were not taught as a matter of course in the former Wizarding Britain. In hindsight, he should have asked John to assault Malfoy's mental shields in preparation for his mission. John had been here for weeks, and it simply hadn't occurred to him. Because he was an idiot, and he'd believed that Malfoy would succeed. He'd honestly, truly believed that Malfoy would succeed.

They hadn't even gotten Ed or Alice out. Aldon had heard nothing from anyone about the fate of the Rookwoods, which meant that, most likely, nothing had changed. He had hoped that perhaps Malfoy had gotten to them before being caught, but that didn't appear to be the case. They were nowhere better than where they had been, and possibly quite a lot worse, depending on how badly Malfoy had been caught. He didn't know.

He couldn't afford to think about Ed or Alice right now. Not yet—not before he even knew whether Harry and Leo succeeded in getting Malfoy out. Malfoy was the security risk, whether he wanted to be one or not. Malfoy was the one with critical information about the resistance, while Ed and Alice knew nothing worth knowing about the resistance at all.

Lina hadn't returned for dinner, nor during the night. She must have found it prudent to wait elsewhere, and perhaps Aldon ought to have done the same. Harry and Leo were most likely to return first to Potter Place, not to Rosier Place, but Aldon couldn't leave his manor to wait elsewhere. Not for so long, and not when he knew that they would come to tell him the result at Rosier Place before long anyway.

The candles above burned bright, and he wanted a drink. He desperately, desperately wanted a drink, but he could not afford to have one. Not having one was harder than he had anticipated, but he didn't know when Harry and Leo would be returning to report. He had to have complete control of his faculties, much as he did not want to have them. One drink wouldn't be so bad, but in his state, he wasn't sure he trusted himself to have only one drink. One drink would inevitably turn into two, into three, and then the whole bottle.

He wished he had had the self-control to say that he had convinced himself that a drink was a bad idea and that he had refrained. In truth, he had known that a drink was a bad idea, but around midnight he had gone to his father's liquor cabinet anyway. Just one, he had managed to convince himself. It would be hours yet before Leo and Harry returned, and if he could only have one drink, better to have it earlier in the night. But the cabinet had been empty—every last bottle had been taken away. He didn't know who had done it, nor where they would have stored it, but at that moment he simply didn't have the wherewithal to search for it. Instead, he had shut the cabinet door, and returned to the formal dining hall for another steaming mug of coffee.

It was well past midnight by now, and a mental review of his manor told him that most people were asleep unless they were needed elsewhere. Alex was walking a patrol with one of his men, taking a round at the guard duty roster that ruled most of their wartime lives, while Francesca was sleeping in his rooms. John had a device in one hand, and he was holding it to one ear, making a report to his superiors. Aldon lingered, listening, but John was only noting that it seemed like an espionage or sabotage mission had gone awry, and he would report further when he obtained more information.

At another time, Aldon would have called John an American spy. But he was hardly a spy—indeed, his status in the war was very clear. He was the American liaison to the resistance, and he was not one of theirs. If one took their mental link and closeness as a factor, so was Francesca. Their loyalties ultimately belonged to MACUSA, but Aldon could not say he cared. MACUSA was tantamount to being an ally, if a quiet one, and greatly favoured the resistance over Voldemort's regime.

It wasn't dawn when he felt the Portkey Hub signal. It was hours yet to dawn when he felt the Portkey Hub signal. Transit from Potter Place—one person only. Aldon swallowed, a hard lump in his throat, and allowed the transit. Only Harry stepped through, and the expression on her face said everything. Her mouth was set in grimness, but there was a haunted, hurt look in her eyes, and no amount of stoicism could hide her pain.

She hadn't succeeded.

Aldon thought about going to meet her, but his legs were numb and tingling. He didn't know if they would support his weight presently, and the formal dining room was the first place she would check for him anyway. Considering it was the only room in the common areas that was lit, there was nowhere else she would go. Needing something to do, he busied himself pouring an extra cup of coffee, steaming hot, and arranging two sugar cubes and a thumb-sized pitcher of milk close to her plate. He drank his coffee black, and he knew Archie preferred cream and too much sugar, but he had no idea about Harry.

He pushed the mug towards her when she walked into the room. She looked down at the mug, a distant look of confusion passing her face, and shook her head. "No, thank you," she said, and she didn't sound like herself. Her voice was soft, but it had a raspy quality to it, and on closer look Aldon could see that the skin below her eyes was pink. She had been crying. "I don't drink coffee."

"Is there anything else you would like?" Aldon asked. They were only delaying the inevitable—the news that she did not want to give, and that he did not want to give. "I can summon a house-elf. Anything you like."

"No." Harry took a deep breath, steeling herself, and looked up at him. "No, I don't need anything. I didn't make it, Aldon. We crossed onto the grounds without detection—Leo was able to get his rune-catch into someone's pocket in Diagon Alley this afternoon, and that part went off without any problems. We managed to sneak across the grounds and into Malfoy Manor, but were caught on the stairs leading into the cellars. We didn't have time to search inside the cellars, and we only just got away."

"And Leo?"

Harry shook her head. "At Queenscove. He—Voldemort hit him with the Cruciatus Curse, he couldn't stop shaking the entire way home. He was also burned on his legs. I could have Healed him at Potter Place, but—"

She paused, and Aldon didn't press her on it. He suspected that she simply wasn't able to concentrate enough to do the proper spells. The Portkey Hub signalled again, this time announcing a transit from Queenscove, one person. Aldon allowed the transit, checking the hallway reflexively—Lina strode out of the Hub.

"Lina has returned," Aldon said. "From Queenscove?"

Harry let out a shaky breath. "She went with Leo to Queenscove. An update."

Aldon nodded, and waited for Lina to come into the formal dining room. He didn't know what else needed to be said—he and Malfoy had failed in their mission, and Harry and Leo had failed in theirs. Did the details of how and why matter?

"Zabini will make it," Lina said with a sigh, dropping into a chair beside Harry and reaching for the untouched mug of coffee. "You're not having this, are you?"

"Zabini?" Aldon frowned, glancing between Lina and Harry. "What happened to Zabini?"

Harry had flinched at the mention of Zabini. "He covered for us while Leo and I escaped. A diversion."

"The shifters brought him in while I was at Queenscove. He took three curses, and individually each of them would probably be an easy Heal, but they're reacting to each other—if it weren't for his soul-bond, he would be dead," Lina added, matter-of-fact. "I suppose we should be glad that whatever the shifters do to acknowledge a soul-bond was done, because Abbott's lifeforce sustained them both long enough for the Queenscoves to stabilize him. I expect he'll be out of commission for the rest of the war. Abbott is out with him, at least until Zabini is conscious and well on the road to recovery. Christian, Abbott's second-in-command, is taking over the Malfoy Manor surveillance team for now."

Aldon nodded, taking note of the information. He didn't know Christian well, but he had met the shifter wolf on a few occasions and had always been impressed with his work. "Then…"

Lina studied him, and her brown eyes were knowing.

Aldon took a deep breath, steadying himself. His legs didn't feel any stronger than they did earlier, but when he stood, they seemed to hold him up fine. "Then I will—I will go and do what I must."

His study was cold in darkness, but he didn't think it appropriate to trigger the usual light-spells or light a candle. While it wouldn't make a difference, he didn't think that the sort of thing he was about to do should be done under clean, bright lights. He was calling for someone's death, and an order to kill one of his own was a very different thing than killing in the heat of battle, or killing someone who was attacking him. A kill order was meant for the darkness.

He took a moment to think about his second-in-command. Over the past few months, Aldon had learned a great many things about Draco Malfoy, more than he was capable of putting into words.

Draco Malfoy was stubborn. He could be absolutely infuriating when he wanted to be. Listening to him spew the lines that Aldon had heard his entire life about blood status, an exception always carved for his best friend Harry because she was different, had been tiresome and exasperating. But his loyalty to his beliefs was in a way a demonstration of one of his greatest qualities: he was intensely loyal, to his friends, to his family, to his father and to the former Lord Riddle, even if they hadn't deserved it.

But Draco Malfoy was also strong—he was strong enough to let go of his beliefs when he couldn't support them anymore, even when letting go of those beliefs benefitted him not at all and most likely hurt him personally. In that, Draco Malfoy was perhaps stronger than most Dark Society purebloods, most of whom still stood with Voldemort rather than ally themselves with the lesser-blooded for the freedom of them all, even if that meant a loss in their own privilege. He might have been stronger than Aldon, because had Aldon been a true pureblood, he thought there was a very good chance that he would have been standing with Voldemort. For his own protection and survival, if not his beliefs.

