Vanguard

by kitsunerei88

[Sequel to Liar Liar and From America With Love] Revolutions don't begin with spellfire and flying Molotov Potions. Revolutions begin with people. This revolution begins with a pureblood boy standing trial for a ruse he and his halfblood cousin have perpetrated, and a halfblood bastard with a gift for uncovering secrets.

2. Chapter 2

The Black residence was a strange place, Aldon concluded, not even a full week later. It was completely unlike any noble residence he had ever been in, and that included, aside from his own house, the Averys', the Parkinsons', the Malfoys', the Selwyns', and those were only the ones he remembered off the top of his head.

It was a lot smaller, for one, only a blocky house in a row of identical houses in London. It had obviously been expanded in the interior, but it still only included two sitting rooms, one dining room, and no parlours at all. It seemed that at some point all the parlours had been converted into bedrooms, but there were still only eight or so bedrooms. The grounds were non-existent by comparison to most noble manors – there was only the tiny front garden, home to the dozen or so lime-green snakes that the Lord Black apparently kept as pets, and a small backyard.

At least the library was adequate. It was only two storeys, but it was crammed full of books, the equal of any other noble library. It was a little lacking on magical theory, but then, most were. At present, Aldon was pacing through it, scanning the titles to see if there was anything that could possibly be useful. He didn't think there would be; the Blacks had been pureblooded for as long as anyone could remember. Their motto, until this generation, had been Toujours pur. The chances of there being a Truth-Speaker memoir in the Black library were slim to none, but he had to look.

As strange as Grimmauld Place was, library excepted, it didn't compare to the residents who lived there.

First and foremost, there was Arcturus Rigel Black, or Archie Black, as he preferred to be called. He hated the name Rigel, which turned out to have been used near exclusively by Harriett Potter when she was masquerading as him. Arcturus was just Archie, or Arch, and if Aldon ever used the name Arcturus to refer to him, Archie would gently correct him. If Aldon persisted in calling him Arcturus, he would mysteriously go deaf on him and start showering his girlfriend, Hermione Granger, with attention. It was annoying, uncomfortable, and somewhat nauseating.

Archie Black was nothing like Harriett Potter. He was lighter, more inclined to laughter, more inclined to teasing his friends and to easy banter. That wasn't to say that he couldn't be serious; to the contrary, Archie Black had a core of iron, which Aldon got to witness first-hand when he sat in on Archie's meeting with his lawyer, Percy Weasley, a few days ago.

"Have you reconsidered, Archie?" Percy asked, with a curious glance at Aldon and Hermione Granger, whom Archie had both said could stay. "Rosier. What are you doing here? And you, Miss…"

"Consulting," Aldon replied idly, leaning back in his chair. "I am… Archie's guide to Wizarding British society, you could say."

"And Hermione is my girlfriend," Archie finished cheerfully. "And my official liaison with the British International Association – have I mentioned that I'm a test case for them? No, I haven't reconsidered anything. Tell the Ministry to take their plea deal and shove it."

Percy paused, looking at both Aldon and Hermione. "At this point, Archie, I should advise you of the limits of solicitor-client confidentiality. I strongly suggest you reconsider having anyone present at our meetings – it weakens any later claim you might have to the privacy of our discussions, since you have consented to having others present."

"It's fine." Archie waved a hand. "I'd rather have them here than not. Hit me with it, Percy – what have you got for prospective defenses?"

Percy sighed heavily, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "Nothing good. Here are your options, the way I see it." He opened his briefcase and pulled out a pad of paper – Muggle paper, incidentally.

"First, you could simply allow me to challenge the evidence. The entirety of the prosecution's case rests on the interview – if I manage to get your interview tossed for unreliability, then I can try to raise reasonable doubts with the other facts. The only other item of importance is the fact that she was unmasked in the Tournament, and that Rosier identified her – Heir Rosier, if you have not received it yet, you should be expecting a summons."

Aldon sighed, putting his heads in his hands. He had not expected that, in fact, but he ought to have. He would have to find some way out of it. "I have not, no. Thank you. Please, no titles. Aldon is fine."

"Aldon, then. The prosecution is relying heavily on the interview, so it may not have occurred to them yet," Percy conceded. "But you should expect one. In any case – that defense relies on successfully excluding the interview for unreliability, which I may be able to by playing on our stereotypes of American magic. The original interviewer is American, and he won't attorn to our jurisdiction by answering the summons, so it should be possible to cast some aspersions on the quality of his journalism. Once that is done, there is only the fact that Harry was found in the Triwizard Tournament on the Hogwarts team, and there would be no evidence of a years-long ruse for her benefit. I would argue that merely being on the Triwizard Team, in this case, was not a benefit. It isn't a good case, but it could be enough to raise reasonable doubt."

"I'm vetoing that." Archie's voice was immediate and decisive, and judging from the way that Granger's lips were pursed, she agreed with him. "I don't want to be playing on any stereotypes about the unreliability of American mages. British Muggleborns and halfbloods have mostly been trained in America for the last forty years, and even suggesting that they are unreliable in any way is not something I'm willing to do. I'm American-trained, Hermione is American-trained. What else do you have?"

"I suspected you would say that." Percy shook his head. "Other than that, you have your excuse-based defenses – these are defenses that admit the facts but provide you with an excuse for why it wasn't wrong in your circumstance. Self-defence is the most common of the excuse-based defenses, but try as I might, I couldn't come up with a way that your years-long ruse was in self-defence. Instead, the best I could come up with was necessity."

