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.

20. Chapter 20

Cho walked into his study, a sheet of parchment in one hand. "Aldon."

"Hmm?" Aldon looked up from his notebook, where he had been analysing the information obtained in the last week without much success. As an assistant, Cho was not the second-in-command that Draco had been. She didn't have the connections or broad knowledge of the former Wizarding Britain, nor did she have the same calculating mind that Draco had had. At first, Aldon had not wanted another assistant; they were close to the end of the war, and they had no need of more informants. He could have done the decoding work himself.

But Alex had insisted. Aldon had no idea why, but he hadn't argued. Cho was, it turned out, faster, neater, and more careful in her decoding than Draco had ever been, and there was no risk that she would need to do fieldwork. With that in mind, plus the knowledge that Cho wasn't well-connected enough in Wizarding Britain to be able to identify most of his informants by their messages alone, Aldon had opted to give her the lion's share of the decoding work while taking on all the analysis work for himself.

"Message from Vulture. June one six, two past noon. Rook family plan death. Outside court diagonal row. Pansy behaviour unusual." Cho passed him the slip of paper that she had been working on. "I thought you would want to see it right away."

Aldon nodded, his eyes running over her neat handwriting. It was easy enough to see the message that Vulture was trying to communicate. The Rookwood execution was scheduled for June sixteenth, at two in the afternoon, outside the Courts of Justice in Diagon Alley. Swallow was also behaving oddly, a fact which Aldon simultaneously understood and could do nothing about.

Swallow had been, much to Aldon's concern, the one to carry out Draco's execution order. She had sent a single message confirming that it had been done, and that was the last that Aldon had heard from her. "Nothing from Swallow?"

"No." Cho shook her head. "But I'm only halfway through today's pile. If I see something from Swallow, do you want me to bring it to you right away?"

"Please." Aldon let out a breath. "Where is Lina?"

"At Potter Place. Alex is giving a report on Voldemort's likeliest use of what few vampires he has left—his second in command Élodie and the trainees have been left in charge of the defences." Cho paused. "Do you need me to contact her?"

Aldon hesitated, looking down at the little slip of paper.

On one hand, it hadn't even been a month since Draco had died. Not even a month since the last time he had tried to mount the rescue and extraction mission for Ed and Alice, less than a month since he'd had to send an order executing his own second-in-command, and only a little more than week since Lina had forced him to examine exactly what had gone wrong with his plans, and to write his humiliating failure in cold, black ink to present to the military leaders.

Aldon knew where he had erred. He had been blinded by his own desires—he and Draco both. He had wanted his oldest friends back beside him, and he had known that Draco wanted to rescue Swallow from Malfoy Manor. The fact that Draco was the Heir Malfoy had made it easy for them to believe that their mission could, and in fact, would succeed; and they had both ignored every sign and warning that it was too much of a risk. Aldon had purposely failed to involve anyone that he thought would tell him otherwise, from Lina through Sirius and the Lord Potter. Anyone that they had roped into their mission had either believed that they had the agreement of the military branch, or they had been swept in with his and Draco's fervour. He had believed, and he had believed so much that he hadn't stopped to think about what he was doing.

He wouldn't do that again. He couldn't.

But Vulture had written him with the date and time of the execution, giving him forewarning. Vulture wouldn't have done that unless he thought Aldon could do something with that information, would he? Not for something like this, which would be cried about from the rooftops anyway—Aldon would no doubt have learned of the date and time of the execution once the news was spread through Diagon Alley, but Vulture's notice gave him early warning to plan. Vulture would have expected him to plan.

That was a logical fallacy. Vulture was a spy. Vulture's purpose was to give Aldon information. Aldon was just looking for a basis on which he could plan another rescue mission.

But this was Ed. This was his oldest friend—this was the friend that he had worked so, so hard to make like him as a child, the friend that had stood beside him throughout his time at Hogwarts, the friend who hadn't judged him in the least when it turned out that Aldon was a halfblood. This was Ed, whom Aldon still loved, because the mere fact that he now loved someone else did not mean he loved Ed any less. He might love Ed differently, but not less.

If there was a chance, any chance at all, then Aldon owed it to Ed to explore it.

Aldon took a deep breath. "No, I'll go to Potter Place myself. I'll need to talk to the Lord Potter and to Sirius."

Cho nodded. "Do you need me to carry a message to anyone?"

"Ask Francesca to watch the wards for the afternoon." Aldon stood up, folding the note and tucking it into his front chest pocket. "I will not be gone long."

The transit to Potter Place was longer than usual, and no one met him outside the Hub. The Lord Potter must have let him in, that meant, and so he headed for the kitchen. Unlike any other noble manor that he had been in, the Potters didn't have a formal dining hall, nor a ballroom, nor any large gathering place at all. Instead, Potter Place was a maze of smaller rooms set in two wings, tied together by a prominent, if unusual, tower in the centre.

Any meetings at Potter Place were held in the kitchens, around a small table that Aldon privately thought had seen better days. It was a plain, light wood, perhaps a cedar or an oak, and the varnish was wearing off in places. There were a few spots that showed ink-stains or spills from a candle, marking that the table was used as much as a worktable as it was a meal table.

"No, I'm afraid that my unit cannot cooperate with MACUSA," Alex was saying tersely, his eyes fixed on the Lord Potter. Lina, sitting beside Alex, was leaning back in her seat with an unsurprised expression on her face, while Sirius was frowning. "Their position on those with creature inheritances is… difficult, and the Order has not had a relationship with MACUSA in many years. If there is a coven hiding in Muggle London, MACUSA will simply have to handle it."

The Lord Potter ran a hand through his hair, annoyed. "And you have no flexibility to cooperate with MACUSA? None at all?"

Alex glared. "MACUSA has a kill on sight order for I and those of my kind. I would also suggest you keep Mr. Lupin out of their way—while they do not follow their domestic practice abroad, accidents can always occur."

"That means we cannot count on your assistance for the main engagement at Malfoy Manor, either." Lina sighed, but her tone was only resigned. "Since MACUSA has offered to provide backup. That's unfortunate."

"Your main engagement would be outside of my mandate in any case. We know that Voldemort does not keep his vampire allies at Malfoy Manor," Alex said, turning his head and spotting Aldon in the doorframe. "Aldon. Have you heard about the location of any remaining vampire covens?"

Aldon walked in, pulling out a chair between Lina and Alex. "I haven't, but I can confirm I have heard nothing about them being in Malfoy Manor, and I expect I would have heard something from one of my informants to that effect if they were there. My best guess would be that they are in the Lower Alleys. The burnt-out portion would serve as a good hiding location, and I understand from Hurst that the Alleys previously held two covens, so the people there would be accustomed to their presence."

"There are better hunting grounds in the Muggle world." Alex shook his head. "My unit will look for traces in the parts of Wizarding England not occupied by MACUSA forces, and I will report if we locate any further covens."

The Lord Potter looked as though he was about to argue, but Lina turned to Aldon instead. "Aldon. This is a surprise."

"I came for a consultation." Aldon glanced at the others around the table, reminding himself that this was a consultation in good faith. He had learned from Draco. He would take their comments into serious consideration. He would not be going off without approval of the military branch. "I have had a message from Voldemort's inner circle. The Rookwoods are scheduled to be executed by magical fire on the sixteenth of June, at two in the afternoon."

Lina threw him a sharp look. "And?"

Aldon hesitated. He had told everyone at this table already that Ed was his weak spot, and there was no reason that they would take him and his question seriously. He knew how he sounded—he had already once committed a fatal error for Ed, and this would look like a repeat of the same. But at the same time, this was Ed, and Diagon Alley was not the same as Malfoy Manor. If it meant a chance at rescuing Ed, he'd suffer whatever the Lord Potter, or Sirius, or anyone else thought of him.

"I would like to explore the possibility of a rescue or extraction within Diagon Alley itself," he said, his voice coming out only slightly strained under pressure. A glance around the table showed that the Lord Potter's eyes had narrowed, and while Sirius' expression was concerned, his mouth had tightened. He cleared his throat and continued. "Malfoy Manor, of course, would be impossible, but Diagon Alley is in the open—"

"No, Aldon." Lina's voice was firm and final. "It doesn't matter if they're outside Malfoy Manor—do you really think that Voldemort won't have a huge crowd of fanatics around him and around the Rookwoods that day? If we were at a different stage of the war, I might be willing to consider it, but we are at the end. We need to conserve all the forces that we can for an assault on Malfoy Manor."

"Voldemort is also going to have a crowd in the square," Sirius added, not unkindly. "There will be too many non-combatants there. If we start anything there, we're going to have huge civilian casualties. We can't risk it."

Aldon glanced at the Lord Potter. He didn't really expect anything different, since of the military leaders he certainly had the weakest relationship with the Lord Potter, and he was not disappointed.

"Lord Rosier…" The Lord Potter paused, picking his words carefully. "I understand your closeness with the Rookwoods, but I would have thought that your last mission to rescue the Rookwoods—"

"It's his closest friend." Alex interrupted, and his voice was flat. "Do not tell me that you would not do the same—certainly, Lina, I've heard from Élodie of your own dangerous missions to protect or save your own friends."