Aldon owed Draco an easy death. Death was never easy, but a quick death was better than one drawn out by torture. He could do no less than issue this order, because refusing to do so would be a poor way to repay Draco's service.

It was with that thought that Aldon drew his wand. "Expecto Patronum," he demanded—but there was no happy memory in this spell. There was only need, and he needed messengers. "Expecto Patronum, Expecto Patronum, Expecto Patronum."

He had four spies within Malfoy Manor presently—one lowly ranked, one trusted, and two in the upper ranks. This message would go to all of them because it needed to be done, by whoever could do it. Aldon did not much care who did.

"Messages, private," he started, his voice dry and devoid of all emotion as he stared at his ghostly, grey messengers. The merlins cocked their heads at him, waiting. "To Vulture, Swallow, Peregrine, and Osprey. Draco Malfoy must die. Kill him. End message, no reply."

The Patronuses didn't respond. They only turned on their tails and, one by one, soared northwest to Malfoy Manor.

Aldon stood in front of his window for several long minutes, staring after them.

XXX

Draco hurt. Every part of him hurt, from his broken arms to his broken legs and his broken—he didn't even know how much else was broken. He didn't want to think on it.

Caelum Lestrange, Draco's own cousin, was a terrifying individual. Harry had spoken of him many times, and she had often said that he was not as bad as he seemed, but from his perspective, Draco couldn't see it. Lestrange was a master of torture, a fact that started from the minute Lestrange had walked in and laid down two very Muggle implements.

A hammer. And a small knife. A knife that, if Draco were honest with himself, looked very much like some of the knives that Harry carried. A knife that was used primarily for harvesting Potions ingredients, unless Draco was very much mistaken.

"So," Caelum Lestrange had said, his voice low and entirely too composed. He reeked of hate, dark hatred filling the small room in the cellars where Draco had been stripped to his waist and tied to a chair, wandless. "You can tell me everything you know about the resistance, or I can make you tell me. Your choice."

Caelum Lestrange was a spy. Draco knew that, but looking into his cousin's ice-blue eyes, he could and did believe otherwise. And with Voldemort watching, only a few feet away from them, he could afford to do nothing less. Spy or not, Caelum Lestrange could show him no mercy whatsoever. It was only a bare, brief moment of understanding, and then it was gone.

"Go to hell," Draco had spat in his cousin's face, and that was his last of his bravado.

Within hours, he had screamed out the truth. He had also screamed out lies—lies upon lies upon even more lies. He had lied so much and been in so much pain that he didn't think he knew what the truth was anymore, and he could only hope that his memories said the same thing. Voldemort was a Legilimens, of that he was fairly certain still, so he had screamed out literally everything that had come to mind, no matter how brave, how true, how false, how embarrassing. He did not know how much pain it was possible to feel before Caelum Lestrange had gotten started.

He had blacked out at some point—somewhere in between begging for his death, losing control of his bowels, or screaming his defiance, he didn't know. Those early hours were now a blessed, blessed blur. A few hours of sleep, that was all he had been able to get, before it was broken by a person even worse than Caelum Lestrange: Bellatrix Lestrange.

If the younger Lestrange was bad, he was nothing compared to his mother. Bellatrix Lestrange had no finesse, that was true, but she was a master of the Cruciatus Curse, a tool that the younger Lestrange had not resorted to even once. Where Caelum had been brutal efficiency and hatred, Bellatrix felt only pleasure when she tortured. She enjoyed it, enjoyed his screaming, enjoyed the sense of power, and the entire time a mad light had danced in her eyes.

Each round of the Cruciatus Curse had been worse than the last, from the fires that had burned through his body, to the mystery water-sense that had drowned him. He had been fire, and he had been ice, and his body had been driven against sharp rocks that felt like they were flaying his flesh from his bone. Unlike with the younger Lestrange, there had been no reprieve into unconsciousness—the Cruciatus Curse prevented it. Draco had simply hurt, and he had hurt and hurt until Bellatrix had spat on him, called him weak, and left.

Even now, he shook. He trembled like a leaf in the wind, and he didn't think he would stop shaking. Every racking shiver only caused more pain, jarring as it was on his many injuries. It was out of his control, just like his stink. He had lost control of his bowels more than once, and he was disgusting, but there wasn't anything he could do about it and he was too injured to care. He had reached out to his manor, more than once, but he hadn't managed to claim the manor—it could do nothing, not against something so physical.

The door creaked open, and Draco tried to lift his head, to see who was there next. Would it be Caelum? Or Bellatrix? Or Voldemort himself, ready to slam himself into Draco's mind, which he could only hope had been addled by a day of torture?

Draco's life might be over, but still he wanted the resistance to succeed. He might never see the world that Rosier wanted to create, the world that he still didn't know if he wanted, but he knew well that he didn't want the world that Voldemort ruled.

Blonde hair, waist-length. A beautiful, pale green nightdress, one that Draco was sure he should not be seeing, even if the woman standing before him was his own fiancée. Or she had been once. He didn't know where they stood on that point anymore. Her blue eyes were wide, but her mouth was small in sorrow.

"Pans," Draco choked out, and he tried to smile for her. It hurt, his mouth twisting oddly, and he realized he was missing teeth. He didn't remember losing them. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this."

She stood there, shivering, and she stared at him. There was no shock on her face, and maybe that was the worst part of all—Pansy could stand before him when he was like this, and she wasn't shocked. She wasn't horrified. She was only there, her face crumpled in distress, her lower lip trembling as she rubbed her upper arms to ward off the chill.

"Why, why did you come back?" she asked, her voice a soft, plaintive cry. "I got you out—you, and Mum, and Narcissa. Why didn't you leave? Why didn't you flee to Switzerland with Narcissa? Why did you stay, and why did you come back here?"

"You were here, Pans," Draco said, and he coughed, a wracking cough that ached through his ribs. Maybe one of his ribs was broken. "I couldn't leave you here."

Pansy sighed, bringing her hand up to push her hair out of her face. "Didn't you hear the news? The information passed all over Britain for the past year? I've joined Voldemort's side—I'm his whore, and as his whore I rank in his inner circle. I've killed, Drake; I killed your father, and I've killed again in battle and in Wales. I've hurt people you and Harry care about, including Sirius. Including Blaise. Why—how could you have come back?"

"Because I didn't believe it of you," Draco replied steadily, looking her in the face as best as he was able. Pansy was elegant and beautiful, and he knew what everyone said about her, but he also knew there was more to it. The mere fact that she was here, staring him in the face, told him that he was right. "Because I knew that whatever you had said or done, you did it for your own protection, and for no other reason."

One side of her mouth turned up. "As faithful as ever, Drake," she murmured. "Whatever I did was for my protection, yes—but it was also for the resistance. I wish you had listened to the Daily Prophet or Bridge about me, and that you'd hated me for killing your father and becoming Voldemort's whore. Because, then, you wouldn't be here."

"You're a spy," Draco said, the pieces of the puzzle clicking too late in his head. "Rosier's highest-ranking spy. You're the Swallow."

There was a distant flash of anger that Rosier hadn't told him. But, Draco realized, it wouldn't have made a whit of difference. Had Rosier told him, Draco would have been furious, blaming Rosier for having put Pansy in such a dangerous position, and doubly hellbent on getting Pansy out of Malfoy Manor. Malfoy Manor wasn't safe, and it was least of all so for a spy—were they caught, then much like Draco, they could only look forward to weeks of torture before their inevitable deaths. Had he known that Pansy was a spy, he would have gone in all the same, for the Rookwoods, to claim the manor, and to rescue Pansy.

"I am," Pansy said, and she drew her wand and a sheet of parchment with trembling hands. "And if you know of any other spies, don't tell me. Voldemort is in my mind too often, and it's too much of a risk if I'm caught. I can't—Drake, I can't get you out of here. You're too deep in the cellars, and there are too many guards. I can't get you out."

Draco shut his eyes. "I know."

"Aldon only ever makes one promise." Pansy's voice broke, and he watched as a tear wound its way down her cheek. "A quick death. He made that promise to you, and me, to everyone in his service, didn't he? If we're caught, he can't save us. The only thing he can do for us is grant us a quick death."

"He did." Draco coughed, and a wad of blood and spit came out. Not very attractive. "I understand, Pans."

"He tried, though." Pansy paused. "If—if that helps. For you, Aldon tried. Harry and her friend came a few hours ago. They were almost caught, as was Blaise, but they got away."