"Necessity?" That was Hermione, leaning forward in her chair. "Explain."

"Yes, necessity. The necessity defense was developed through a case in which some sailors were stranded, killed a seventeen-year-old boy and ate him." Percy smiled slightly, even as Aldon felt an uneasy churn in his stomach. "Well, we don't need to go into the details of that case, though they really are quite interesting, though necessity was explicitly rejected in those circumstances. R v Dudley and Stephens, if you're curious."

"I'm not. I'm really not." Archie's face was painted with disgusted horror. "Just… go on, please."

"So, the basis of the necessity defense was you had no choice but to break the law. Answer me this – had you refused to go through with the ruse, what would Harry have done? How desperate was she to work under Professor Snape?"

Archie tilted his head to one side, thinking about it. "Desperate enough. She wouldn't have come up with the ruse otherwise. If I refused, I'm not sure what she would have done – she was desperate enough to go through with the ruse, and I can't see her just walking away from it if I had said no. Later, we would talk about switching back, but it was never a serious option. For either of us."

"Do you think she would have found another way to go to Hogwarts?" Percy asked, his voice delicate.

"That's not out of the question." Archie shook his head. "I don't know what else she could have done, but if she had another way, she would have taken it."

"Fine." Percy nodded once, satisfied. "This may work. There are two parts to this argument, but they both rely on the fact that, at the time you entered into the ruse, you believed that she would have found another way to go to Hogwarts even if you hadn't helped. In that case, it was necessary for you to enter the ruse, because it was the lesser of two evils to do so."

"The lesser evil," Aldon repeated, intrigued despite himself. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"Well, first, you could argue that you knew, from when she was young, that she was a Potions prodigy and that it would be beneficial to the world for her to go to Hogwarts and study under Professor Snape." Percy's lips twisted slightly. "On one hand, this argument is good because it lets us bring in the things that Harry did while she was at Hogwarts, many of which were absolutely in others' interests: curing the Sleeping Sickness, killing the basilisk. She saved lives when she was at Hogwarts, and using this argument lets us highlight that. However, the difficult part is that you could not have known, at eleven, that she would go on to do this."

"I was sure Harry was destined for something special," Archie argued, grey eyes lighting up. "I knew she was destined to be great. She was studying Potions books when she as four, Percy, brewing on her own by the time she was six. It was crazy, and we all knew that she was going to do great things, especially in Potions. She deserved to go to Hogwarts and study under Master Snape!"

Percy held up a hand, even as Aldon and Hermione exchanged quick, skeptical, glances. "Let me finish, because there is a second aspect to this argument. We would also use some very old case law to say that you had a duty to her to ensure her safety. We would have to argue that whatever she would do instead of the ruse to go to Hogwarts would have been more dangerous and risked her life, in which case it would engage your obligations, as a pureblood and as a noble, to do your utmost to protect her. The problem with this is that it's old law, and you don't know what Harry would have done anyway."

"It sounds good to me, though," Archie said, his voice hopeful. "I think those are good arguments, Percy. Let's go with that."

Hermione groaned, and Aldon agreed with her. "It's a terrible argument, Archie," she snapped. "No, not blaming you, Percy – Archie, step back and look at the big picture. You would basically be making the argument that it was necessary for you to help Harry with the ruse because either you mysteriously knew that Harry would go on to save lives and do wonderful things at Hogwarts, and, at the same time, you were convinced that she would do something even more stupid and dangerous to go to Hogwarts and you had to intercede. It's incredible."

"I can live with incredible." Archie grinned, his voice teasing.

"She means that as in, not credible," Aldon interjected dryly, slamming down on Archie's disturbing good humour. "Hermione is correct. It doesn't make any sense, and it's absurd."

"But will it work?" Archie's voice was winning.

"Only Justice can tell." Percy shook his head, grim. "I do have more arguments I can use for mitigating your fine, though. Many of the arguments around Harry's actions at Hogwarts will be helpful there, as well as your own past and your reasons for going to AIM. But those will be even more effective if you plead guilty, even if you don't take their plea deal."

Archie sighed. "All right. Let's take another few days to think about it. I'm sure that, between the four of us, we'll come up with a couple more options."

The couple more options were what had Aldon fruitlessly scouring the Black Library over the past few days. He had an idea. He could swear that he had read something in the memoirs of past Truth-Speakers. Their powers weren't limited to lie detection – indeed, the memoirs suggested that lie detection was really a side-effect of their true powers, which related to their role in the wizarding courts. They were not judges, Aldon didn't think; they were called on only for cases of national importance, almost entirely treason cases, never anything with anything less than a capital sentence. The mention of it in the memoirs that Aldon had, that of Lady Jane Dalmore and her sisters, mentioned it only obliquely with some combination of resignation, respect, and a hint of nervousness or fear. There was something more to it, and Aldon wanted to know what. If he could work out what, then perhaps there would be another option, a better option, for all of them.

He would have liked to get access to the Potter Library. The Potters had never been pureblood supremacists, and the chances of there being a Truth-Speaker memoir in there that he hadn't read yet were much higher than here. Unfortunately, he had no relationship with Lord and Lady Potter, and from what Archie said, it sounded like Lord Potter was less than impressed with him over his stunt at the last Gala.