"Do not throw that in my face, Alex," Lina snapped, her eyes flashing. "What I did as a mercenary is very different than my role here."

Alex shrugged. "I understand loyalty. The Order never leaves a man behind. I, too, would pull out all stops to save a close friend."

"Edmund Rookwood left you behind first, Aldon," Lina snapped, turning sharply back to Aldon. "Don't you dare forget that. He left you behind first, and he was never your ally."

"He hadn't a choice." Aldon looked away, staring at an oddly shaped burn on the table. "He had just married into the Selwyn family. He just made the nobility when I was disowned. I—what I wanted was at odds with what he wanted. He wanted a stable life, and that was all."

"We all have a choice, Aldon." Sirius's grey eyes were concerned. "You had a choice, too—you could have married a pureblood, made the laws work in your favour, and climbed the ranks. You didn't have to start Bridge, or make a stand at the Ministry Unity Ball, or live like an outcast from magical society ducking the Marriage Law. Edmund Rookwood could have looked at the injustice and inequality of what you were going through and chosen to stand with you. He didn't."

Aldon shook his head in disagreement, though he didn't know what he was supposed to be disagreeing with, exactly. Things had been complicated for Ed, in a way that they hadn't been for Aldon—Aldon was a halfblood in a world that had just passed the Marriage Law, and he had just been disowned. Francesca had newly come into his life, and he had realised that he hadn't wanted to marry for power. He wanted the life that he had always been promised, that and so much more, and the only way that he had to get it was to fight for it.

Aldon had never expected Ed to come over with him. He had hoped, but he hadn't expected Ed to come over with him, not when everything he wanted tore down the system in which Ed had so recently succeeded. Ed had the woman of his dreams, and he would be the next Lord Selwyn. Aldon could never have measured up to that.

"No one could have predicted the war," he said instead, looking up. "No one could have predicted that a madman would murder Lord Riddle and take over the Ministry of Magic."

Lina snorted.

Aldon glared at her. "I owe it to Edmund to explore all possible avenues."

"I understand where you're coming from," the Lord Potter said carefully, and to his credit the expression on his face spoke only of concern, not judgement. "But from a military standpoint, we just can't risk it. As Lina says, Voldemort will be there in force, and there will be too many civilians in Diagon Alley for any manoeuvres. This has to be difficult for you, but we have the chance to end the war in just a few weeks. We can't risk our position for only two people. I'm sorry, Lord Rosier."

"Aldon, you believe that any of Voldemort's remaining vampire allies will be in the Alleys, correct?" Alex asked. It was a complete non-sequitur to the current conversation, but there was a note in his voice that had Aldon looking at him with suspicion.

"Yes," he replied slowly. "As I said earlier, there is now a considerable burned out section which would be ideal for hiding. I imagine it is safer than the Muggle world for them, particularly since the Alleys are accustomed to a vampire presence."

"In that case, the Rookwood execution gives my unit the opportunity to search the Alleys for traces of vampires without interference." Alex wore a small, ghostly smile on his face. "You are, of course, welcome to join us, Aldon."

There was no subtlety to Alex's ploy—but then, Alex wasn't a Slytherin. He and his unit would be in Diagon Alley on the day of the execution, and Aldon could go along. If there was an opportunity to save Ed, then he could jump for it, and he would even have backup. It wasn't a full mission backed by the army, but it was quite a lot better than Aldon had expected he would get.

"That sounds excellent, Alex," he replied with a nod. "I'd be pleased to join you and to watch your unit in action. It promises to be educational."

Lina glared at him. "Alex—"

"I am well aware of how a war works, Lina," Alex interrupted, turning back to look at her with steely blue eyes. "But the Alleys will need to be searched for Voldemort's remaining vampire allies, and the Rookwood execution is a convenient time that will allow my unit free reign to search the Alleys without disturbance. Speaking plainly, however, I also agree with Aldon. He owes it to his friend to at least see if there is anything he can do. He should be there, and while there is no guarantee that we will be able to do anything at all for the Rookwoods, there is always a chance. They might break away, or one of them might break away, or a third-party actor could become involved. You have my word that Aldon will be fine—he'll be with me, and if no promising opportunity arises for the Rookwoods, then you have my word that I will drag Aldon back to his manor with no harm done."

"I'm not comfortable with this idea," the Lord Potter said, exchanging a look with Sirius. "Captain, your record as a commander speaks for itself, but the Lord Rosier has already shown that he cannot think clearly when it comes to the Rookwoods. How do we know that that he won't break away on his own from you?"

"I won't," Aldon said hastily. "I'll stay with Alex, or with his unit. I swear it."

"I assure you that Aldon does not have the skill or power to break away from me," Alex said, and his voice was thick with amusement. "If need be, I will knock him out and drag him back."

Lina's mouth was a thin line, and she shook her head. "You're not under our orders, so I suppose I can't stop you. Aldon—remember your last mission for the Rookwoods."

Aldon nodded, letting out a long breath. Four grey merlins flashed in his memory, four messengers of death. "I won't forget."

When Aldon and Draco had been planning for the first extraction mission, they had spent hours with their heads together working out every possible detail or contingency plan. They had roped in Harry and Leo for their Potions and breaking and entering expertise, then they had involved Abbott and Zabini for the most up to date information about Malfoy Manor itself. They had spent hours researching obscure points of magical theory relating to noble manors, trying to predict what Malfoy Manor would allow Draco to do, and then Draco had spent hours upon hours in the training yard preparing.

In comparison, the only preparation Alex had Aldon do was attend twice as much training in the training yards. Two hours in the morning, and another two in the afternoon or evening.

"Planning?" Alex had asked, when Aldon had suggested it. "What planning do we need? First, this is primarily a vampire detection mission, which my unit is already well-trained to handle; second, for the Rookwoods, any possible escape will be by its very nature spontaneous. Whether there will be any opportunity depends on Voldemort, on the crowds, and on the Rookwoods themselves—if there isn't one, then we are there to observe only. Go run another twenty laps of the training yard, this time with your rifle."

Aldon had made a face and complied.

Diagon Alley, the morning of June the sixteenth, was restless. The main thoroughfare was emptier than usual—by order of the Ministry, all shops were to be closed at noon, so most witches and wizards had to have done their shopping earlier. The few people that he did see moved quickly, without lingering to chat, as if they wanted to be done their errands and to disappear without notice. It was a very different Diagon Alley than the one that Aldon remembered, and he realized with a sense of shock that he hadn't been in Diagon Alley for more than a year.

Alex and his unit dispersed quickly in pairs on their arrival, moving to investigate the different areas of the Alleys. Aldon stayed close to Alex, following him as he took a path down the main Diagon Alley thoroughfare. His back, heavy with the weight of his Disillusioned rifle, itched—they were in the open, undisguised, and he couldn't help but be wary of anyone and everyone around them. With the tensions running high on the anticipated execution, it wasn't likely that anyone would be reporting him in time for Voldemort to do anything about him. Diagon Alley was also an open space, without Anti-Apparition Wards, and Aldon was ready to Apparate back to Rosier Place and the safety of his wards on a second of warning.

A vampire detection mission was very different than what Aldon had expected. Alex had explained little, but it seemed that he and his fellow dhampir had sharpened senses to pick up traces of vampire activity. From time to time, Alex would pause, turning his head, and turn down a particular path as if he were following a scent. Sometimes, it seemed, the scent would grow cold, and he would move on. Aldon stayed close to him, his ACD shield already up, his wand close to hand.

He knew it was noon, or close to, when the shopkeepers around him began packing away things that had been out on the sidewalk, turning their signs, and locking their doors. More people were out on the streets, slowly moving towards the Wizengamot and the Courts of Justice—it was early, but whether they wanted to make a good impression, or they wanted a good viewpoint, or anything else, Aldon could not tell. Alex didn't seem to have noticed, intent as he was on something that only he could scent or see, and Aldon didn't want to interrupt.

"I can feel you vibrating with anxiety," Alex said, about fifteen or twenty minutes later with a small grimace that flashed his sharp canines. "There are signs of vampire activity, but I didn't find their nest. They don't seem to be feeding in Diagon Alley, but I cannot rule out feeding in Muggle London while hiding in the Alleys. That's enough for now, my unit will be regrouping close to the square as well—it's a good time to pick out anyone under the thrall. We'll go find a good vantage point to observe."

Two wooden stakes had already been driven into the stones in the square when they arrived, and Aldon spotted Vulture drawing a runic circle of some kind around each one with white chalk. Even from a distance, he could see that Vulture's expression was closed off and grim, and he ignored anyone who was trying to talk to him. Nearby, Aldon spotted Bellatrix Lestrange, wearing the most revealing set of robes that Aldon had ever seen in his life, practically purring in pleased anticipation, as well as a dozen people he knew to be in Voldemort's inner circle. One of the Notts, one of the Carrows, a couple people that he had formerly thought of as his Avery cousins, with whom he was now altogether happy to say he shared no blood. Swallow was there, her face a blank mask that said perfectly well her displeasure.