Draco nodded, his head spinning. Strangely, it was nice to know that Rosier hadn't written him off so quickly, that he and Harry had tried to mount a rescue for him. He couldn't blame them for failing—if he, the Heir Malfoy, couldn't slip into his own manor for an extraction mission, then it was likely impossible. "That's good to know. Pans—tell them—"

He paused. Standing on the threshold of death, what did he want to say? What could he say? He was in too much pain to think very clearly, and he knew his life was counted in seconds now. He had known his death was coming for a day, and in the end, all he had to say was simple.

"Tell my mother I loved her. And Harry. And Blaise and Millie and Theo. Don't tell that to bloody fucking Rosier, because I didn't love him, but tell him that I respected him. And Pans, you—I love you. I love you, Pans."

"I know." Pansy took a deep, wracking breath. Tears were coming down her face, but she didn't wipe them away. "I love you too, Drake—not the way you wanted, maybe, but I love you too. I do love you."

Draco nodded, shutting his eyes again. "Do it, Pans."

A crinkle of paper, a whispered incantation. The sound of rushing, impending death.

And the bliss of nothing.

XXX

Aldon had not been himself, these past few days. He told Francesca very little, as he had always done, but she knew enough to know that something was very, very wrong. She hadn't seen Draco, Aldon's second-in-command, around recently either, and she knew that he and Aldon had been working on a top-secret mission for some time. Something to rescue the Rookwoods, she thought, but it wasn't really her role to say anything one way or another. She had simply made a note of the information and had focused on her own work.

But Aldon had barely slept the past two nights. He had moved like a zombie throughout his day, his mind elsewhere, and the show that he had put on at dinner for her and John had been pitiful. He seemed to have forgotten how to use his knife and fork, he kept pushing food around on his plate, and she didn't think he was processing anything that they had said. Indeed, she and John had spent no less than fifteen minutes talking about their immediately invented plans to move back to the United States, debating lightly on whether California or New York City was a better place to live, and all Aldon had said was that both sounded wonderful, he'd be happy with either, and yes, a foursome with Gerry also sounded quite excellent.

Mind-to-mind, she had asked John to break into Aldon's mind, but John had examined Aldon for a moment before refusing. Aldon was distracted and worried, but that was no reason for John to break his mental privacy—if Francesca wanted to know what was wrong, she would have to ask him directly. But Aldon would never tell her. There were things that Aldon didn't think were appropriate for her to hear, and whether it was because he was worried about how they reflected on him, or whether they were disturbing, violent, or something else, she didn't know.

She wondered how he could think that anything was inappropriate for her to hear after the second Rosier Place strike. Francesca had been there too—she had been the one to pull the trigger on a fireball that had claimed some half-dozen or more lives. She had killed too, and she had seen the aftermath of that attack. She might have cried over it, but she had done it, and she would do it again to protect Rosier Place. He could tell her more, if he so chose, but he didn't.

John might not have broken into Aldon's mind for her, but he was still with her and Alex when they ransacked Aldon's liquor stash earlier that night. Aldon had had that look on his face throughout most of the day, the one that Francesca recognized from the end of the Welsh mission, when he had gotten a bottle of brandy and polished off most of it before Francesca had taken it away and sent him to bed.

The cabinet had been kept in rooms that she had never seen, rooms that didn't look as though they belonged to Aldon at all. His father, she had realized when she went through the room, who apparently had a love for fine liquor, mystery novels, and Christina Blake. She left most of it alone, only taking the alcohol. Not knowing what else to do with it, she had decided to hide it in John's rooms for the night, though Alex had made a pitch for giving it to the soldiers as a token of appreciation. Francesca didn't feel like she had the authority to give Aldon's liquor away though, so into John's rooms they had gone.

She lay in bed for far too long, rolling over and over in search for a comfortable position. Nothing felt comfortable; she might have been snuggled in Aldon's silk sheets and heavy, woven duvet, but the bed felt empty and cold with only her worry for company.

She had to have fallen asleep at some hour though, because she woke when he came in—it was still dark, but her limbs felt heavy, and she had the well-rested feeling that she had when she had slept deeply and well. Aldon was a shadow in the doorway, moving slowly. Even if she couldn't see his face, she knew that if she could see it, it would be frozen in a rictus of unfeeling, which was what he wore when he was feeling too much.

One look at the window showed that it wasn't yet dawn. The sky was grey, so they were close to dawn, but the sun had not yet broken the horizon. But Aldon hadn't slept at all, and the stiff, robotic way that he moved worried her. He sat down heavily on the bed, letting out a long and heavy sigh, and Francesca couldn't help it.

She sat up and reached out one hand to him, resting it on his arm. "Aldon?" she asked, and her voice was soft, thick with sleep. "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he looked at her, and Francesca knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was not okay. His golden eyes were dark in pain, and she fell silent. She didn't know how to ask these kinds of questions, not in the face of that much pain, not when Aldon had always been reluctant to tell her about the darker parts of his work.

But she didn't need to talk. Aldon leaned down, pressing a gentle but insistent kiss on her lips, and in that instant, she knew that Aldon needed her. He didn't want to talk, but he wanted the comfort of forgetting whatever it was that he had done, if only for a little while. She responded, letting out a small moan of satisfaction, the exact noise that she had learned from the past few months that he loved to hear from her, and she let him push her back down into his bed.

His waistcoat came off first, the buttons slippery under her fingers. It was quickly followed by his tie, his shirt, and his trousers. Her nightgown, a soft cotton pink, came off next, and he settled his weight on top of her with the ease of practice. His lips pressed on hers, his hands moving to feel her breasts, and his thumbs brushed against her nipples. She let out another soft cry, another noise that she knew that he liked to hear, and shifted her knees to hug his hips and give him access to all of her.

It would surprise many people, she thought, to know that Aldon was for the most part a gentle and careful lover. Most of their lovemaking had been dominated by Aldon's soft questions—his confirmations that she was happy, that she was enjoying herself, that she wanted to continue, and that he wasn't hurting her. Sex had often been about pleasing her, though Francesca's greatest enjoyment in sex that she had found so far was in pleasing him. She liked to wear the clothes that he liked the see, she liked making the noises that he liked to hear, and she liked it when he rolled her over in bed and made it clear what he wanted from her and how he wanted it. She liked it when he made the decisions about their lovemaking, though Aldon's primary concern had always been her pleasure.

This was different. Aldon was silent; there were none of his usual questions. He took her roughly, in one solid thrust, and he only pressed an apologetic kiss on the side of her neck when she gasped in surprise. He needed her, and Francesca wanted to give. She clung to him, moving with him as he set the pace and moved with a desperate ferocity.

It wasn't long—most of sex, as Francesca had learned through experimentation in the past few months, was foreplay anyway, which Aldon normally took his time in doing but hadn't this time. Even without foreplay though, Francesca found herself responding. Aldon did know what he was doing, at least with her, and it was only a few minutes before she was whimpering his name under him, and he was shuddering over her.

He panted for a moment, before pulling out and kissing her softly on her lips. Grabbing his wand, he cleaned them both up quickly with a wordless charm before sliding into bed beside her and arranging her so that her back was against his chest. His arm was tight around her middle, and his head was buried in the crook of her neck.

It took a moment for Francesca to realize that she wasn't imagining the quiet sniffles that were coming from him, nor the wetness on her back. Aldon was crying, but he didn't want to talk about it.

XXX

"…as such, Draco Malfoy died in the line of duty. I would very much appreciate if a proper obituary could be prepared for him, with all the associated accolades and honours," Aldon finished, setting his completed report down on the table and sliding it across to James, who was seated closest to him. "I would also much appreciate the assistance of Harry and Sirius in preparing correspondence to Lady Malfoy in Switzerland. As his direct superior, I of course bear the responsibility of informing her, and I would prefer to be able to do so long before the news is blasted through the Daily Prophet."

He was perfectly dry-eyed and collected as he reported to the group, Lina noted. Whatever might be said, her foster son was good at compartmentalizing his emotions. The only signs of the past couple of days were the dark circles under his eyes, and the slow, too deliberate way that he moved.

The circle around the table listened, with expressions ranging from stern thoughtfulness to open worry. With Alastor gone, Lina had pulled his protégé, Benjamin "Faith" Levstein from Queenscove, but he was much quieter and more considerate than Alastor had been. Across the table from her and Ben were James, Sirius, and Archie, while Aldon sat alone at the end of the table, giving his report. Lina already knew the content of it, but the other four men around the table craned their necks to read Aldon's flowing script.

Lina had never thought she would say it, but she missed Alastor's acerbic personality. Alastor Moody had been a heavy counterweight to her. Whereas Lina knew war, knew how to plan attacks and warfare, Alastor truly had lived according to his chosen attributes: righteousness, charity and sacrifice. After a Service Year in the Korean War, he had sworn himself to a future of ideals, and he had never acted as mercenary since. By contrast, Lina had chosen attributes in memory, to remind herself of what she had done and to warn her against her most impulsive instincts. Alastor had been a very different kind of Stormwing than Lina, and indeed to most Stormwings.