"The Potter Library?" Archie rubbed the back of his head. "Uh, I'd like to say yes, but..."

"James is highly strung enough as it is, with Harry having disappeared," Lord Black, who insisted Aldon simply call him Sirius, said bluntly. "And he has a thing about you because of the Gala proposal, and based on the Triwizard Tournament, he knows you were involved with her somehow. I'll talk him around, give me another week."

Aldon scowled, slamming a title he had been looking at back onto the shelf. He had saved Harriett's life, sort of, and didn't that count for something with Lord Potter?

And it was just a proposal. It hadn't even been a serious one! He had known it would be rejected – indeed, Aldon had planned on using the rejection to play up a tragically broken heart for the next year or so to avoid any other arrangements. That was par for the course among Wizarding British nobility.

Though, in all honesty, Aldon didn't think that the match would have been a bad one. Harriett Potter was interesting, and that was more than he could say of most noble girls his age. She would certainly have been a better option than most. And he couldn't deny that the Potters' traditional Light politics would have appealed to the Muggleborn and halfblood employees at the Rosier Investment Trust, and played very well with international investors. The Potter Library, too, likely contained more personal records of halfbloods which would have been burned or quietly removed from most other libraries.

Over the past few days, he had gotten through about three-quarters of the Black Library. Most of the books, he only had to glance at the title to know that it wasn't relevant. The most time-consuming part was when he found something that might have something important, such as an old family journal, then he would have to sit and read it. He had come across a few over the past few days, nothing useful. He thought, or maybe he hoped, that there were better memoirs in the Potter Library, but he supposed he would have to rely on Lord Black to negotiate access on his behalf.

Lord Sirius Orion Black was as odd as his son. Like many noble Lords, he didn't work, though Aldon knew he had worked as an Auror in the past. On and off, he saw Lord Black practicing his duelling in the backyard with one of Archie's uncles, Remus Lupin, but otherwise the Lord Black seemed wholly focused on his son. He was often near wherever Archie was, laughing uproariously as Archie regaled him with some tale or another of one of his American adventures.

On occasion, though, the Lord Black would become reclusive, retiring to the formal sitting room with a box of parchment scrolls and a Pensieve. His expression then would be dark, a glass of Firewhiskey on ice in one hand.

"Don't, Al," Archie said, touching Aldon on the shoulder. Archie had taken to simply calling him Al at times, a name that Aldon hated with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.

"Aldon," he corrected stiffly.

"Al," Archie said agreeably, and Aldon scowled up at him. At not even fifteen, Archie was taller than him by a few inches. "Don't worry about Dad – he's having his world turned upside down. I'll handle it, go work with Hermione on coming up with a few new ideas on my trial strategy."

Aldon had sighed and nodded, lip curling as he went on a hunt for Archie's girlfriend. He emphasized the word girlfriend because he had no idea what else to call her; it was what Archie called her, and they could not be betrothed, with Archie still being formally betrothed to Harriett Potter, and while it was obvious that they liked each other very much, the whole thing was quite unseemly.

Archie had terrible taste in women, Aldon thought, leaning down to look at the bottom-most shelf of his row. Aldon hated working with Hermione Granger. The only time he and Hermione had agreed on anything was in their meeting with Percy; otherwise, she was the most unladylike, aggressive, bossy, interfering know-it-all that Aldon had ever met. She was sharp, quick to challenge anyone and everyone, vociferous in her defense of her ideas, and Aldon couldn't have a single conversation with her without it turning into a heated argument. They argued over everything: over his etiquette, over what constituted appropriate clothing, over Aldon's use of the words "Muggleborn", "witch", and "wizard", over possible trial strategies, over what Archie should wear for the trial and how much he ought to play up his pureblood and noble status, over anything and everything. And somehow, Archie looked at her like she hung the moon.

They did fit together well though, he reflected begrudgingly, running one hand along the some of the most cracked titles in the Black library. Hermione brought a seriousness to Archie that he sorely needed – no one else was as effective at getting him to sit down and focus on the task at hand, and similarly Archie was always able to charm a smile out of her, calm her down when she got too angry or upset. Still, that didn't mean that Aldon had to like her.

The door to the Black Library cracked open, and Aldon looked up, seeing the slight Asian girl whose name he hadn't quite caught yet. John Kowalski called her Monster, while Archie called her Chess, and he thought he had heard Hermione call her Francesca once. He suspected it was the last one that was her name (surely Americans did not name their children Monster or Chess?) but he wasn't entirely sure, and he didn't want to ask.

She had a book tucked under one arm. "Oh," she said quietly, looking down on the floor. "Sorry. Um, excuse me."

She disappeared, and Aldon went back to his skimming. That had been typical for her – she had spoken very little to him and seemed inclined to avoid him altogether. Which wasn't to say she wasn't friendly with the others – when Aldon caught Archie and his friends together, she was often there, a book or mug of tea in hand, a small smile on her face as she listened to their chatter.

Aldon was fairly confident that she was John Kowalski's betrothed, or the American equivalent thereof. They went out together nearly every day, exploring the tourist sights of Muggle Britain together, visiting John's family, the Scamanders, and they would come back laughing, always bringing back something small for Archie. It was rare for Aldon to see her without John at her side. And there was something about the way they looked at each other, the way they treated each other. She always seemed to look for him first when she entered a room, and she would gravitate towards him if he was there. They exchanged glances at least as often as Archie and Hermione did, looks full of meaning, and Aldon noticed the way that John fussed over her. He always kept an eye on her meals, always found a way to slide something else on her plate, always made sure she was warm enough, with a seat by the fire, a blanket, and once, his own sweater.