Alex pulled him to one side, motioning him to a nearby store. It was Twilfitt & Tattings, a high-end tailor whose owners were proud blood supremacists—Aldon had a few sets of robes from them, though he doubted they would have served him at all since his blood status had been revealed. Alex's wand came out.

"Alohomora," he commanded, and there was a small snick as the lock turned. Aldon stared, disgusted for a moment at the owners' lack of security, but Alex pulled him into the shop. "Monitoring Charms. Screen for them?"

Aldon drew a runic screen with one hand, revealing six or seven spells throughout the room—mostly alarm spells and monitoring charms. Alex knocked them all out, one by one, and together they worked their way through to the back of the shop, to the upstairs flat.

No one was home. Everyone was supposed to be at the execution, and while the owners of Twilfitt & Tattings could no doubt have watched from their upstairs windows or their French balcony, they had evidently decided against it. Alex motioned for Aldon to come closer to the balcony, sliding the window open and casting an obscuring spell on the window to hide them.

They had a good view of the square, which was filling with people. No one dared to come too close to the wooden spikes driven in the ground, a fact that made his vantage point all the better. Unless something happened, unless Edmund or Alice managed to break away, he would have a very good view of their execution. He swallowed.

"Would it not be better to be on the ground?" he asked. His voice cracked, too loud in the silence.

"Would it not be better to be able to see what's happening?" Alex returned, scanning the crowd sharply. "Élodie and Marie-Pier are close to the south end of the square; Enrico and Bianca are on the north end. My unit is on hand—if either of the Rookwoods manages to break away, they all have instructions to pull them to safety if they can."

"Isn't there anything else we can do?" Aldon couldn't help but ask. "Causing a diversion for them, maybe?"

Alex shrugged. "We'll see what condition they're in when they come. Depending on the security with them and their condition, they may not be able to profit from a diversion. I've seen Edmund's limp. We'll see when they come down Diagon Alley."

Aldon gritted his teeth, remembering Draco. He wanted to do something—he wanted to save Ed, but he wasn't the expert here. Alex was, and Aldon remembered his promises. He would stick with Alex, and he wouldn't fly off to do his own plan. He didn't even have a plan, so he had little choice but to sit, and to wait, and to watch.

Waiting was difficult.

It was past one when they finally saw a larger group moving down Diagon Alley. Aldon didn't need an explanation to know that this was the prisoner convoy. Voldemort himself was at its head, and beside him were other faces that Aldon recognized from his administration. Prosecutor Umbridge was there, as was Mulciber, McNabb, Travers. A man that Aldon thought was named Runcorn was there, and both Rookwoods were being pulled along in the air, levitated at wand-point. Both of them were unnaturally still—injured, or Imperiused, or perhaps just resigned to their fate.

Aldon could feel something in his chest tightening, and his breaths shallowed. Had they at least been on their feet, that would be one matter—had they at least been on their feet, he would be able to tell if they were able to walk, if they could run given the chance. But when they were so still, caught in the air and held as they were, Aldon couldn't help but think that they wouldn't be able to profit from any diversion that he could cause. Any rescue attempt would need to be entirely supported by Aldon, or Alex and his unit, because he couldn't trust that Edmund or Alice would be able to help themselves at all.

A look around the square showed that there were too many people. Too many civilians—even if he tried anything, the civilians would be in the way. While Aldon didn't care about how many nameless civilians he might have had to kill to get to Edmund, there would only be more that would block their path on the way out. They would slow him down, making it all too easy for Voldemort to capture him as well as the Rookwoods.

Aldon couldn't afford to be captured. Quite apart from the fact that he knew even more than Draco had known, Aldon was not so selfless as to sacrifice himself for a chance for his best friend. He was not a selfless person, and he would not have sacrificed himself even for a guaranteed escape by his closest childhood friends. Aldon wanted things—he wanted a new world of his own making, one where he would marry Francesca and carve a new path through society in his way and in his manner, and he prized the things he wanted over his friends.

He always had.

The realization settled itself slowly against his bones, cold crystal clarity forming in his mind. Aldon had a choice, and he was not willing to risk everything he had planned for Edmund and Alice. He could, and he would, mourn their passing, but he would not be trying to rescue them. With these crowds, with this security, it was simply too risky. He wouldn't risk it.

But that didn't mean he could do nothing. The rifle lay heavy on his back, a disturbing presence, and he reached for it with a resolve that he didn't know he possessed. Alex watched without comment—Aldon's hands moved over his weapon without hesitation, checking the stock and barrel. It was already loaded with a handful of shots, and he leaned over, peering through the scope. With one hand, he focused the magnification to see in astounding clarity, as if he were only a few feet away, the two wooden stakes driven into the middle of the courtyard.

At this distance, it would be—what was the saying? Fish in a barrel. That was what Neal and Alex would have called it. He'd only need a few shots.

He thought his hands would be shaking. He thought his breathing would be uneven and heavy, that his eyes would be clouded by moisture. But they weren't—the room closed in on him, leaving nothing but him, Alex, his rifle, and the distance to the wooden stakes.

"I make a promise to all of my operatives, Alex," he murmured, and his voice sounded like it had come from very far away. "A quick death. It's meant to terrify them into realizing that what they're doing is dangerous, and I've only ever had to carry out my promise once."

"For Draco Malfoy," Alex acknowledged, no hint of judgement in his voice.

Aldon nodded, watching as they hoisted his two closest childhood friends towards the centre of the square, as they lashed them onto the wooden stakes with unfeeling hands and unfeeling magic. For all that time had dripped away all morning, slow and steady as a heartbeat, it seemed now to be rushing by him in great gulps and swallows. First Edmund and Alice had been in the convoy. Then they were in the square. Now, they were lashed, motionless and hooded, before a largely silent crowd as Voldemort strutted and preened.

He could shoot Voldemort too, he reflected. But shooting Voldemort would create chaos, and there were too many people nearby. Someone would summon a Healer for him, and Aldon did not trust that he could make a headshot in a magical environment. He had been trained against it—Alex, and Lina, and every rifle-using dhampir had told him so over the last several months. In a magical environment, never go for the head shot. Always go for the body shot. Always double tap if you want to kill.

There were too many unpredictable factors in shooting Voldemort. But there were far fewer to shooting Edmund and Alice. If he shot Edmund and Alice, he would end their suffering quickly, as he promised every one of his operatives. If he shot Edmund and Alice, he would be ruining Voldemort's prized Examples. If he shot Edmund and Alice, they would die as a symbol of resistance, and not a symbol of the might of Voldemort and the Ministry of Magic.

"This will be the second time, Alex," he said finally, raising the rifle to his shoulder and waiting.

He didn't listen to whatever speeches were being given. When Umbridge took centre stage to read what he presumed were their convictions to the audience, he only glanced at her briefly before focusing back on his friends. He didn't care what was being said, because all that was important was his timing.

He waited. He waited until the speeches were over, the words disappearing into nothing, and he removed the safety from his weapon. He waited, his finger heavy on the trigger, until Vulture took the stage and strode towards the stake that held his closest friend in the entire world.

And then he shot Edmund twice in the chest, two silent shots that still echoed louder than Voldemort's words. Edmund slumped in his bindings, while Aldon twisted to Alice, his once friend, his once enemy, and delivered the same executioner's blow. Two shots, clean to the chest, and she too slumped forwards, still in death.

The crowd broke out in a riot of screaming and crying, pushing and shoving, a many-limbed mob that had wands and rage and very little else. That very little else, Aldon knew, meant they had very little to lose. They had never had anything, or maybe they had already lost everything, but a mob with nothing to lose was a vengeful, angry, multi-tentacled monster.

"Time to go," Alex said, grabbing Aldon by the shoulder and twisting for Side-Along Apparation. "My unit will make their way back without us—we have our own means."

Aldon didn't fight. He didn't protest, and he fell out of the Apparation in a roll intended to take him inside the safety of his grounds, his rifle still pressed tightly against his chest. He had shot Ed. He had killed Edmund and Alice, and the last remains of his past had gone with them. He was not the Aldon Rosier that they had grown up with—he had not been so in a very long time, but perhaps it was only now that the full impact struck him.

He was the Lord Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier. He was a halfblood, a Truth-Speaker. He was noble, but not very noble—his family still worked in business, as did he. On the surface, much was the same as it had been for years.

Where he differed was underneath. The Aldon that Edmund and Alice knew laughed more than was reasonable. He was often flippant, often teasing, often ready with an easy joke and sometimes one at his own expense. He liked theory more than most, shunning classes that involved getting his hands dirty in favour of more those with more books, more problems, more writing. Some might have considered him kind—Edmund had once called him kind—and he had been funny, and gentle, and curious, and essentially harmless.

Aldon now was the farthest thing from harmless. The Aldon that he was now was brittle and hard, his gentleness long since worn away to nothing, and he was ruthless. The Lord Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier had things he wanted, and he had killed and would kill more to see the world he wanted come into being. He was sharp, a pointed dagger, and he wanted more than he felt like anyone in the world could understand.