There would never be anyone like him. Alastor could always be counted on to review Lina's plans with a critical eye and tell her exactly and in plain language where she had gone wrong, and she felt the loss without him there. Ben was good, but he wasn't Alastor's equal, either in personality or in experience. Without Alastor, Lina had to check her plans over thrice as often, trying to think of her plans as he would have done. Patience, he would have said. Too dangerous, he would have said. Constant vigilance, he would have yelled.

She couldn't help but smile slightly at the last.

"I don't know about Harry," Archie said finally, the scrape of his chair breaking her reverie as he pulled away from the report and threw Aldon a concerned look. "She's not really in a condition to help, I don't think. Draco was her best friend, and she feels like it's her failure that they couldn't rescue him. She's been crying half the night, and then she went to Queenscove first thing this morning to see Leo. I'll speak with her though—she might have a few words she wants worked in anyway."

"Do we have a direct connection to Switzerland?" Sirius asked, looking around the table. "A conversation may be better. I know we had a communication orb through Francesca and John, but with John in Britain…"

"We don't have a communication orb connection, no," Aldon confirmed. "I understand from John and Francesca that a message could be passed through Muggle telephone, but in my view this would be less sympathetic. We owe Lady Malfoy the news and our condolences directly, not through American or Canadian intermediaries. We should have a few days. Voldemort will be incensed that someone managed to execute Draco within Malfoy Manor, and he will first be preoccupied with flushing out the culprit. I can also have my informants within the Daily Prophet delay the publications."

Sirius nodded, looking away. "He was so young," he commented, his tone only resigned. "Not even seventeen, if I remember rightly."

"Too young to die in a war. They're all too young to even be fighting in a war." James sighed, then he leaned forward to look at Aldon with a stern expression in his blue eyes. "What I don't understand is how this could have happened. This mission was an incredible risk—not just for Malfoy, but for the entire alliance. Malfoy was your second-in-command. You had to know the risk of sending him in, and yet you didn't consult with anyone in the military branch?"

"That is correct," Aldon said, straightening his spine and looking James in the eye. "I did know the risk, and we did not consult with the military branch. The strike was primarily an extraction mission, which has often historically fallen within my area, and we had done other extraction missions without consulting the military branch. However, given the target location, I ought to have consulted with you. For personal reasons, I did not want to. I did not want anyone to stop us. I erred in my judgement. Should you wish to court-martial me for the offence, I will not defend myself. It was my error that resulted in Draco's death."

Lina suppressed a sigh and exchanged a warning look with James and Sirius, who seemed taken aback by Aldon's reaction. For someone who knew Aldon less well, his blunt acceptance of responsibility must have seemed odd. She, however, knew better. Aldon was looking for punishment, but any punishment would be an implicit acknowledgement that Aldon was supposed to be supervised by someone else and would detract from his own responsibility. Raking him over the coals would only make him feel better. The decisions that Aldon made had consequences, just as their decisions did, and she would rather he sit and stew over them on his own.

"This is poor judgement and a poor decision, not a court-martial offence," she said calmly, staring at him with a pointed reminder. Aldon was her foster son, and he would see her meaning. She was not about to tell James and Sirius that he had approached her, and that she had advised him against the action before it started, and they would keep that information between themselves. "You are our spymaster. Many, if not most, extraction, infiltration, and sabotage missions fall squarely within your responsibility, and there was no requirement that you consult with us. However, as a commander in your own right, you carry your mistakes as we do ours. Counted in lives they might be, but they are ours to carry."

Another Stormwing had once said the something very similar to her in her Service Year. Much as she had had done at that time, Aldon winced and said nothing. How a child that wasn't even hers had come to be so much like her, Lina had no idea.

"Personal reasons," James said, breaking the awkward silence and bringing the conversation back to where it had been. He was frowning, and his blue eyes were disapproving. "What personal reasons could you have had that caused you to take these kinds of risks? I think I speak for all of us in saying that this was out of character for you."

Aldon cleared his throat, looking away. "A part of Malfoy's mission was to extract the Rookwoods. The Rookwoods…" Aldon paused, and looked back at the table of military commanders and advisors. "The Rookwoods are my closest childhood friends. Edmund Rookwood was—is—my best friend. Not unlike Sirius is to you, I am given to understand. Edmund was trapped in Voldemort's camp at the time of the coup and has been serving as… well, as a double agent since the Welsh genocide."

"Edmund and Alesana Rookwood were recently convicted of high treason for failing to provide relevant information on the defences of Rosier Place for Voldemort's last strike." Sirius caught on quickly, though his eyebrow was raised in thought. "They're being sentenced later this week. The Daily Prophet has predicted execution orders, with no small amount of relish, and I don't think anyone really expects a different result."

"That is correct." Aldon nodded. "I had hoped to save him. Draco had hoped to save his fiancée, and to claim the manor. I was—blinded by my desire to save Ed, and I took unacceptable risks."

"Would you mind reserving your self-flagellation for another time?" Lina asked, keeping her tone purposely bored—if Aldon kept at this, the other commanders would have concerns about his competence and would suggest that he be relieved of responsibility, if only for a short time. If Lina cared less for him, she would have let them, but relieving Aldon of command would leave him spiralling and the resistance without the strong spymaster critical for success. Aldon would have to get used to carrying the weight of Malfoy's death eventually, and there was no time like the present. "It's rather unseemly and tiresome to hear you do it publicly. Draco Malfoy is dead. What is done is done, and there is nothing that any of us can do to alter the past. The better question is, where do we move forward from here? What did Voldemort find out from Malfoy? What did Malfoy know?"

Aldon nodded slowly, drawing in a deep breath. He had prepared for this question, Lina knew—it was his responsibility, and he had been up early this morning preparing his report and analysis.

"This is in the report on page four," Aldon started, "but Malfoy knew rather a lot. His knowledge primarily related to the identity of various of my informants, stretching as deep as Voldemort's inner circle, but he also knew many of our supply chains and contacts in Diagon Alley and the Guilds. He had also memorized about a third of our runic short-codes, for his most well-frequented safehouses, including Potter Place, Rosier Place, and the Warren. Malfoy was not privy to the plans for the Malfoy Manor strike, since they were never pertinent to his work, so our future plans should be safe. "

"And have you any idea how much of this information Voldemort could have obtained?" Ben asked, the first time he had spoken in the meeting. His voice was quiet, filled with understanding. "I appreciate that this is difficult for you, but you had to have gotten some idea from your informants who told you that he had been captured, or from the rescue attempt. Or even from the result of your execution order."

"I cannot confirm anything," Aldon said, and his voice cracked slightly, leaving off the dry and emotionless tone that he had used throughout his report. "But one of my informants did advise that he had managed to downplay and intercept anything Draco might have revealed prior to my message received yesterday around ten in the morning. I know of nothing since that time. I only received a confirmation that my execution order was carried out this morning, without details."

"So, informant identities, supply contacts and Portkey Hub codes." James sighed heavily, taking his glasses off and bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "This is not ideal, especially at this stage of the war."

Not ideal was an understatement. Lina snorted in appreciation.

"The informants are my responsibility," Aldon said, and his voice was almost sharp. "I will handle the possible risk to my informants."

"The Portkey Hub short-codes can also be handled pretty easily," Archie said, already making a note of it. "We can't change them, can we? But we always know where they're coming from, so we can just send a bulletin to all safehouses, and phrase it as a reminder not to allow any transits unless it's from a fellow safehouse or a known transit. With Terminal M being held by the ICW peacekeepers, Voldemort doesn't have access to any Hubs, so the runic short-codes barely matter."

"The supply chain contacts though…" Sirius sighed. "That's a problem. We rely on our Guild and Diagon Alley contacts—Harry and Leo don't steal all our supplies. They also buy and trade for a lot of them and they have a good relationship in those communities. Guilds and shopkeepers would rather have us buy their goods than give it up to a requisition order from Voldemort. If they've been given up, they're in a much more dangerous position, and we need to think about what we say to them. We can't tell them nothing."

"I don't know if it's a good idea to give them any details," Archie said, thinking it over with a worried look. "First, I don't think they care about the details—second, we're already going to look careless, having let the information out, aren't we? These people trusted us, so what can we do to protect them?"

"Not that careless," Ben spoke up, with a shake of his head. "Things happen in wartime. The mere fact that they were trading to us under the table doesn't necessarily mean that we were careless. I am sure that Voldemort has his spies and informants too, and the Guilds and shopkeepers themselves can also be careless. If need be, we could always bring them into the safehouses—Queenscove for one has space—but doing so would likely cut off our own supply chains."