John Kowalski was a lucky bastard, Aldon reflected. The girl was stunning – every time he caught a glance of her, he would be momentarily taken aback by her beauty. Her hair was thick, but never out of place, always falling in either a perfect cascade halfway down her back or put up and out of the way in an elegant bun or tail, not a single flyaway hair to be seen. Her eyes were large, dark, and inviting, her lips a natural pink full of promise, her skin flawless, with a warm glow. She was always well-dressed, from what Aldon saw – it was Muggle dress, but she always wore skirts, falling to her knees, and some sort of tight leggings underneath with trim, fashionable, heeled boots, a fitted cardigan that emphasized her slender form, her delicate curves.

That didn't even touch on her personality. She was everything that Hermione was not: soft-spoken, respectful, demure. She reminded him of some women of his acquaintance, like the Lady Bridgerton, who was pureblooded but not noble and yet behaved so properly that no one would have ever guessed she had not been born noble. Francesca, if that was her name, was sweet and gentle, and quite proper by the way that she avoided being alone with him, the way she avoided eye contact with him, since they had not been formally introduced. And it all seemed to be quite natural, without a hint of the calculation Aldon so often saw, which only reflected better on her. Had Aldon been so fortunate as to be able to call the girl his betrothed, he had no doubt he would treat her much the same as John did, giving her and her family no reason to break the betrothal contract for unsuitability. Then he would have wedded her as soon as possible – at seventeen would have been his preference, but certainly immediately after her graduation. She was a prize for any noble House. He wondered vaguely what her blood-status was – it could have really been anything, he supposed, though he knew John Kowalski was a halfblood.

He finished with one row of books and moved onto the next. The thing he hated most about private libraries is that they weren't sorted in any consistent way. This row seemed to be mostly old school textbooks, but he still had to go through it just in case something else had worked its way in.

John matched her well. From what Aldon understood of international politics, the Kowalskis were well-known and well-respected in the international wizarding community. His father was the Head of Foreign Affairs at the Magical Congress of the United States of America, his paternal grandparents were war heroes from the Grindelwald Wars, his older sister Porpentina Kowalski had recently taken a post as a junior prosecutor at the International Wizarding Criminal Court in Geneva. John himself was a Natural Legilimens, and Aldon had seen him duelling both the Lord Black and Lupin in the backyard. Between his gift, the new channelling method he used in the Tournament, and his own skill, John held his own, sometimes coming off the better, more often not.

Remarkably, John also seemed to be given to giving people chances. Aldon knew well that John had found more in his mind than he had said. To Archie, to Hermione and the rest, John had only given general information about him and his role in facilitating Harriett's escape from Hogwarts that Aldon had stupidly not thought to reveal upfront. He hadn't mentioned Aldon's past relationship with alcohol at all, though his words, you're a liar, echoed in Aldon's mind every now and then. Aldon hadn't pressed him on it, and it seemed like, so long as Aldon posed no threat to either John or his friends, it would remain that way.

Aside from Archie, John had to be the friendliest member of the Black household, occasionally finding time to chat with Aldon about something or other – Quidditch, something called Quodpot that was popular in America, the Triwizard Tournament, places they had both seen and knew of in Wizarding Britain. Once or twice, he had even invited Aldon to join him and Monster on their Muggle sightseeing trips.

Monster. That was a rather odd nickname, wasn't it? If Aldon had been the lucky bastard to have that beautiful girl on his arm, he was sure he would have found a better nickname for her than that. Still, maybe it was ironic – certainly, she didn't seem to mind.

Nothing in this row, and Aldon shook his head, moving onto the next. This row was mixed, and he sighed deeply. The only good thing about this row is that it was the last one he hadn't searched. Of course, because it was the last row he searched, it was full of the oldest books, including more than one journal or memoir, and a third of the titles were in French. He swore softly under his breath and started cudgelling his brain through the language that, despite his mother's efforts, had never really penetrated.

Put together, Grimmauld Place and its residents created an environment like none other. It was alive, in a way that Aldon had never experienced before. Rosier Place was icy in its stillness – at home, Aldon spent most of his time alone in his comfortable parlour, in his bedroom, and the common areas sat empty most of the time. His father was always preoccupied with Rosier Investment Trust, and his mother was often away in France, handling the Trust's assets abroad or otherwise enjoying her time in the country she loved. Other than dinner, dominated by talk about the Rosier Investment Trust, they spent little time together.

There was always something happening at Grimmauld Place. Archie was always in one of the common rooms, and he was never alone. He was always with his dad, with his girlfriend, with one or another of his friends, he was often laughing about something or other. People that Aldon didn't know, friends from America, things that Aldon had no idea about. Archie often, in these conversations, spoke about movies, about fiction, or about musicals, and Aldon couldn't really follow.

Sometimes, it was an utter and complete nightmare. The worst day, bar none, Aldon had walked into what looked like a pranking war. Archie had just launched a spell of some kind at his father, and the Lord Black was laughing as he deflected it. John was sheltering his betrothed behind him with the Fortis spell, using the new channelling method that he had had in the Tournament, slowly ushering her towards the kitchen, out of harm's way. Hermione was standing in one corner, head in hands, seemingly utterly resigned to the chaos reigning around her.