Francesca was waiting for him in his study, reading through a stack of Muggle scientific papers that her father had sent her from home. The packages, heavy with the weight of paper, came once a month, along with the Muggle highlighters and mechanical pencils and pencil leads that Francesca favoured. She stood when she saw him, her dark eyes immediately widening in mixed concern and shock as she took him in.

His rifle, slung over his shoulder with the safety on now that he was striding across the manor grounds, bumped the side of his desk as he reached her and wrapped his arms around her. Her hands, hesitant for a moment, pressed against his back—he was taller than her, and by a fair margin, though that spoke more to her height than his.

"I love you," he said, and his words were heavy, a stone-cold statement that he threw out like a challenge. "I love you, and what I do—everything I do—is so that I can have a chance. A chance to breathe freely—a chance with you. A chance to give both of us everything we ever dreamed of wanting. You understand that, don't you?"

There was a pause, and she turned her head into the crook of his neck. "I do," she murmured, her voice soothing his rough edges, wearing his sharpness down from cut glass to something a little more delicate, a little less dangerous. "I do, and I love you too."

He shut his eyes, feeling the tension falling away from his shoulders. Something else, something vast and empty and broken, filled the void.

XXX

"Diagon Alley has been rioting for the past two days," Lina said, standing and staring out into the crowded room. Not everyone was there, but anyone important had heeded her emergency call. The Lord Potter sat, his face fixed in a sombre expression, to her right; beside him was the Lord Black with deep bags under his eyes. Arcturus Black was there, his steely grey eyes roving the room, hand in hand with Hermione Granger, their British International Association liaison. Aldon sat on Lina's left, Francesca beside him; John Kowalski, their MACUSA liaison, lounged on her left. Further down the table, she spotted Ronald Weasley taking notes, Harriett Potter beside Lionel Hurst, Mei Ling Song and Benjamin Levstein with the young Lord Queenscove, Hannah Abbott on behalf of the shifter alliance, the Lady Ross on behalf of the Clans, the new Lady Prewett, the Lord Goldenlake, and a dozen others. Anyone of importance had made it to this meeting, which would have been dangerous had Voldemort not been preoccupied by the riots in Diagon Alley.

These were not peaceful riots. They were very far from peaceful riots, and while no one had a death count yet, they all knew it was rising. The people were speaking, Aldon's refusal to allow his oldest friends to die as Examples to the Public apparently the straw that broke the camel's back. There was a cost to doing nothing, and the people of the Alleys had paid it. They had paid it long ago, and they had now decided that they had nothing left to lose and everything to gain.

The Wizengamot itself had gone down in flames last night. No one knew who started it, but hundreds of people had piled on fuel, and things that should not have burned did burn. Of the Hall of Lords, the grand concave room where once hundreds of noble family seats had ruled, nothing remained. No chairs were spared—not of the Book of Gold, or Silver, or Copper, with no regard for Light or Dark. The Courts of Justice still stood, but its pristine white façade was now marked with grey and black in its own attempted burning. The Daily Prophet was gone—a mob had done what Voldemort had failed to do, more than a year ago, and brought down the whole six-storey building in a matter of hours. A third of Diagon Alley was gone, including most of the shops that had dominated the stretch close to the Wizengamot and the Courts of Justice.

"And this is a good opportunity for us," she finished, putting both of her hands on the table. Her heart was beating quickly, and she had the heady sense that this was it. She had been in the mercenary field for long enough, and she could feel by long-developed instinct that the end was within reach. All she had to do was take it. "Voldemort is occupied, and he's spreading his forces thinner than he can afford. If we can strike now, we should."

"We're not ready to strike," James replied immediately, the first objection that Lina had anticipated. "We had planned to move, at the earliest, more than a week from now. The troops just aren't ready, mentally or physically."

"But they'll never really be ready to strike," Ben, their other Stormwing, said reasonably from halfway down the table. "People never are. Going into battle isn't easy, not even for those of us who do it as a profession. Lina, when you say Voldemort is spread thin, what do you mean in concrete terms?"

Lina looked over at Aldon, who shook his head and looked down the table at Abbott. Abbott glanced in both directions, then she coughed a little and stood up.

"He—he has—" she stuttered, her eyes darting around the room and her cheeks turning red before her eyes narrowed and she forced out the words from sheer determination. Lina fought the instinct to snap at the girl in annoyance. Abbott couldn't help being a rabbit. "He has a third of his troops in the Alleys at any given time. It looks like he has split his army into thirds, onto an eight-hour schedule, to try to suppress or cool down the rioting. That—That's our best guess, two days isn't really enough for us to be sure."

"Voldemort himself is there?" Sirius asked, his voice sharper than usual, and Abbott flinched.

"N-no. He left yesterday in the evening and returned to Malfoy Manor. We haven't seen him leave since." Abbott's blonde hair, plaited out of her way, shook.

"Not his style, riot duty," Aldon drawled with a hint of dark humour. "It's too dirty, too common, and not enough glory."

"But even a third of his army is formidable." Hurst's voice was devoid of any inflection—there was no shock, no surprise, only firm statement. "The people remaining in the Alleys aren't battle-trained or battle-ready. The ones that were most likely to be able to put up a stand and fight were killed in the Fiendfyre attacks of last summer, and the ones who remain are mostly shopkeepers and the like. Desperation will only take them so far. I support moving up the attack, if only because, if we don't, what is left of the Alleys is likely to be crushed."

"You think they will be crushed?" Gareth the Younger of Naxen asked, from further down the table.

"I think it's inevitable," Hurt replied, turning to look at him. "Wands are expensive. In the neighbourhoods I knew the best maybe one in three had wands. It'll be higher in the wealthier districts, but even then, some of them will have been passed down in families and won't be as well-matched as a new wand."

"Do you have any idea how long they might hold out?" That was James, looking down the table in worry. "Do we have a death toll?"

"No firm numbers yet," Aldon said, at almost the same instant that Hurst replied, "No more than a week."

They glanced at each other, and then Aldon continued. "Putting together multiple reports, I would guess a minimum of a hundred and fifty deaths so far, and that may very well be a dramatic underestimation."

"There's just no cover—or at least, not enough that it would be effective," Hurst said, looking at James. "Some of the Guilds have taken in refugees, particularly the Healer's, the Farmer's, and the Craftsmen's Guilds, but for the most part people have just taken to piling wood, old furniture, and scrap metal to form barricades."

"Like in Les Misérables," Archie murmured, his soft voice carrying down the table as he hummed a snatch of song. "Probably even less effective on Voldemort and the Ministry of Magic as it was on the French army in 1832."

The Lord Queenscove snorted a laugh, though he was the only one. "Probably setting them up in flames and slaughtering them as we sit and argue."

"The Alleys have the benefit of numbers, but unless we move, even the weight of numbers isn't going to be enough," Hurst finished, glancing at Archie and the Lord Queenscove, who seemed to be among only a handful of people who understood their reference. "But if we attack Malfoy Manor now, they might have a chance."

"MACUSA can be ready to move quickly." John Kowalski carried himself with more maturity than Lina had expected of someone his age, and he scanned the faces of the people around the table. He was a Natural Legilimens, that fact being well-known internationally, and Lina had no doubt he was reading people's thoughts as he watched. "In under twelve hours, I think. They're already on alert."

"My unit can go into Diagon Alley," Alex added, his lip curling slightly at the mention of MACUSA. "We did pick up traces of vampire activity when we were going through two days ago. If Voldemort continues to have any vampire allies, that is where they will be stationed, and there is nothing like a riot for a vampire's hunt."

James was still shaking his head. "The troops are not ready," he emphasized. "We told them four to six weeks, a little under three weeks ago. They've been training and getting themselves ready, but they don't expect to be moving out for at least another week and a half."

Lina fixed her eyes on him, her face twisting into a scowl. "But this is war, James. Things happen that aren't expected, and this is an opportunity that we should not and cannot pass up, especially if it means essentially sacrificing the rest of the Alleys. If we move now, we have better stability for a coming state—we're more likely to be seen as heroes. Sirius, how are we on supplies?"

"Good," Sirius replied, resting one hand on James' shoulder. "We stepped up production of incendiaries, since Aldon was going to take half—Aldon, where is that at?"

Aldon winced and shook his head. "Unfortunately, with the action around the Rookwood execution, my informant did not have time to bring down Lestrange Manor. In the current circumstances, he will not have time. I didn't take any."

"We have more incendiaries than we had planned for, then," Sirius said, looking over at Lina. "Our other supplies are good as well. The ACDs?"

"Completed last week," Francesca replied, her voice tiny. "We—They were equipped on the last group of soldiers who were waiting for them about three days ago. Mostly simple models, just the single shield-spell."

"They haven't had enough time to train with them," James said, grasping at the opening. "How many are there?"

"Not as many as you would think?" Francesca paused, thinking. "Seven."