"I do not think we can hide what happened." Aldon shut his eyes for a brief moment as he thought. "Draco Malfoy's death will be sent through the Daily Prophet—not today, not tomorrow, but I give it a week. We can keep it simple. Voldemort captured a resistance spy, who knew their identities. We do not think he revealed their identities, but we recommend they redouble their defences. That's all."

"And we should accelerate the plans for the Malfoy Manor." James looked around the table. "If we can do it safely, we should. The potential loss of our supply chains is serious, but it's more a long-term harm than it is a short-term harm. Sirius, what are our stocks like right now?"

"We've made huge gains since the Ministry and Southwold attacks," Sirius replied, picking up the thread easily. "We have nearly all of the incendiaries that we think we'd need, and Francesca and her unit received the final shipment of materiel they need for ACDs. They've interviewed and tested everyone in the army who has indicated that they might want an ACD, and she has estimated two weeks for production. Ideally, we would be able to give everyone at least a week to train on it, if not more. But what about Voldemort's other manors? We can't forget about those—I would hate for Voldemort to run from Malfoy Manor only to set himself up worse than ever in, say, the Lestrange ancestral estates."

"He'll always be able to escape and set himself up somewhere else." Lina scowled. "Overseas, at absolute worst. I can see an argument for destroying or cutting off the most valuable of his possible bolt holes, the manors that are defensible that are not presently in use, but even that would be a stretch. Unless he flees to them, they're positions of no value, and they aren't worth the resources."

"Voldemort remains weak right now," Ben noted quietly. "He hasn't recovered from the Rosier Place, Ministry of Magic, or Southwold strikes. Even if he does flee, he will be in an even weaker position at whatever new manor home he takes. If we follow through quickly, it may simply end as a clean-up operation. We should strike him sooner rather than later, before he can widen his conscription pool or better train his new recruits."

"We do have a little bit of time," Aldon said, tilting his head slightly. "As I said previously, he is distracted. The loss of Draco, right under his nose, demonstrates that he doesn't have full power even where he is strongest. He will be focused on internal matters for some time, at least two weeks, and we can slow his preparations through sabotage as well. Also, if I can use half the incendiaries that Sirius is compiling, I may be able to do something about the likeliest of Voldemort's bolt holes."

"Half the incendiaries?" Sirius shot him a look. "That would take us at least four weeks to rebuild, if not more."

"You need at least three for the ACDs and the training anyway," Aldon noted calmly. "An extra week of breathing room is advisable in case the ACDs are delayed, and if not, there is an extra week for training. Lestrange Manor is the likeliest manor for Voldemort to flee too should Malfoy Manor be lost. Indeed, we should be glad that he has enough pride that he could not bring himself to abandon Malfoy Manor; as I understand it, all the Lestranges are on his side, from the Lord, the Lady, and through the Heir. He would be in a stronger position at Lestrange Manor than he is at Malfoy Manor, but I can bring it down."

James studied him, his eyebrows fixed in a frown. "Another dangerous and risky mission?"

"Not so dangerous as my last. I simply need the incendiaries because, if I recall rightly, Lestrange Manor is large and made of stone. I do not—" Aldon paused, picking his words. "My informant who will handle this is well aware of the target and its defences, and he has ready access to the manor. He will be at little risk, and even if he were captured, there is little that he can tell that Voldemort does not already know. He has been embedded deeply in Voldemort's organization since the beginning of the war."

There was a moment of silence, as Lina thought it over. "Sirius, I suggest giving the incendiaries to Aldon, then we can aim for a strike in four to six weeks. Full-scale, with the intent of capturing Malfoy Manor and killing Voldemort. No fixed date to be scheduled, but the troops should be ready to move out on under twelve hours of notice, four weeks from now. We can work out the details closer to the strike date—we need the most up to date maps that we can get from the shifters, as well as a plan to handle the wards and then the ground defences before we get to Voldemort and his army themselves. Is that agreeable?"

There was a moment of silence, in which they all looked at each other, and then James nodded, a grim look passing over his face. "I think that means we all agree. We can all hope that it's the last strike we will need to plan."

XXX

Pansy was numb. She had been numb since the morning she had killed Draco. He had looked—well, he looked bad enough that she had had no difficult convincing herself that killing him had been the right thing to do. She couldn't get him out. She simply couldn't, not past the dozens of guards that blocked the way. It had been hard enough slipping down into the cellars to see him, and had she been anyone other than Pandora Parkinson, she thought someone would have stopped her.

No one did. She was Pandora Parkinson, back in Voldemort's favour, and no one dared.

She remembered Aldon's Patronus coming for her. She had been in her rooms, which had once been the Lady Malfoy's, and she had for once been alone. Pandora had been upset, and even more so because there was a rumour that Bellatrix was putting together the ingredients for a Love Potion, but the younger Lestrange had simply laughed at her when she asked him. His mother, he had informed her in a voice of deepest loathing, could not brew her way through a remedial first-year Potions course, and certainly could not brew anything as complex as a Love Potion. Pandora had believed him, but when Voldemort had not visited her that night, had instead gone to bed in high dudgeon, making plans to root out the truth the next day. Pandora's source of power of Voldemort, and she did not forget it, as much as the knowledge chafed. Pansy, however, had been all too happy to be alone.

She had known that Draco had been captured. She had known for a full day, not that there was anything she could do about it, so when Aldon's Patronus had swept into her room only an hour before dawn, she was not surprised. She had slept little, and she had slept lightly—with Draco in the manor, she hadn't been able to do anything else.

Aldon's merlin had glowed grey, not the bright white-blue of other Patronuses. She remembered sitting up and looking at it, and its silver beak popped open.

"Draco Malfoy must die," Aldon said, and his voice was not the one that Pansy remembered. Aldon had always had a laugh in his voice, whatever he said, but these words were dead and harsh. "Kill him."

The merlin dissipated after that, and Pansy had taken a deep, shaky breath and stood up. She did not know any other spies, though she knew that Aldon had to have had others and that likely they had all gotten this message. But if Draco was going to die, then she wanted—no, she needed—to see him. If he had to die, she had to be the one to see him off, because—well, she didn't want it to be a stranger. Draco deserved someone better than a stranger to send him off to the next world, if there was a next world.

She wished there was a next world. It was not something she had ever wished before, but the knowledge that she now lived in a world without Draco Malfoy… it was a heavier weight than she realized. There would be no after-the-war for them. There would be no grand reunion or reconciliation with Harry. There were only the few moments that she had stolen in the cellars with him before she had killed him.

The sheet of parchment that had held the runic screen she needed to cast Dark magic had been heavy in her hand. Aldon had sent it to her months ago, in the event that she needed to cast a Dark spell, but she normally kept it hidden under her mattress—she ought to have memorized and burned it months ago, but it had been a more complicated spell than she had thought it would be, so she had hidden it instead. It had been a precaution only, and Pansy had deemed it appropriate that she be a known Light witch within Voldemort's circle. Being a Light witch had kept her out of most of the torture games that others played, and now…

Now, she had a very good alibi for why she had not killed Draco Malfoy, one that Pandora grasped without Pansy having to feed anything at all to her alter-ego on the subject.

"I?" Pandora had said on the morning that the death was discovered, when pressed. A golden blonde eyebrow had arched, as she stared into Voldemort's eyes, while Pansy had lain hidden and listless in the corner of her mind she reserved for herself when her alter-ego took control. "Sir, there is a body. I am a Light witch—I kill with the Unmaking Spell, not with the Killing Curse."

"That is true," Voldemort had replied, returning the gaze and riffling through Pandora's neatly ordered mind. "But there are spells that would alter your magical form."

"I'm afraid I do not know them, sir." Pandora had said, and that was true. Pansy did not know them either. The parchment was hidden back under her mattress, and she couldn't remember the runes even if she tried. "I did not, as you know, complete my schooling."

"Ah." Voldemort had nodded, and his focus thereafter had gone on anyone and everyone else in his organization.

The days that followed were a blur. Pansy had let Pandora do as she would—Pandora, of course, had no idea that she had been in the cellars that night at all, and none of the sentries had raised the fact that they had seen Pansy awake and moving the morning of the death. Instead, after interrogating every sentry on watch, as well as most of the residents of Malfoy Manor, he had ordered every sentry on watch to be publicly flogged.

It had been a disgusting sight—even Pandora had thought so. Completely useless, a sight of terror that did more harm than good when it came to ruling. But Pandora had said nothing, discontent brewing under her skin, figuring that she would pick her battles. Ten Whip Curses were not so bad, and it was not enough for Pandora to jeopardize her little sway with Voldemort.