"Excuse us," Kowalski had said to him with a quick smile. "Monster doesn't like pranks, so we're out of here. We're going to explore Oxford today, want to come?"

"No, but thank you for the offer," Aldon had replied, with only a brief glance towards the girl hiding behind John's bulk. He was itching to ask about the new channelling method that John was using, which seemed to be coming from the bulky, oblong contraption on his wrist, but evidently, now wasn't the time. He would have to remember to ask him later about it. "I have to start looking through the Black Library – I have an idea, but I think I need a little more support before I can present it to Archie."

Kowalski shrugged. "Suit yourself. See you later."

More often, Aldon would show up to find Archie in the sitting room, reading Muggle fiction that the girl and Kowalski were bringing back for him, one arm around his girlfriend. Archie liked touching – he enjoyed physical contact, and he was often curled up close to his girlfriend, one hand on her or arm around her. It was uncomfortable, but at least he hadn't walked in on them kissing or, god forbid, anything else. Sometimes, instead of a book, Archie would be listening to music on what looked like a Muggle device that Aldon didn't recognize.

He itched to take a closer look it, but any time he saw it, Archie had something like earmuffs over his head, and he clearly wouldn't hear whatever Aldon was asking him. He always made a note to ask him later, because Archie was open and cheerful about explaining things, but by the time Archie had put it away, Aldon would have been distracted by something else and it would have slipped his mind. He always kicked himself for it later, because the device was just too curious and he really did want to know more about it, from an academic standpoint. Just like John's new channelling method. He always meant to ask, he just kept forgetting, between the general activity of the Black residence and the other things he was doing.

Surely someone couldn't have worked out how to make Muggle devices work in magical environments? That was one of the biggest problems of modern magical theory. Something would have been announced, or published, had it been solved. Even if the news had been censored coming to Wizarding Britain, Aldon still received a contraband copy of the American Journal of Magical Theory, and he would have heard about it. It was more likely to be a magical version of something that Muggles had, but even then, Aldon was a little surprised not to have heard about it. Something like that necessarily brought in magical theory principles, and there should have been multiple articles, announcements, commentary from other magical theorists, widespread fanfare about it. He would absolutely have to ask about these items soon.

If Archie wasn't in the sitting room, he was often in the kitchen, talking with his friends or his dad over steaming mugs of coffee, or studying a large, flat book with a Muggle notebook beside him, taking notes with a pen. Aldon did like coffee, and often partook – the Blacks had good taste when it came to coffee, and it was rich and dark, with undertones of caramel and toffee.

"If you don't mind me asking, what is that?" Aldon had ventured once, eyeing the book as he took a break from his search for a cup of coffee. Aldon recognized some of the symbols lining the side; a music rune, a brightness rune, a darkness rune. A writing rune. The music rune obviously turned on and off the music held in the book – Archie tapped it, listening carefully to the song that the book was singing to him, then turned if off. Aldon didn't recognize the song.

"My script. Grease," Archie had replied absently. "I'm in my school theatre troupe – I'm preparing auditions for all of the male roles, since I don't think I'll be able to prepare much through the trial."

Sometimes, he would hear Archie singing something with the pretty girl, her high soprano weaving through his tenor. The song was about summer loving and made Aldon blush, and he didn't think her voice matched with the song at all, but apparently Archie had insisted that he needed someone to help him practice the duet. Hermione had outright refused to help and had shoved their other friend into his incessant rehearsals instead. That song wasn't even the worst of them – for that, Aldon would have picked Greased Lightning, because he would eat his hat if it was about any method of transportation!

He had found a shelf that seemed to be entirely memoirs, and he started pulling them out. The first few all seemed to be from Healers, and Aldon flipped through them, then shook his head and put them back. Archie had probably read them, and he hadn't seemed to know much about Truth-Speakers when John had explained the gift, so he could almost certainly rule them out. Now he only had to read about… nine different memoirs on this shelf. Three of them were in archaic French.

He sighed, pulled them all out, took them to the centre table, and started reading.

He was only two volumes through, with nothing of importance, when he felt a suspicious tug at his core. He bolted upright – something was wrong, something was off, and it was nothing that he had ever felt before. He slowed his breathing, focusing, listening to his core.

There was a song there, and there was a spell woven into the song. It was a compulsion spell, and it pulled at him, pulled at something he knew. He grabbed onto the table in front of him, anchoring himself, and mentally he let the spell in, let the song tell him what it wanted.

It wanted him to Apparate, to follow a little thread of compulsion into the ether, following it somewhere north and west, and he fought against the inclination to go. It wasn't strong to start, but it built, and a minute or so later, it asked him: Do you know anything? Do you know where she is, my daughter? And the face of Harriett Potter swam up from his memories. Unbidden, the memories of the last night he had seen her rose in his memories – the night that he had broken her out of Hogwarts.

The spell recognized it, saw it as something new and it dug its claws into his core, and suddenly Aldon couldn't breathe. He felt it then – the desperation, a mother's intense love for her child, the tearful demand that he go and tell her everything he knew about Harriett Potter, about where she had gone. The pull was overwhelming, and he needed to go. He needed to Apparate, and he now knew exactly where that thread was pulling him.