"We can put them into the Alleys with Alex's group," Lina suggested impatiently, looking around. "It will be a little less dangerous than the Malfoy Manor assault, since they'll be backed both by the dhampir and by the rioters, and they won't have Voldemort in the Alleys with them. It's not perfect, but this is the best chance we will have of ending the war. An extra ten days, two weeks, or more are not going to give us a better opportunity. Voldemort is weak, and while he is weak, he needs to send out a third of his forces to put down a public uprising. Now is the time to strike."

Silence met her words, then Ben leaned forwards. "I agree. I think even Master Moody would have agreed—he was risk-averse, but we can never completely eliminate risk. I think our chances now are better than if we strike as planned, especially if we have extra incendiaries."

"I think I'd agree too, James," Sirius said, glancing at his friend. "More time isn't really going to help us here—more time means Voldemort crushes or otherwise blocks off the Alleys, which was still where we were getting most of our supplies, and more time for him to rebuild his forces after the Alleys. More time helps him more than it helps us. I'm ready to go."

James sighed, shut his eyes, and put his head in his hands for a moment. "You do make sense," he admitted. "The troops won't be happy to hear this, but I suppose they never would have been anyway. All right. Aldon, you said that your informant hadn't managed to bring down Lestrange Manor, and that it is potentially the best place for Voldemort to fall back to, since he has all the Lestranges on his side. What can we do about that?"

Aldon laughed, a sharp sound like cut glass. "This is hardly my area, but I suggest killing Voldemort," he said, almost flippant, but his orange-gold eyes were deadly serious. "Killing Voldemort ends the war without question. But I'd also kill Lord Rodolphus Lestrange and Lady Bellatrix Lestrange given any opportunity, since they're the ones who have control of their Manor."

"And their son and Heir?" James pressed, since Aldon had said nothing about him.

"Forget their son and Heir." Aldon said dismissively, crossing his arms over his chest. "He's smarter than his parents are, and consequently much easier to manage. And I have a life-debt on him, remember?"

There was a murmur around the table, and Lina was surprised to realize that most of them, herself included, had indeed forgotten about the life-debt. It wasn't polite to mention such things, but at the same time, Society did tend to track these matters.

"Very well, then," she said, after a moment. "You'll manage the Heir Lestrange, if it comes down to it?"

Aldon inclined his head. "I will."

"Then let's get into planning. Abbott, what are the most recent movements at Malfoy Manor?"

Abbott stood back up. "With—with the riots in Diagon Alley, we see groups of about forty-strong entering and leaving Malfoy Manor at midnight, eight in the morning, and four in the afternoon. We think the guard schedules have weakened, because we haven't seen as many sentries as we normally do. In the twenty-four hours, we've only marked two patrols moving through the grounds."

"With a third of their army in the Alleys trying to suppress the riots, they're cutting back on the fundamentals," Mei Ling Song said, looking sharply at Abbott. "We can guess that another third will be exhausted and recovering. Their defense is going to be cut much sharper than merely by a third, and the primary concern will be the defensive spells. What do we know about those?"

"There were fire-blasts and explosive spells, as well as a nasty poison-gas spell the last time we struck." Sirius tilted his head to one side.

"Those are par for the course." Lina snorted. Every manor that fortified had similar spells embedded in the grounds; she was more concerned about anything odd, the difficulty being that normally one could never be sure of what spells had been embedded in the grounds until one walked out onto them. "Those can be worked around. Do we know about anything else?"

"I don't know that there will be much else," Aldon interrupted, somewhat unexpectedly. "One thing that must be considered is that Voldemort is not the master of Malfoy Manor. There is no current master of Malfoy Manor—Narcissa is not in line, and with Draco deceased, there doesn't appear to be a clear succession. In any case, Lord Voldemort is not the Lord Malfoy in magic, he is an occupier. That means that he cannot tie his physical defences or any new wards into the Malfoy keystones, which means he cannot tie it into the innate power of the grounds. Anything that he puts in needs to be fuelled and refuelled in magic by himself or by his army. We can assume that the Malfoy default spells, which included multiple fire-blasts and the poison-gas spell, remain since they are tied into the wards, but there will be less new than we expect."

"He does have all of the power stones," Sirius pointed out. "From the family heirlooms."

"A third of the power stones cracked under the strain of the Welsh barrier," Aldon replied with a shake of his head. "I imagine more of them have cracked since. Further, power stones are amplifiers only—they are not exactly like manor keystones, which also connect to the innate power of the grounds. Power stones simply decrease the amount of magic needed for a spell, but they do not obviate the need for refuelling."

"We—we didn't see a lot of work on the grounds, if that helps," Abbott added, a little timidly. "We track movement on the grounds, so if the spells need someone to walk the grounds, we tracked it. The last concerted effort for defensive spells we saw was about six or seven months ago. Several of Voldemort's followers, along with the Stormwings, walked around Malfoy Manor and buried small, black cylinders."

Lina thought about it—there were about a dozen defensive spells that would do that, but none of them were insurmountable. "Some sort of simulacra spell, I'd guess," she muttered. "But aside from that, you didn't see any odd activity on the grounds?"

"No." Abbott shook her head. "People r-rarely even patrolled on the grounds."

"So, we can probably expect the default Malfoy defensive spells," Sirius said with a frown. "Even those we set off previously?"

"Most manors have a set of default spells that will refresh themselves when they get old." Aldon tilted his head thoughtfully. "It's been almost a year since the last Malfoy Manor attack, so I would also expect an annual spell refreshment on the default enchantments that Malfoy Manor does automatically, which would also reset the basic wards. I should clarify that Voldemort can, of course, set up his own wards and defences—the fact that he is not Lord of the manor simply means that he can't set his spells to refuel themselves from the keystones. He must find another way or refuel them manually."

"From all reports of him, Voldemort is a Lord-level megalomaniac, in a type that has reoccurred throughout history," Lina commented, her voice harsh. "He displays nearly every trait, from the micromanagement to the disregard for his own followers. It's likely that he doesn't see the value in strong wards or defensive entrenchment—he has the power to survive, and to hell with most of his followers. With his kind of magical power, he can always get more."

"What about the wards, then?" Sirius asked, a concerned look crossing his face. "My brother—"

"It seems that Master Black successfully managed to avoid any attention being paid to him for some months," Aldon interrupted again, looking across the table. "During the first assault, it seems likely that we only encountered Malfoy Manor's default wards. Master Black, however, seems to have been caught out sometime after Scotland; he appeared on the attack on Grimmauld Place, and I engaged in a ward battle with him in the most recent attack on Rosier Place. Now that Voldemort is aware of his skills, we should expect a strong ward at Malfoy Manor. You will need more Ward and Curse-breakers with you."

"Funny story, that." James smiled, though it was more of a grimace than a smile. "We lost two of our Curse-breakers through the other assaults—one in Scotland in the Hebrides, the other at Weymouth. We haven't been able to recruit replacements. Even the first time, dismantling the wards was a challenge, so we'll need replacements."

"My brother Bill is a good Curse-breaker," Weasley said, looking up from his notebook where he had been taking minutes. He didn't look at his mother as he spoke. "He'll be itching to go. I'll speak to him."

"That's one." James nodded. "Does anyone know of at least one more?"

Lina glanced at Aldon, who had gone uncommonly still. At least a third of the people in the room were looking at him—he had said too much about wards, and about ward battles, for anyone to doubt that he could assist if he wanted. The silence lingered a moment too long, Aldon no doubt waiting to see if there was another volunteer before he looked up.

"Oh, very well," he said, and to his credit he was perfectly poised and showed no hint of hesitation or fear. "I simply thought that my comparatively poor duelling skills would make me a liability, but if there is no one else, I will go."

"You're the only one whose fought a ward battle," James noted, raising an eyebrow. "You would know Master Black's skills in that area best."

"Without a comparator, I really could not say," Aldon retorted. "I will do my best to assist the Curse-breakers in breaking the wards. Once I do, then what?"

"We can destabilize the default Malfoy Manor spells without too much difficulty," Mei Ling said. "We have an earth-mage. A strong vibration spell should trigger most of them, unless the owner of the spell is there to hold it."

"If we can get at least half of the incendiaries, my units can also begin preparing the grounds," Captain Flint added, with a vicious smile. "What your mage doesn't set off, we can try to do it with a bomb. That can be part of our covering fire."

"Not half of them," Lina interrupted sharply. "We will also need the incendiaries to inflict casualties on Voldemort's troops—we can't use them all on the grounds alone. Sirius, how many extra do we have?"

"About half as many again as we need," Sirius replied easily. "We can spare a third of the incendiaries and still have the number we expected to have for assault. Will a third do, Flint?"

Flint tilted his head one way and then the other in thought. "Fine," he said. "And I'll make sure to tell my unit that you would prefer if we chucked them at the other side and not just at the ground, too."

"What about the assault pattern?" Ben asked, looking around. "We have the numerical advantage, and I assume that you're going to recommend that we assault around four am tomorrow—less than twelve hours of warning, but it makes good sense. It's exactly between shifts, so we can rely on those out in Diagon Alley not to return for some hours yet, and most of everyone else will either be sleeping or exhausted and sleeping. It's the time that makes sense. But is there going to be any benefit to sending units around behind Malfoy Manor?"