Pansy could not say she cared. Killing Draco might have been necessary, and she even believed that it had been the best she could do in a bad situation—but it still ached, and she found it very hard to care about anything.

Letting Pandora take control was easy. She woke as Pandora. She picked her food and ate as Pandora. She went through each day as Pandora, Pandora's seething anger a far better feeling than the emptiness with which she was otherwise filled. Pandora made the decisions, Pandora lived and breathed and acted while Pansy lay numb in the corner of her mind that she had carved out for herself and watched. Pandora flirted with Voldemort and warred with Bellatrix over his affections, and Pandora went to bed with Voldemort. She slept as Pandora, and while she didn't dream as either herself or as Pandora, she knew that she was more Pandora than herself now. That was something she needed to fight, but it was so hard to gather the mental energy to plan, to plot, to influence. It was easier just to watch.

Ten days later, she was watching when Voldemort tried the Rookwoods again. He had tried them before, shortly after the second Rosier Place attack, but this time was different.

They had been with Draco at the time he was captured. At the first trial, Edmund had pled ignorance, and no one seriously believed that Alesana had known anything at all. If there had been anything resembling actual justice, they would never have been convicted—unfortunately, anything like actual justice had long before gone out the window. Even before Voldemort's coup, the courts had been rigged to give the result the Ministry wanted. Indeed, it could have been argued that Voldemort had made things more fair, and not less: without the nobility, the Rookwoods had been unable to invoke the privileges they would have been able to use previously to secure an acquittal based on their noble allies, and not on merit.

This time, the Rookwoods had been with a resistance spy at the time of their capture. There was very little that they could argue in response.

The Court of Justice, pinning down one end of Diagon Alley, looked no different than it did when Lord Riddle and the Wizengamot ruled Wizarding Britain. Other than the Rookwoods' very prominent trial a few weeks ago, Voldemort had shown no interest in the place. It was still decorated with statues and images of Justice, who looked far less imposing in portrait and stone than she had in person. The statues and portraits could not capture the sheer power that the Incarnation had worn, the waves of which had spread and held everyone transfixed in the courtroom.

Even Voldemort did not have that power. Indeed, the first time that he had come to court, he had, under the pretense of examining the room, attempted to climb onto the topmost dais. He hadn't been able to cross the uppermost threshold, and while he had played it off well, neither Pansy nor Pandora were fooled. He had been upset at his inability to sit on the topmost dais, lording over the proceedings as the physical embodiment of Justice.

Edmund and Alice looked pitiful, sitting at the defence table. They had counsel, a tired-looking man with watery blue eyes, but Pansy neither recognized him nor did she think much of him. He had put forward a good argument at the last trial, but the jury had been rigged. They had known the jury would be rigged, and it was a unanimous vote for conviction. They were in their best robes, Edmund in sombre black while Alesana was in a muted blue. By the expressions on their faces, that they hadn't much, if any, hope left. They were up for execution, and they knew it. Everyone knew it. The only question was the manner.

Pansy should say something. She should do something. Edmund and Alesana Rookwood were no different than most of the people who sat in the courtroom, awaiting a final hearing and final sentence. The Rookwoods had made decisions that seemed right at the time, only to find the world shifting around them, their once-sensible decisions wrong in retrospect. No one had predicted the coup—no one could have predicted where they would stand today. The Rookwoods only had the misfortunate to have ties with a known revolutionary. She just didn't know what she was supposed to say.

In front of her, at the prosecution table, Prosecutor Umbridge was going through a long scroll of parchment. Voldemort's regime had done her well. Spotting a kindred spirit McNabb had both rescued her stagnating career, and promoted her quickly through the Ministry ranks. Dolores Jane Umbridge now directed the Department of Justice, and the only reason that she now stood in the courtroom was to underscore the severity of the crime of betraying Voldemort.

The registrar at the front of the room, sitting on the lowest dais, stood. "All rise," the woman intoned, her voice bland and wooden. "Hear ye, hear ye, all those having business in Justice's court, come forward and be heard. You may be seated."

Pansy sat back down, watching as Lady Amelia Bones walked into the room, her robes cleanly pressed and her face a mask devoid of all emotion. She knew that judge saw Voldemort in her courtroom; he was impossible to miss, sitting in the front row behind Prosecutor Umbridge. Beside her, as it happened, and Pandora glanced over to see a broadly satisfied look on his face. The end was a given—the only question was how bad it would be.

Lady Bones showed no sign of having seen him. Her hazel eyes ignored him entirely, resting for a moment on the Rookwoods at the defence table.

"Prosecutor Umbridge," she said, turning back to the squat witch. Her voice was a flat monotone—not something that anyone could raise a complaint over, but that clearly showed her own disinterest, if not disapproval, of the whole process. "I understand that we are here for a further guilty plea and sentencing submissions with regards to the Rookwoods."

"That's correct," Umbridge said, high-pitched and fluttery, as she stood. "Since the conviction, the Rookwoods were caught breaching their imprisonment at Malfoy Manor, in the presence of Draco Lucius Malfoy, a known resistance agitator. The prosecution is, accordingly, further charging Edmund and Alesana Rookwood with one count each of breaching their imprisonment with the intent of escape. I do expect guilty pleas, Your Honour, then we may proceed with the sentencing as planned."

Lady Bones glanced at the Rookwoods again, her expression inscrutable. "Mr. Fairfield," she said. "Do you concur?"

The barrister barely stood. "Prosecutor Umbridge is correct, Your Honour. My clients intend to enter a guilty plea on the new charges."

There wasn't much they could have argued otherwise, so Pansy could appreciate the decision. It wouldn't make a difference in the end result, so the Rookwoods had chosen not to make matters any worse by forcing another painful trial on the merits.

"Very well," Lady Bones replied, gesturing to the clerk sitting on the dais below her. "Then let's get on with it, and then sentencing on both this matter and the treason charges."

The clerk stood, her expression carefully blank. "Mr. Edmund Rookwood, Ms. Alesana Rookwood, you are each hereby charged with breaching your imprisonment with the intent to escape. To wit, on the twenty-eighth of May, you were arrested outside your prison on the grounds of Malfoy Manor in the company of a rebel agent, Draco Lucius Malfoy. How do you plead?"

Edmund stood. "We plead guilty, Your Honour."

"You may plead guilty for yourself, but your wife?" Lady Bones said, looking over at Alesana.

"Guilty, Your Honour." Alesana's voice was small, and Edmund had to support her in standing.

Lady Bones studied them both for a moment. "I accept both of your pleas," she said finally. "Sentencing submissions?"

Prosecutor Umbridge stood. "On the twentieth of May, Mr. and Mrs. Rookwood were convicted of high treason for their actions with respect to their long-time associate, the former Lord Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier. To keep matters brief, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Rookwood deemed it fit to report their associate's radical tendencies, and since beginning of the civil unrest, actively worked to conceal the extent of the former Lord Rosier's activities. These actions ultimately culminated in a horrific attack on those sent to arrest the former Lord Rosier for his rebellion, resulting in the loss of more than fifty Aurors.

"Since their own arrest, the Rookwoods have shown no remorse. Rather than entering a plea of guilty for the initial charges of treason, they forced this court, and the families of the victims of the former Lord Rosier's attack, through a lengthy trial." Prosecutor Umbridge riffled through the parchment on her table, and finding a bound roll, walked to the clerk to hand them off. "I am handing to Your Honour a collection of victim impact statements from the families of the deceased Aurors. I do not think I need to go into detail but suffice it to say that the loss of their mothers, father, brothers, sisters and children has been difficult for them."

Lady Bones glanced at the roll of parchment, but she didn't open it. "I will take the victim impact statements into consideration in my judgement."

Umbridge nodded in satisfaction. "Further, the actions of the Rookwoods after their convictions speaks volumes. They did not accept the judgement of this Court, and instead attempted to escape Justice by fleeing from prison in the company of another known rebel, Draco Lucius Malfoy. These are not the actions of those who feel remorse for their actions, and I submit that the subsequent escape be considered an aggravating factor on sentencing. All things considered, the prosecution submits that there can be no sentence other than death, in the traditional method."

There was a storm of whispers through the room, and Pansy struggled to pull herself together, to do something, to influence something. She had to do something. She couldn't just sit here, frozen in numbness, doing nothing.

The traditional methods were barbaric. Muggles had not come to the conclusion that witches were to be burnt at the stake from nothing—indeed, burning at the stake was exactly how an execution by traditional methods appeared to Muggles. The actual rite was an unbinding of magic, a release of the person's magical core to the wild, but the side effect was that the person themselves were then consumed in their own magical fire. The barbarism had become ever more evident when Muggles had adopted the method to burn alive men and women who were merely accused of being magical, and had been replaced by a simple Killing Curse shortly after the institution of the Statute of Secrecy.