"Fuck!" There was only one Songmaster in all of Wizarding Britain, and he tore out of the Black Library, whipping past the Lord Black and Archie on his way out. One glance at the two of them told him all he needed to know – they weren't affected the same way that he was, and they stared at him, wide-eyed, as he ran for the Apparition point. The spell was so clever, so intricate – it targeted only people who had knowledge about Harriett Potter and her whereabouts that the caster didn't already know. Aldon couldn't even begin to comprehend the detail and planning that had gone into this spell. This wasn't wand-work, this was a careful weaving of multiple spells: something for the Legilimency, something for compulsion, a guide to the location, something to make it hurt if they didn't go. He didn't know what the fuck this was, but it hurt.

The power of it, too – whatever the spell was, she had cast it broadly enough to reach London from Potter Place, which Aldon knew was in the West Country. That was far, much farther than any spell he had ever heard of or seen before. There had to be an Amplification spell worked into it, but Aldon had never heard of an Amplification doing this. Then again, he knew very little about Songcasting, and it didn't matter. He had to go, one way or another. Hell.

He reached the Apparition point, a shadowed corner close to the gate to Grimmauld Place and threw himself into the Apparition.

The walls of what had to be Potter Place solidified, and he fell over, breathing heavily. Potter Place was huge building, with two large wings tied in the centre by a high tower. The building itself had an almost medieval aesthetic – it was made of worn, warm stones, there was ivy climbing up some portions of the walls, the windows were small, only belatedly filled with glass.

"Well, what do we have here?" The voice was cool, filled with a sort of grim humour, and Aldon whipped around to see the Lord Potter, wand trained on him. "Colour me not surprised. The Rosier Heir, Lionel Hurst, and…"

"Potions Master Allan Thompson," another voice coughed out, and Aldon turned around to see a large, broad-shouldered man, with lazy eyes and a thatch of blonde hair on his head, bent at his waist as he panted. He had fought the compulsion spell, fought it hard, and sweat gleamed at his temples. Hurst, on the contrary, was on his feet, wand in one hand and knife in the other. "Fuck, what was that?"

"What the fuck, James?!" That was Lord Black, who had materialized beside Aldon. "If you think that hasn't caught Riddle's attention…"

Lord Potter raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback as he lowered his wand. "Sirius? Lily said the spell would only pull in people who had information about where Harry had gone – information we didn't already know."

"I followed him." Sirius jutted his chin towards Aldon brusquely. "What were you and Lily even thinking?"

"Don't judge me, Sirius," James replied, his voice harsh as he turned back on the three of them who had been summoned by the spell. "My daughter has disappeared, and I want answers."

Sirius sighed and ran one hand through his black curls. "And afterwards? What about afterwards, James? This could very well constitute an attack on all of Wizarding Britain – if Lily reached London with her spell, you can certainly bet that the SOW Party will have noticed!"

"With the quad Amplification loop, it should have hit most of Wizarding Britain, Lily says," Lord Potter replied, his voice determined as he trained his wand back on the three people who had been drawn there. Aldon shuddered a little - a quad Amplification Loop? No one had ever managed to run a quad-Amplification loop. It just required too much power, both for the loop and the spell. The most he had heard of were double-Amp loops. On the other hand, Aldon could absolutely believe a quad-Amped spell would hit most of Wizarding Britain – one Amplification loop would magnify a spell by a factor of ten, and when added three more times, it would boost the spell some ten thousand times. Holy hell. "So. Which of you three would like to start talking? Where is my daughter?"

"What comes after this, James?" Sirius repeated, his voice insistent as he came to stand beside Aldon. "You cannot possibly expect the Wizengamot to ignore this."

"Lily and I were planning on going abroad." Lord Potter glanced at his friend. "We haven't anything here for us, now – you know that I've been suspended without pay from DMLE and, with the media attention, Lily's been let go from her job. There's no reason for us to stay here, so we may as well go after our daughter. She's only fourteen, Sirius. She needs us. You have my proxy at the Wizengamot, and Potter Place will obey you while we're gone."

"Fuck." Sirius sighed – mixed anger and resignation. "I don't fucking want Potter Place, James. Have you lost your mind?"

"It's not forever, Sirius. Just until we sort this out." Lord Potter pointed his wand at Aldon first. Aldon supposed that made sense – he had been the one to announce Harriett's identity to the world in the final game, and he was the last one there, with her, at Hogwarts. "Rosier. Let's start with you. You knew who she was."

Maybe it was a mark of the past few years, but being held at wandpoint by Lord Potter was not as frightening as he would have once thought. Or maybe, since all of Aldon's fears over the past four years had been related to his fear that his blood-status would be discovered, and the fact that his blood status was, for once, the least of his problems, he wasn't as afraid as he should have been. And he had the Lord Black beside him. Lord Black had been, if not overtly friendly, at least welcoming.

Aldon wasn't sure where to start, and the silence stretched. A minute, two minutes, as he scrambled to think. He didn't want to reveal everything to these people – he didn't know the Potions Master, he didn't know Lionel Hurst. He struggled, focusing on the most important facts.

"Your daughter was not the only halfblood at Hogwarts," he croaked out, finally. "I'm…"

He paused, thinking through the options. A halfblood? A bastard? A Truth-Speaker, if Lord Potter even knew what that was? Curse-breaker, Ward-maker? Conspirator?