Lina hesitated, trying to paint it out in her head. On one hand, dividing their forces would give them the opportunity to flank Voldemort's forces, if everything worked out the right way. But with a third of Voldemort's army in Diagon Alley, and at least another third likely exhausted from riot duty, they would likely be able to overwhelm them by sheer numbers in any case, since they would be throwing a full two hundred people at Malfoy Manor. The larger risk were the grounds—approaching from two different directions or more would mean having to disarm more of the defensive traps laid or falling victim to them.

"No, we're large enough compared to their units," she decided. "We simply assault from the front, I think—it means we only have to clear one section of ground, and then we can engage directly. The advantage we get from possibly being able to flank later just isn't good enough compared to the cost of needing to disarm two areas of the grounds. There is also strength in numbers."

Ben nodded slowly. "My thoughts as well. And Diagon Alley? Not that the Order cannot manage their own—I have heard much of their prowess." He nodded in respect at Alex, who inclined his head in turn.

"I'll go into the Alleys," Hurst volunteered, looking resolute. "I was—am—the Rogue of the Lower Alleys. The Alleys are my responsibility. I'll go with them."

"Take three units with you." James sighed heavily, checking the time. "With the rioters, that should be enough. It's nearly seven in the evening now. If we want to be at Malfoy Manor by four in the morning, then we have to move, and move fast."

"Get what sleep you can," Lina advised everyone, as they began standing up to leave. "Even three hours is better than none at all. Go, and I'll see everyone in approximately—nine hours."

XXX

Harry didn't question him about the Alleys. Leo was glad of it, though he hadn't expected that she would; Harry was one of the few people remaining who understood what the Alleys meant to him, who understood that whether or not he continued to be the Rogue of the Alleys when there was no Court of the Rogue, he still had a responsibility. The Alleys were rioting, and Leo had to be part of any group meant to provide them with aid.

He hadn't expected the argument that followed.

"No, Dad," Harry said firmly, glaring at her father in the kitchen, where Leo stopped to ask which units he would be assigned for the Alleys. Sirius was leaning against the counter, watching, while Harry stood with her hands flat on the kitchen table, her green eyes flashing. "I'm going with you to Malfoy Manor, with the main force. I'm not going to the Alleys."

"It's needed work, Harry." James' mouth was tight and creased with worry. "You have a good relationship with the people in the Alleys, and they need to see you there. Anyone can go to Malfoy Manor, but the Alleys don't trust just anyone. You should go with Leo."

"You're only sending me there because it's the safer assignment," Harry replied flatly. "And with Leo at the head, I'm redundant. The Alleys need him, but they don't need me, and I can do better work at Malfoy Manor. I know the grounds better than anyone else who's going, both from visiting Draco when we were in school and from our rescue mission."

"She has a point there," Sirius said, glancing at Harry. "We don't know as much about the Manor as she does—none of us do. She also has the most recent knowledge of inside the manor, and you know she's a fighter, James. She and Leo carried off every single one of their supply and sabotage missions without a hitch. She can take care of herself."

James turned, glaring at Sirius. "And if it were Archie?"

"Harry isn't Archie." Sirius sighed. "Unlike Archie, Harry's shown herself to be a good in a fight. If you want me to be fully honest, she's more than good in a fight—she's more experienced than half of the soldiers, and she and Leo have gotten themselves out of worse situations than most of them, too."

"She's not of age," James snapped. "And I'm her father!"

Sirius shrugged uncomfortably. "That just makes it look worse. We set an enlistment age of sixteen—there are at least a dozen enlisted soldiers who are younger than Harry, with fewer achievements to their name. You're also a commander—if you act to favour Harry, it'll hit unit morale, and with her achievements, you won't be able to tell them that the Alleys was the best posting for her. They just won't believe you, and they'll see it as you using your power to protect your own when you should be looking out for the interests of the entire army."

"She's just one sixteen-year-old girl!" James snapped. "How can it make that much of a difference if I want to protect her?"

"She's a sixteen-year-old girl who cured the Sleeping Sickness, defeated a basilisk, fought in the Triwizard Tournament on behalf of Hogwarts, and that was before she was old enough to take her OWLs." Sirius' smile was wry. "Since the war started, you've heard the rumours. Harry and Leo move mountains; no mission fails with them at the head. They've freed people and gotten them abroad, they've seriously damaged Voldemort's supply chains, they've made a hundred daring escapes from Voldemort's followers. If Leo has to be in the Alleys, and I think he needs to be, then Harry needs to be with the army. It'll motivate the troops and make them believe in the cause. I know that you want to protect her, but we always knew that some things would be more important."

"You're just saying that because you don't have to worry about Archie being there," James grumbled, looking away, but Leo could see that Sirius' arguments were having an impact. "Harry, couldn't you have been a Healer?"

"I've fought Voldemort before," Harry said, a hint of annoyance in her own voice as she ignored his question. "He's powerful. The more power you have, the better. I'll be at Malfoy Manor whether you want me to be there or not, Dad. It's just too important, but I would rather work with you than Apparate there on my own."

James sighed heavily, turning to see Leo standing just inside the doorway. "What are your thoughts on this, Leo?"

It was obvious that he was hoping Leo would come up with a reason why Harry was needed in the Alleys, and if he were fully honest with himself, Leo would have liked to be able to do that as well. The Alleys were the safer of the two postings—Voldemort would not likely be there, and there they would have the support of the rioters. There were no defensive traps in the Alleys that Leo did not already know about, and as the Rogue, Leo still held a few surprises up his sleeve.

But he couldn't. He glanced at Harry, and he recognized the determined set of her jaw, and the fact of the matter was that Leo didn't need Harry with him in the Alleys. The three units promised would be more than enough with the dhampir unit, the rioters, and his own knowledge of Diagon Alley. He might want to have Harry with him in the Alleys, but it wasn't the right place for her.

"I think that Harry is right," he replied, his voice slow and sure. "I wouldn't say no to having Harry with me, but between the troops, the rioters, and the defences set in Diagon Alley, we should have the Alleys covered without her. It's more important that Malfoy Manor goes down—if they do, most of the group in the Alleys will probably just surrender."

James shook his head, probably the only concession he could make. He could never agree, not when it was his daughter, but he had given up fighting it. "What are your plans then, Leo?"

"I need to know what units are picked out and ready to go," Leo replied, stepping further into the room. One more day, and the war would hopefully be over. One more day, and he could finally start the long healing process for the Alleys. He had long since come to realize that he would never start to heal from his losses until he could begin to rebuild his community. He survived, therefore he had to rebuild, therefore the Alleys could never fall. "The riots in the Alleys are already flagging from exhaustion. My mother at the Healer's Guild has water, Potions, and other supplies that we'll be able to run to the barricades, and I'll be able to trigger some of the inlaid defensive spells in Diagon Alley to rally people as well. Captain Dragić and his unit are already there, but their priority is hunting any vampires left, not relief for the people. We're going to go as soon as possible."

James paused. "We won't be ready to move for some hours."

"We'll have a long night ahead of us." Leo shrugged. "I'd like the freshest troops I can get, and enough Wideye Potion for one dose for everyone."

"There's enough Wideye in my lab—I've been stockpiling all the key Potions, and everyone seems to use Wideye more than most of the others," Harry supplied, with almost a guilty note. "Forty doses is nothing, go right ahead and take them."

"And take squads eight, nine, and eleven with you." James sighed again, though Leo thought this one was a mark of resignation and a resolution to move on. With the main strike happening not even twelve hours later, there was a lot to do to mobilize. "Two of them are stationed here and weren't on sentry today, and they have the last of the ACDs; the last one is at Queenscove."

"Thank you." Leo nodded, turning to leave.

At the doorway, he hesitated. He felt like he should say something more—he wanted to say something to Harry, but he didn't think pulling her away would be very appropriate at a time like this, and in any case, he didn't quite know what to say to her, either.

He had told her that he loved her when they were underneath Malfoy Manor, had kissed her even, but then he had been convinced that he was about to die. He had never intended on telling her anything at all until she was old enough, until it seemed like she might be receptive, but once it was out, it was not something that he could take back. But once they had returned, Leo had gone immediately to Queenscove for Healing, and then Harry had been grieving for her friend. They had never spoken of it, and as long as Harry didn't mention it, Leo didn't feel like he could.

It wasn't the right time. It might never be the right time.

He was about to leave with nothing said, but it was Harry who broke the silence. "Leo…" she said, drawing his name out softly. "Stay safe, won't you? And when I come back—when we win—then we'll talk."

Leo glanced over his shoulder. Harry wore a small, soft smile on her face, one that he had long since learned was her most genuine one. Without realizing it, his own face softened into a similar expression. "We'll do that, lass. You stay safe too—and take down a Lord-level wizard for us."

Her quiet laughter followed him as he headed to her Potions lab to find the Wideye Potion.