She couldn't let this happen. But what could she do to change things?

"Reply submissions, Mr. Fairfield?"

The tired-looking man on the other side of the room stood. "Indeed, Your Honour. The Rookwoods plead for the clemency of this court. We would note the following factors that we submit ought to be considered for consideration. First, Edmund Rookwood served this Ministry as an Auror himself, until he took an injury that rendered him unfit for further combat. After his injury, Mr. Rookwood served this Ministry as a liaison with his childhood friend, Lord Aldon Rosier, and you have all heard his and Mrs. Rookwood's testimony that they had had a falling out with their friend over the past year and were unaware of much of his activities—"

"This is not a time to retry the case, Mr. Fairfield," Lady Bones interrupted sharply, a warning in her voice. "Continue with the factors relevant on sentencing only, please."

Fairfield nodded. "In response to my friend's submissions, execution by traditional methods was banned in the Act Banning Execution by Magical Fire passed by the Wizengamot in 1704. Execution by traditional methods is outside the jurisdiction of this court to give—"

Voldemort had stood beside her, and Lady Bones halted the defence counsel by holding up a hand. "Sir," she said, acknowledging him, and there was nothing in her voice to suggest that Voldemort was doing anything outside the permissible by the court.

"The 1704 Act Banning Execution by Magical Fire is suspended," Voldemort said, a smile playing on his face. "Wizarding Britain is under martial law—accordingly, by order today, I have deemed it necessary that such execution is permissible in the circumstances, for the stability of the state."

Lady Bones studied him for a moment. "I see," she said coolly, and she turned back to Fairfield. "I thank the Ministry for their comments. Go on, Mr. Fairfield."

Fairfield coughed—by the expression his face, it was clear that he hadn't expected any other response. "In that case, Mr. Rookwood would like to advise this Honourable Court that his wife is with child and pleads the clemency of this court to delay any such execution until the birth of their child. Such has been permitted throughout our common legal history; in 1541, the execution of Lord Burwell was delayed for such a reason, and again in 1612, for the execution of Lord Bradenton. Cases are rarer in our recent history, but capital crimes are rare, and I draw your attention to the most recent case in which this occurred in 1928, Ministry v. Bracebridge, where Mr. Bracebridge was granted clemency and execution was suspended until the birth of his child in 1929. The defence requests that any execution, by any means, be suspended pending the birth of the child."

"Denied," Voldemort said, his face twisting, rising to his feet again. "Wizarding Britain has no need of children of the disloyal."

Pansy had to do something. The courts were strung, and anyone who thought that Lady Bones would be able to do anything other than accede to Voldemort's wishes were lying to themselves. She couldn't let this go on—what was the point of everything she had done if she couldn't push at moments like these? And if Voldemort could interfere in the trial process, why couldn't she plead for clemency on their behalf? Why couldn't she throw herself at Voldemort's feet, begging him prettily in the name of the innocence of children, right here and now?

At best, it would make him reconsider, and it could buy the Rookwoods a reprieve. Aldon had to move before then. At worst, she would only make a fool of herself. She had to do something.

She threw the idea at Pandora. She threw the innocence of children, and the need to do something at her alter-ego.

And her alter-ego turned around and looked back at her.

Ah, Pandora said, with a raise of her familiar, perfectly manicured eyebrow. There you are, Pansy. A pleasure to meet you, at long last.

Pansy swallowed, staring at the other girl. Herself, and not-herself, all at once.

Don't worry about what we look like on the outside, Pandora said, wrinkling her delicate nose in distaste. I have it well in hand. You want me to beg prettily on my knees for the Rookwoods? I hate that idea, and I don't like to beg. I don't even know the Rookwoods—or do I?

Pansy was stunned. I—I don't—

You don't. Pandora sighed in mock disappointment, rolling her eyes. I want to know what I am, Pansy. I want to know what you've hidden from me. I am you—

A part of me! Pansy interrupted. Only a part, and the part I—

The part that you deny existed, Pandora replied flatly. The part you like and hate in equal measure. Let's speak frankly, my dear Pansy. You enjoy being me. You always wanted a world where you didn't have to manoeuvre or manipulate to get ahead, where you could be called Pandora instead of just Pansy, a diminutive. I am your identity who is allowed to do such things. But don't you see? I would never beg on my knees for the Rookwoods. You would beg on your knees for the Rookwoods, but I—I would stand up, and I would fight for them, if I wanted to say anything at all. Why the Rookwoods, anyway?

Pandora was right, and Pansy knew it. Pandora was not the sort of woman who would plead on her knees to get ahead, and Pandora had never knelt and begged for forgiveness, not even after being subject to torture disguised as punishment. Pandora would have kept fighting because she valued nothing more than her own freedom—her freedom to act, her freedom to speak her mind, her freedom to be whoever she chose to be and to do whatever she chose to do.

Pandora, left to her own devices, would have abandoned Voldemort the second it became clear that he would bind her voice tighter than anyone had ever done before. She had only stayed because there were no other good options in the current environment.

The Rookwoods are our friends, Pansy said, looking away. I can't tell you more, not with him beside us. We don't have the Occlumency for it.

There was a pause, and Pandora nodded. We're not who he thinks we are, are we? And you can't tell me, else we would be in more danger.

Yes, Pansy agreed. You can't know.

Her other self tilted her head in thought, while Pansy panicked. She was the control personality—Pandora was a part of her, but she shouldn't have been able to talk to her or fight with her. Pandora was the front, but Pansy was the control. Pansy had always been able to retake control of herself and her body before, but she knew without trying that Pandora would now block her and fight back. She didn't know what she had done, nor how to fix it. She didn't even have the beginnings of an idea on how to fix it.

What we're hiding, Pandora said finally, her blue eyes only curious. Does it lead to a better future than the one Voldemort promises?

I think so, Pansy replied slowly. What could be worse?

I just want to be free. Pandora looked away, back out at the frozen courtroom. Pansy had no idea what was happening out there now—it seemed like Lady Bones was, with no small amount of well-hidden anger, was acquiescing to Voldemort. I want to speak freely and without fear, and to be respected for my words and not how I say them. I don't want to have to cajole and manipulate and seduce people to get what I want. I want to argue for it, or to win what I want through my own merit. I don't want anyone except myself controlling my future. Does your future promise us that?

Pansy chewed on her bottom lip. It has a better chance of giving us that future than Voldemort does. Voldemort only wants us when we give him, or when we do, what he wants.

I see. Pandora nodded once, decisive. Very well. Go back to your hiding place, Pansy, and keep your secrets. I will handle this. I will demand answers from you—later. After Voldemort is dead and gone.

But the Rookwoods— Pansy scrabbled for control, trying to force her body into listening to her, into tossing herself on her knees before Voldemort to beg for clemency. She could plead on behalf of the child, that was something that she could do, couldn't she?

Ah, ah. Pandora blocked her, throwing her off her body's controls with a rude mental shove. You know as well as I do that Alesana Rookwood is not pregnant. She has seen the bad end of the wand a few too many times in the past few months to possibly sustain a pregnancy. Edmund Rookwood is desperate, and worse yet, he is an even worse Occlumens than we apparently are. There is no point in begging on our knees. It would only cast suspicion on us because we have never shown an interest the Rookwoods, nor any particular care for children. Why the sudden change in personality, Voldemort will ask, and then he'll be in here with us. There is nothing we can do for the Rookwoods.

But it could buy them time—

Not with Voldemort's Legilimency. Pandora shook her head. He knows they're lying. This is just his amusement for the day, and the conclusion is foregone. If you can't handle it, then don't watch.

Pandora motioned her away, and Pansy found herself thrown back into the comfortable and hidden corner of her mind where she usually lingered, waiting and watching.

Without Pandora's cooperation, waiting and watching would be all she could do.

XXX

"Lestrange."

Caelum didn't recognize the voice, nor did he look up from the Sopophorous Bean that he was chopping for a sleeping draught. Some nights were better than others, but there was nothing worse than a sleepless night when he didn't have any on hand. "What?"

"Voldemort wishes to see you."

"About what?" He swept the chopped Sopophorous Bean onto the flat of his blade, and then into his steaming cauldron.

"About—" The man hesitated, and then he coughed. "About the spells for the Rookwood execution."

"And why would I know anything about them?" He stirred the mixture in his cauldron quickly, seven strokes clockwise, then he leaned over to check the fire. It was hot enough, so he just needed to wait for the Potion to heat through, then to add the powdered asphodel petals and essence of nettle. After that, it would just need to simmer for some ten minutes, then he could bottle it. He had made enough to buy himself a week of peace, at least.