"A Slytherin? The Heir to a Dark noble house? A schemer? A liar?" Lord Potter's words were sharp, edged. "What was your relationship with my daughter?"

"I was going to say gifted, but whatever you wish." Aldon cleared his throat, a little awkward. "I did not have a relationship with your daughter, not what I am sure you are imagining. We were never even on first-name terms. But I know when people are lying to me. It's a rare magical talent, called Truth-speaking. I worked out myself first that she was not Rigel Black, then that she was Harriett Potter, and then I decided to keep that information to myself until, as you know, she was unmasked in the Tournament."

He hesitated a moment, then he unbuttoned his sleeve and shook his arm out. He had nothing to lose by showing it, and it might work in his favour. He flashed his oath-scar. "My silence did not come without its cost."

Lord Potter's face was unreadable. "And why didn't you tell anyone? What was in it for you?"

"Hope." Aldon laughed, a little caustic as he pulled his sleeve back over his arm, buttoning it up neatly. "How would I have explained it? Who would I have told? My gift is not one that occurs in purebloods."

"He's a halfblood, James," Sirius supplied, putting out the stark, clear-cut words that Aldon still avoided and resting one hand on his shoulder. Aldon shook him off roughly – he didn't need the support. "Probably a Rosier bastard. I don't know how Lord and Lady Rosier managed to cover it up, but Archie's Legilimens friend vouched for his sincerity and his gift speaks for itself."

"When Harriett was forced into the Tournament, I signed up with her. I tried to look out for her. I helped her get out of the graveyard, and when she was arrested, I broke the wards holding her and helped her escape." Aldon shook his head and looked away. "I don't know where she went, and she had no reason to tell me. The last I saw of her, I offered to let her out of the Hogwarts wards, and she said that wasn't necessary and pulled out an Invisibility Cloak."

There was silence, as Lord Potter considered him. "And then?"

"Then I came home and acted as a good Dark pureblood Heir should," Aldon snapped, turning away in annoyance. It was stupid to turn his back on a drawn wand, but the Lord Black was there and would probably keep him from being hexed. "She was not the only halfblood at Hogwarts, and I was not prepared to see her go to Azkaban – so I got her out. That is all I know."

"Then she came to me." Lionel Hurst had straightened from his dueller's crouch, his knife since tucked away somewhere. The small of his back, if Aldon guessed correctly – that was where Harriett had always kept hers. His wand stayed out, held casually in his fingers, ready to defend himself. "She stayed with me in the Lower Alleys for a few days while I got papers for her to flee the country. Master Thompson sought her out during that time."

"I gave her a generalized recommendation letter and a list of notable Potions Masters abroad who owe me favours." The Potions Master was breathing heavily, rubbing his forehead. "She is a gifted potioneer and has apprenticed under Snape for at least the past year. She deserves to complete her apprenticeship. I don't know if she'll take any of the options I provided. I didn't ask."

"Where, exactly, did you send her?" Lord Potter's voice was dangerous.

"I gave her options in Italy, Russia, India, China, and Australia." Master Thompson flashed a wry smile. "Masters Andrea Bressan, Ilya Bryliov, Arjun Gupta, Pei Liu and Mistress Jessica Wilson. But she didn't hint at her plans, and I didn't ask – exactly so that no one could force me to reveal where she had gone, mind you. Well, if that's all you wanted from me, I'll be taking my leave. I left a cauldron on stasis at the Guild and must return before it explodes and takes half of Diagon Alley with it."

He turned on the spot and left.

"I don't know either." Hurst shrugged, and his smile was somewhat sympathetic. "I asked her to stay, but she insisted that staying would be too risky. Then I offered to go with her, and she refused that too. She just needed papers to flee the country, she said, then she left. She wouldn't tell me where she was heading. France first, if I had to guess."

"And you… let her go?" From Lord Potter's tone, he didn't seem to know what was worse – the idea of his daughter living long-term with Lionel Hurst, going on an international jaunt with him, or the fact that she had apparently refused those options in favour of taking off on her own.

"What else was I to do?" Hurst shrugged again. "She wanted to go."

"You could have contacted us. Brought her home." Lord Potter's voice was slow, a little dangerous, and his eyes narrowed.

"Don't try me, Auror Potter. I followed your summons willingly, but you and I both know Legilimency is illegal and you have no power to detain us." Hurst shook his head, his sympathetic air vanishing. "Have you ever tried to keep Harry from doing whatever she wanted to do? It's impossible. The papers I gave her are in the names of Anne Bolton, Maria Thornton, and Lisa McIntyre. I don't know which one she used, and at this point I expect that she's tossed all three and moved onto a new set of false papers. She's a survivor. She'll survive this."

Based on the way Lord Potter paused, his wand raised, he wasn't convinced. There was an awkward silence as the two men stared at each other – evidently, Lionel Hurst was not in the least afraid, and his own grip on his wand had tightened. Aldon could tell that Lord Potter was spoiling for a fight, and he just waiting for an excuse to begin.

"He speaks truth," Aldon snapped. He had no interest in being caught in a firefight. "I'll swear on it if you want. You have what you wanted, Lord Potter. If we may go?" He swept a bow, forty-five degrees of slightly mocking deference. "You see, I still have at least seven memoirs to read to try to bail the Black Heir from the morass he and your daughter have landed themselves in."