XXX

Francesca worried. She had been at the meeting—she had been there to talk about ACDs, because Aldon had wanted her there, and because John had been there, and she didn't even know the other reasons. She had been there, and she had watched as Aldon volunteered to go with the main army for the Malfoy Manor attack for his expertise with wards. She hadn't wanted him to volunteer, but her hand grabbing his under the table had been too slow, and she didn't think he would listen to her anyway. This was too important to him, so he couldn't listen to her.

She understood. The worst part was that she understood, so as much as she might want to fight him on it, tell him that he didn't need to do this, they didn't need to do this, they could just run away to America or France and just work on the ACD forever, she understood why he wouldn't. This was his home, and this was the chance for him to win everything he ever wanted—hold of his manor and the life he had been promised, political equality, everything. He would never be dissuaded from it.

That much was evident from his words to her yesterday morning. Everything he did was for a chance for his dreams. She had understood, because there was nothing she would not do for her ACD, but it made it very hard for her to ask him to stay with her now. But she still worried, because whatever practice Aldon had been doing in the training yard, he still wasn't a good fighter. Not compared to everyone else who trained in the training yard.

She hadn't even had time to talk to him about it after the meeting. He had disappeared into his study to prepare without anything else said to her, and she had been left on the other side of the door. She had stared at it for a minute or two, debating whether she should walk in to talk to him anyway, but she hadn't any idea what to say. In the end John, who understood better than anyone else the maelstrom of worry, understanding, annoyance, and anger in her head, pulled her away.

John wouldn't be going. MACUSA forces were providing backup on the attack, nearly forty military Aurors assigned to go into Malfoy Manor with the main forces. Of that number, a significant number were British-born, and had volunteered to be part of the strike force. John, however, was in Britain as a liaison only, not a soldier, so his request to go with the main forces had been denied. He didn't have the training, either as an Auror or a field medic, so he would remain with her at Rosier Place.

He was still a better fighter than Aldon. Where was someone to tell Aldon that he couldn't go?

She had a sinking feeling that if she didn't do it, no one would. And she wasn't even sure that she should be telling him not to go, because she understood why he would be going.

She found herself curled up in his sitting room, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands and a soft wool blanket around her shoulders, staring into the fireplace. It was the middle of June, but it was unseasonably cool, and the house-elves had set her a roaring blaze. She had tried to distract herself by reading—if not a scientific paper, then at least a romance novel—but she couldn't concentrate. The heavy clock on the mantle ticked the seconds and hours away, the mechanical sound incongruous with the rest of Aldon's very magical room.

She ought to have been sleeping. If Aldon was going to be leaving tomorrow with the Malfoy Manor strike forces, then the responsibility of watching the wards would fall to her. She would need to be awake at the same time or earlier, but she couldn't imagine sleeping now. Not when she was stiff with anxiety and worry, when her mind kept spinning on the same things, over and over and over again. She should say something to Aldon. But she couldn't. How could she say anything when she understood? But she still should say something to him.

It was around eleven when Aldon finally came into his rooms, a book under his arm. She looked up from the fire, feeling her neck creak from where it had been fixed for far too long. He looked sharp, but it was a sharpness borne of adrenaline—dark bags still hovered under his eyes, and his mouth was downturned in worry.

When he spotted her curled up in a corner of his sofa, however, he immediately smiled. "Not gone to bed yet, Francesca?"

She shrugged, setting down her half-empty cup of hot chocolate. "I couldn't sleep."

"You're worried."

"Of course, I'm worried, Aldon!" she snapped, straightening in her seat. "You're going tomorrow—you haven't slept—you're not really very good at duelling or anything—"

She cut herself off sharply, looking back at the fire and letting out a long breath. "I know this is important, and I understand. I just—it's dangerous."

That was it. That was all that hours of spinning had managed to put together in her sorry head: incoherent nonsense. Insulting incoherent nonsense, though she didn't think that Aldon would be upset about her pointing out that he wasn't very good at duelling. He knew as well as she did that he was persistently thrown in the dirt in the training yard, but she didn't like to mention it. Her mother always said that men didn't like having their weaknesses thrown in their faces.

His smile widened slightly, as if he could hear her thoughts and was amused, but Francesca knew that he couldn't. Her Occlumency was good enough to pick up anyone reading her thoughts. He crossed the room and settled down beside her.

"I'm quite a lot better than I used to be," he said conversationally, putting his book down on the table beside him and reaching out for her hand. "I'll be careful, Francesca—once I break through the wards, I'll fall back to the centre, where there will be many people to cover my back. Lina, Sirius, the Lord Potter and others will be taking the front. I—"

He paused, and there was a flash of uncertainty, then he looked away and dug in his pocket for a moment. A small wooden box appeared, one that Francesca didn't need to an explanation to identify. She fought the urge to jump up and screech—she and Aldon had been through this! She was too young, and in all their discussion over the last year, she thought it had been clear. She knew that Aldon would prefer otherwise, from his less than subtle hints every now and then, but she had always pointedly ignored them. That should have been, she thought, all she needed to say on that point.

But Aldon would be going into battle tomorrow. Battle was dangerous, and if Aldon didn't come back—

She didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to argue with him about it tonight. She didn't want to argue at all, tonight.

"I'm not asking," Aldon said quickly, his voice awkward as he held out the box. "Or—I'm not asking unless you want me to be asking, in which case I am asking. I don't want an answer. I—oh, Merlin, I'm making a hash out of this."

She took it, because she didn't know what else she was supposed to do. It was carved black wood, with a symbol that she recognized as the Rosier coat of arms embossed in silver on the top—three birds on a field. It snapped open with a flick, and inside, nestled in white silk, was a delicate silver ring.

No, not silver, she corrected herself as she picked it out to examine further. She couldn't tell for certain, but the sheen of it was slightly different than sterling silver, and there was intricate scrollwork detailing on both sides of the ring. White gold was more durable and held detailing better. At the top of the ring was a single large white pearl—big enough to stand out and impress, but not so big to get in her way.

It was a very beautiful ring, she had to admit. It was exactly the kind of ring that she would have picked out for herself: non-traditional, luxurious, but not ostentatious. She moved to put it back in the box, and caught Aldon's golden eyes, flickering orange in the firelight, staring at her with almost a longing, desperate sort of look.

She hesitated.

"You—you don't—" Aldon took a deep breath. "I don't want an answer now, and I don't want an answer until you want to give me one. I simply thought, if I didn't come back tomorrow, I'd have wanted to give it to you and to make my intentions known. If I don't come back tomorrow, everything in the manor is yours. My oath makes you next in line, and all you have to do is claim it. You'll know if I fall tomorrow. If I do come back tomorrow, then—then you can give me an answer then if you are prepared to give me an answer, or you can tell me you aren't ready to give me an answer, and I'll wait. I'll wait until you're ready to give me an answer, whether it be weeks, or months, or years. I'll always wait for you."

The last sentences had come out in a fluid rush, almost faster than Francesca could follow, but she understood. He wasn't asking, because he didn't know if he'd come back tomorrow. But he was asking, if he came back, even if he hadn't said the exact words and even if he didn't expect a reply. He was both asking and not asking at once, and it was all very confusing but somehow also very romantic.

"It's a very beautiful ring," she admitted softly, pulling it closer to her again. The firelight danced patterns in the sheen of the pearl, red and violet and green.

Aldon grinned, a bright look that Francesca realized she hadn't seen in many months. It took years off his age and made him look like the twenty-year-old that he was, and not the stiff, proper Lord Rosier to whom she had become accustomed. He looked like Aldon Blake again, if only for a moment, and for a moment Francesca had a flash of all the futures they had talked about together.

America. The ACD. Their college years, when he did a Mastery in Magical Theory while she did her degree in engineering. They could laugh, and there would be no war, and they'd work hard but it would be so much fun. They'd travel freely—Francesca would take him to New York City, and San Francisco, and Hong Kong, and they'd eat all the food and not have a single thought about sitting sentry on the wards, or being attacked, or defensive entrenchment. Aldon could heal from all the terrible things that she knew, even if he wouldn't tell her, that he had done, and life would be good, and peaceful, and full of pleasure.

He had to survive for that to happen.

Alex's words stuck in her head, Alex's words and every single tropey romance novel that she had ever read. There was power in love—love conquered all, love moved mountains, love threw people in impossible situations and made it possible. Dhampir in love had conquered powerful vampire lords and defeated vampire armies, even if that love made them more likely to disobey command in the name of love. Aldon loved her and she had no doubt that he was prepared to die in this action—but she didn't want him to die. She wanted him to come home, back to her, and that meant giving him hope.

She hesitated once more, then slipped the ring on her finger. "I'm just—just seeing how it looks," she stuttered, blushing furiously. "This—this isn't an answer, Aldon. I'm just seeing how it looks and feels."

"Of course," Aldon replied, his eyes bright and hungry as he slid closer to her. "But it is beautiful on you."

"It's a bit big," she retorted, only for something to say, but the moment she said so she realized that the ring had adjusted itself to her size. It had tightened, and now it fit perfectly. An enchantment, probably woven right into the gold. "Oh."

Aldon smiled. "Do you like it? Is it to your taste?"