"Lady Lestrange—" The man cut himself off sharply as Caelum turned to glare at him. Darlian, he thought the man was called. Not one of the soldiers he knew well, and one that had done well in staying out of Voldemort's way. "Your honoured mother reported that she had sent you to Durmstrang to learn such valuable skills, and that you would know."

Caelum snorted. "The bitch lied. I know no such thing."

No doubt she was trying to use him to score points again. His Durmstrang education was one that she frequently bragged about, as if a foreign, four-generations-pure education was somehow superior to any other. Caelum's classes had been filled with the same idiots as he was sure Hogwarts had been filled with, and there was no reason why he would know an obscure, ancient execution ritual. The primary difference, as far as he could tell, was that his education had been in Russian and not in English.

"Be as that may…" Darlian said, Caelum's language having no effect on him whatsoever. "I have been sent to fetch you and cannot leave until I have brought you to Voldemort."

Caelum scowled, looking down at his brew. A touch of his core showed that the solution was hot enough, and he swept in the powdered asphodel petals and the essence of nettle. He had absolutely no interest in going, not least because he did not care to have any involvement whatsoever with the Rookwood executions, but if His Imperial Psychopath demanded him then he had little choice. He would simply have to find a way to tell the madman that no, he didn't know the rituals involved. He could imply that his mother was a liar and a fool while he went at it, too.

But he had to finish this potion first. "Ten minutes, Darlian, and then I will go."

Darlian nodded in agreement, and without asking permission, took a seat near the entrance to Caelum's makeshift lab. Caelum fought a grimace—evidently, there would be no slipping out without seeing Lord Megalomaniac tonight. Darlian was more intelligent than he let on, Caelum suspected, which was why he had been careful to conceal such before their mutual Lord-who-was-not-a-Lord. The less he was involved, the more likely he would survive unscathed. Caelum didn't have such a choice, whether it be Rosier on one side or his mad bitch of a mother on the other.

He should find a way to get Darlian in trouble. No sense in not sharing the pain.

Ten minutes later, Caelum followed Darlian through Malfoy Manor. The Manor was simultaneously more crowded, and more empty, than Caelum had ever known. On one hand, by bare numbers, Caelum was confident that Malfoy Manor had at least as many Aurors as they had had previously, if not more; on the other, he saw far fewer of them. They stayed out of his, and Voldemort's, way as much as humanly possible. The few sentries that he saw throughout the Manor stood sharply at attention when he passed by, though he took no notice of them whatsoever.

That pissed him off. Everyone in Malfoy Manor, Darlian included, pissed him off. They were cowards—much like the Rookwoods, they were all cowards, frozen and trapped on Voldemort's side by their own indecision and previous failure to act. And now, they were too afraid to change their beliefs, too afraid to stand up and take action, and too afraid to see if the other side might not be better. They were sheep, to be herded and to follow orders, without anything that resembled a brain among them.

Those that weren't were even worse. Those that weren't were people like his mother, who enjoyed the new regime of terror, who enjoyed the scope of power that His Imperial First Citizen gave them. Caelum hated them even more than he hated the soldiers. Crossing into the formal dining room, filled with the madman's sycophants, Caelum was immediately confronted by a sense of vicious glee that was a hundred times worse than the subtle fear and anxiety that permeated the rest of the manor. Here, people enjoyed power in all its forms, from the painful to the pleasurable. It made him sick.

His mother was already fawning over Voldemort's shoulder, a broad smile across her face, while his father was sitting at the table, examining an ancient book with a frown of concentration. The Ice Bitch was watching, an expression of extreme displeasure on her face, her arms crossed over her chest and one leg crossed over the other. Mulciber was standing in front of Lord Madman's throne, giving a report on from his daily terrorizing of Diagon Alley.

"There ought to be enough space in the square in front of the Wizengamot and the Courts of Justice to host the execution," Mulciber was saying. "If we move quickly, the announcement can be made through the Daily Prophet and posted and circulated throughout Diagon, Knockturn, and Craftsmen's Alleys. Non-attendance will be deemed suspicious and a cause for enquiry."

"You will never be able to enforce that." The Ice Bitch snorted. "Yes, invite thousands of people to a square for an execution, and tell them all that not attending is suspicious. You cannot track them all."

"There are the identification cards, Pandora." Voldemort shot her a look of warning.

"'Sir, I simply forgot my identification card, sir!'" Pandora mimicked a high-pitched, simpering voice, with an ugly expression on her face. "'Here's a list of sixteen shopkeepers who can verify that I was in attendance!'"

"Pandora, your disapproval of this process has been noted." Voldemort's voice was hard. "I make allowances for your kind heart. If you cannot handle the details, then leave."

"Kind heart?" Pandora's eyebrow went up, and she stood. "Is that what good sense is called now? Sir, I counsel you one final time against this ridiculous and extreme measure. Execute them if you will, but abiding by the standards kept by Wizarding Britain over the past three hundred years, making an allowance to ensure that the Rookwoods are not with child, and using a Killing Curse would go over better on the population. You are obsessed with maintaining control—but you fail to realize, as you always have, that these disgusting shows of power lose you more control than you gain."

Lord Madman's eyes flashed, but Pandora was already storming out of the room. She had been strange recently—more openly rebellious, and less likely to accede to the maniac's desires. He would have to report it to Rosier, he thought, but then Voldemort's attention was on him.

"Sir," he bowed, focusing back on his anger, his hate. He would never have considered this execution method for the Rookwoods himself, but he thought the proposal was a fitting punishment for the Rookwoods' lack of conviction, for their lukewarm and split loyalties, even for their desperate lie that Alesana Rookwood was pregnant. "You had requested my attendance."

"Lestrange," Voldemort said, turning icy dark eyes on him. "Your mother tells me that you would be familiar with the rites for execution ritual."

"My mother is a liar who seeks your favour," Caelum retorted, shooting a glare at his mother. "I know no such thing. Aside from the fact that I am a Potioneer, Durmstrang is by education little different than Hogwarts."

"I had no expectations that you would," Voldemort replied, a small smile on his face. "Well am I aware that your mother is a fool. However, no one can deny that you are among the most intelligent in my service, and I am sure that you can figure it out. Your father has located the volume with the rite in it already, but the language is archaic and the instructions difficult. I would like you to assist in reconstructing the rite, and in carrying it out."

Caelum's jaw tightened. "I am a Potioneer," he repeated, his voice flat. "I am sure there are a dozen people more qualified."

His mother shot him a venomous look, one that Caelum returned with equal loathing. If it was an execution circle for her, now…

Voldemort's smile widened. "So, you would be capable of it," the monster mused. "Let me speak plainly then, Lestrange. This is an order. The Rookwoods are scheduled to be executed a week from today, and they will be made an example of the price of disobeying the Ministry of Magic. Everything must go according to plan, and I am entrusting you to ensuring that it happens."

Caelum stared at him, a thousand thoughts in mind, but the expression on Voldemort's face was implacable. This was a high honour being done to him—he would not be permitted to decline. If he tried, he had no doubt he would hear from his mother, if not also his father, both of whom were utter fanatics. If he wanted to maintain his position, and he needed to maintain his position, then he had no other choice.

He had no other choice, and he hated it.

"Very well," he said, his voice so cold that he could almost see the words coalescing in a cloud of condensation. "I will need the book, as well as the time of the scheduled execution. A week today, you said?"

Voldemort nodded, pleased. "Rodolphus, give your son the book. The execution will be at two in the afternoon, a week today."

Caelum accepted the ancient, grimy tome from his father with a grimace of distaste. "Then I have much to do. I will retire to my lab. Thank you, sir."

There was not a hint in sincerity in his thanks, but Voldemort seemed to accept it in any case. "Dismissed."

In his laboratory, he threw the hated book to the end of an empty bench, then he locked and sealed the doors. A fresh sheet of parchment came out onto the bench, along with a battered copy of 1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi.

Falcon, he wrote, and then he started scrabbling through his blasted ingredient dictionary for appropriate words to describe the date, time, and location of the Rookwood execution. Rosier wouldn't be able to free the Rookwoods from Malfoy Manor, but Diagon Alley might well be a different matter altogether.

XXX

AN: And this is the chapter where I discovered that I can write sad sex. No one provided me with fluff, therefore you all get sad sex. Thanks to meek_bookworm as always, and to those of you who leave comments and reviews. It's my birthday coming up this weekend, so would love to hear from you (and always open for fanart or recursive fic as well)! See everyone in 2 weeks!