Francesca nodded, feeling wrong and uncomfortable in her skin. She was impressed that Aldon seemingly hadn't noticed—she wasn't lying, strictly speaking, but neither was she telling the whole truth. "I like it. It's—I like it very much."

"I'm glad."

Francesca averted her eyes and looked into the fire. "We should—we should go to bed. It's only four hours until the call to muster, isn't it? We should both—try to sleep." Even so saying, however, she didn't get up. The fire was too warm and comfortable, and so was Aldon's bulk, sitting next to her.

"You can go, if you like," Aldon replied, letting out a deep breath and reaching for his book. "I don't know that I could sleep much anyway. I'm going to keep reading on ward battle strategy."

Francesca shifted slightly in her seat, hesitating. "I don't want to go to bed without you."

He looked down at her, thinking. "Then—it is comfortable here, isn't it? We can stay here. If you fall asleep, I won't mind. I'd like the chance to hold you, if I may."

Francesca thought it over and found herself nodding. It was comfortable, and Aldon was beside her, and if he didn't come back tomorrow then at least she would have this. "Okay," she murmured, and she leaned into him. "Wake me—wake me when you're getting ready to leave."

XXX

"Archie."

Hermione's voice came from his bedroom door, and Archie looked up. Her hair was a wild mess, stray curls forming a halo around her face, and the look on her face said that she had spent the last few hours in a stressful phone call with the BIA headquarters. With the Heathrow Portkey Hub in MACUSA hands, getting around had become even easier for her—she could Portkey out to Heathrow, to a hotel room that the BIA had set up for her nearby, and spend hours in conference calls with New York City. Things were coming to a head, and they were arguing on how best they could help.

Not recruitment—anyone prepared to return to England and enlist had already done so. But this was hopefully the end of the war, and asking people to commit to a week or two of immediate aid work was very different than asking people to commit to months of training and war. Hermione was hoping that they could get a dozen or more Healers from abroad to come in tomorrow or the day after. Whatever the result of the attack (and Archie hoped it would be success), there would be casualties. Archie himself had spent the last few hours gnawing away at the problem, considering their stocks of Potions and Healing capacity.

They didn't have enough Healers. They never had enough Healers. St. Mungo's was there, and they were formally neutral, but no one had trusted a St. Mungo's Healer not to turn them into the Ministry. Anyways, even St. Mungo's wasn't equipped to handle a war or war casualties, nor were they experienced in the sort of trauma or spell damage that war caused. Archie couldn't help thinking darkly that the resistance probably now had the best trauma Healers and medics in all of the former Wizarding Britain.

"How did it go?" he asked, turning in his chair and blinking away neat rows of Potion names and numbers of doses. "Can they send anyone?"

"They're doing a call and will arrange the plane tickets, but we can't expect them until at least tomorrow night." Hermione sighed, but it was tiredness, not disappointment. "Even that will be a miracle, but they'll be coming with a full stock of Healing Potions. Whatever happens tomorrow, we can use our entire stock to keep people alive if we need. They're also going to keep fundraising, because we're going to need quite a lot of financial aid to rebuild once the war is over. When we win, we can hope that BIA members will begin coming home, the way that Ireland and Scotland are already seeing."

"You're confident we'll win, then?" Archie quirked a small smile. Everyone else at Potter Place, from Harry, through Dad and Uncle Remus and Uncle James, had been grim and serious since they came back from Rosier Place.

"I have to believe we'll win." Hermione settled herself on his bed, in the room he had claimed at Potter Place years ago, used whenever he stayed over. Grimmauld Place was gone, but Archie was lucky, to have so many places he could call home. "If we don't win tomorrow, we'll likely end up being refugees ourselves. We're winning now, but we're throwing everything we have at this mission. If we lose here, I don't think we'll be able to recover. We've scraped the bottom of the barrel in terms of recruitment, and so has Voldemort. If we lose here, we'll probably have to just leave England in Voldemort's hands, content ourselves with having won Ireland and Scotland. It'll be a generation at least before we can try again."

"Those sound an awful lot like doubts, 'Mione." Archie's voice was still light, but he looked away. He knew that she was right—he had seen the reality in the meeting, and he still saw it in the cast of Dad's face, in the way that Harry had handed over hundreds of doses of the most common Healing Potions, in Uncle Remus' haggard expression and the stiffness of Uncle James' shoulders. "Have faith—we're in a good position right now. Someone has to have faith."

"That someone is you, Archie." Hermione had pulled her legs up onto his bed, leaning against the wall. "You're always the one that has hope. You believe so that the rest of us do, and I—"

She hesitated, tilting her head as if thinking about what she needed to say, and reached up a hand to rub her eyes.

"What is it?" Archie prompted, when she had been silent for a few moments too long. "You…?"

She let out a deep, steadying breath. "You need to be there tomorrow."

"What?" Archie blinked, taken aback. He had thought she was going to say that she loved him, or something similarly rare and precious and sentimental. "I—be there, tomorrow?"

"Yes." Hermione's nod was slow and determined. "Archie, you need to be there tomorrow. At Malfoy Manor."

"But I'm not a soldier," Archie said, his own voice shaking. "I'm a Healer, not a fighter. I wouldn't know the first thing to do, and Harry will be there. What use am I?"

"You're not Harry." Hermione's smile was small, and with a bit of surprise, Archie realized that her eyes were a bit wet. "Look—Archie—I don't really know how to put this. For me personally, and for the British-born but internationally-educated contingent, people like Derrick and Isran and so many others, you represent us. People like Lord Potter, or Harry, or even Dumbledore, they cared about Muggleborns and halfbloods being sent abroad in a broad, principled sort of way, but they never really met us or understood us or anything. They argued over our rights in the Wizengamot, they made deals over us—but you went and you stood a trial to say that the laws were wrong and you were going to take a run at them, and you weren't going to make any backroom political deals over them. I'm not sure I can ever explain to you what that meant to me, or to any Muggleborn or halfblood who was kicked out of Britain to go to school."

She paused, looking away slightly, gathering more words. "That was where it started, but after that, there was Bridge—you went and you talked about things that no one ever had before. From Muggle books to movies to ideas of mass emancipation, you went and made them available to the wizarding public. And it wasn't that no one had the ideas before, but no one dared to say them. Then, when attacks started happening, you told everyone what happened. We published exposés about attacks that were happening, we told people the truth, and people started picking up Bridge for it. Our readership became more than just people who were born in Britain but sent abroad; you picked up a readership that included purebloods, halfbloods and Muggleborns, noble and non-noble, and we came to be trusted. You came to be trusted."

"I don't see—" Archie tried to interrupt.

"No, let me finish." Hermione let out a long breath. "Whatever happens, the Malfoy Manor attack is important. You need to be there to tell people what happened later, to make sure that deaths aren't forgotten. Lina doesn't care, and your Uncle James is too practical for it, and they're all going to be too busy actually fighting to be able to see the bigger picture. And we need the bigger picture—if we win, we need to make sure that our losses are remembered, and if we lose, we can't let the narrative be dictated by Voldemort. We just can't. You need to be there."

Archie bit his lip, Hermione's words rolling through his mind. She was right—she made sense, as she always did, and Hermione was the voice of British-born newbloods and halfbloods who had left Britain. If she thought something was a good idea, then it probably was a good idea.

"A poor job it would be if I'm killed straight off, though," he replied, trying to sound light, but his mind was already turning. If he could make a difference, he had to do it. He had to go. "I have one of Chess' ACDs. A good one."

"That's not going to be enough." Hermione shook her head. "I know, it's a tall order—"

"And I have a broom." Archie interrupted, snapping his fingers. Or, well, Harry had a Firebolt, and Archie was sure that Harry wouldn't mind him borrowing it. Or, well, Harry in normal circumstances wouldn't mind him borrowing it, though she would probably lose her mind if she knew he was going to borrow it for this, but the cause was a good one and sometimes, it was better to ask for forgiveness instead of permission. "The air is safer, isn't it? Marcus is my friend, or he was once. I'll go with the air troops—I'll have a bird's eye view of everything, but I'll be protected."

Hermione smiled, but the effect was ruined when she reached up to wipe her eyes. "I know it's dangerous, Archie, but—but it's important. When you're out there, don't do anything stupid, and just observe. Let Flint and his unit handle any attacking, and just—just be there. Be there, observe, take notes if you need to, and don't get killed."

There was a part of him that was inclined to make a joke, but she was too serious and worried. Instead, he went over to her, wrapped his arms around her and pressed a kiss onto her cheek. "I'll be careful," he promised. It was all he could do. "I'll be so careful, and Marcus will look after me too. We'll win, and then tomorrow at this time, we'll be making plans to rebuild Wizarding England for the future."

Hermione sniffled, wiping her eyes again. "That sounds nice, Archie. That sounds so, so nice."

XXX

ANs: And we're almost to the end! Yay! Thank you to like the 3 readers who have stayed with me so far, and to meek_bookworm who is very happy to be done betaing everything. I couldn't have managed without you! Next chapter is more-or-less the final chapter and will be up next week, then there'll be a short epilogue up for New Year's, and then we'll be done! As always, leave a comment or review to cheer me up!