There was a long moment of silence, before Lord Potter sighed. "Very well," he said, his tone ungracious. "Go on, then."

Lionel Hurst disappeared with a crack, without a backwards glance. Aldon was about to follow, but he paused, looking towards Lord Black.

The Lord Black shook his head. "Go on without me, Aldon. I need to talk to James and Lily."

The Lord and Lady Potter left Britain that very day – for France, it sounded like, then they would go eastwards, checking with each of the Potions Masters that Master Thompson had named and with the Guilds of each wizarding nation they passed through for any unexpected new talents. There were things that Harriett Potter couldn't hide, and first and foremost among them was her passion for and skill with potions.

At least, Aldon thought, with not a small bit of annoyance, he now had access to the Potter Library. A second, massive, private library to ransack in search of more information about Truth-Speaker gifts. Joy.

XXX

The last two weeks had been among the best of Archie's life. Sure, he had been charged with a crime and he would be standing trial in a couple weeks, and okay, Harry had disappeared and he hadn't heard from her since that one mirror call a month ago, and he was still waiting for her promised communication, and yes, Uncle James and Aunt Lily had gone off to search for her, taking Addy with them, but he was Archie Black again. He was Archie Black again, and he had his Dad back, and he had his friends around him. He even had a new friend, of sorts – fine, Aldon Rosier was sort of grouchy and way too serious, but there was something just so fun about him.

Or maybe Archie just liked teasing him. If anyone needed more of a sense of fun, it was Aldon Rosier, and Archie was there to give it to him.

Hermione hated him. In her words, he was a stuck-up, uptight noble prig, a chauvinistic, insulting jerk, and a patronizing arse whom she wanted very much to punch. Archie was glad she hadn't punched him yet – frankly, Aldon looked like he would break if someone hit him too hard, and he didn't want to have to patch his new friend up so soon. Somehow, she had desisted, and their fights stayed in words.

Aldon seemed to get along with both Dad and John, though. Archie suspected that Dad saw a bit of himself in Aldon – he, too, had left a Dark house.

"I had a softer landing," Dad said, shaking his head. "Think about it, Arch – I was best friends with James, and I had Remus, I had your mum. I was on a different path from my first day of Hogwarts, when I was sorted into Gryffindor. He had to find out, partway through school, in Slytherin House and with his family in the SOW Party, that he was not a pureblood. He's been raised as a pureblood, too, so most of the ways he acts, especially the ways that annoy Hermione the most, reflect that. He's doing his best."

With that in mind, Archie went out of his way to be understanding. He teased his new friend every now and then, calling him Al instead of Aldon, making him uncomfortable with public displays of affection, pushing him into interacting with his friends, none of whom wore wizarding dress day to day. Even Dad, now, had started leaving off his overrobe at home, though his clothing underneath was more like Muggle formal dress than anything else. Archie tried to be open with his new friend, about what he was reading, what he was listening to, what he was doing, letting Aldon ask whatever questions he felt comfortable asking. Things were good in his world, and Aldon just needed to explore a bit and he would see!

And John had vouched for him. John had been deep in his mindscape, and he hadn't seemed too concerned about their new ally. He even tried to invite Aldon out with him and Chess on their Muggle sightseeing tours. If Archie couldn't trust his own judgement, then at least he trusted John's. John would never have invited Aldon out with him and Chess if he thought there was any danger to them.

The only stickler was Chess, who seemed to be avoiding their new acquaintance entirely.

"I've got work to do too," she had said, shaking her head and putting her breakfast dishes in the sink so that Archie or Dad could do them later by magic. "I'm still doing data analysis for my dad this summer, and it's easier to work when it's quiet. And then I have to get to the public library so I can email it to him and recharge my laptop. And there's the ACD to develop, too – there are papers to read, a new circuit layout to design, and I broke my test integrated circuit again… Anyway. I'll be working in the library, then John and I are going to see the Tower of London this afternoon."

Archie tilted his head a little to one side, a little concerned. "He's not bad, you know. I mean, a little stiff and overly formal, but he's fine."

Chess only made a face at him and disappeared, heading for the Black Library to work. When Aldon started searching the Black Library for whatever it was that he was looking for, she moved her base of operations to her bedroom, or sometimes the formal sitting room.

"She doesn't like meeting new people," John supplied, shaking his head when Archie asked about it, a week in. "Honestly, knowing her now, I'm surprised she worked up the courage to approach us on our first day of school, though I guess that was before … Well, don't worry about it. You've got enough to worry about."

"I mean, if you're sure," Archie replied, shrugging a little. "I just don't want her to be uncomfortable."

"She'll be fine." John sighed. "She can't avoid him forever – it'll resolve itself eventually."

For the moment, Archie was sitting in the kitchen, working on his Danny characterization again while Hermione read yet another legal text beside him, her mouth furrowed into a scowl. Archie had tried telling her that he had Percy for reading legal texts, but she insisted on checking everything for herself. Another comment about it would go nowhere, so he left her to it – he half-suspected that she just wanted to feel useful. There wasn't much else for her to do except liaise periodically with the British International Association, and that she could only do from her home in Oxford.

And he liked her here. Beside him, even if all he was doing was working on Danny Zuko's characterization. He didn't really get Danny – how was it that Danny could be so in love with Sandra over the summer, and totally willing to drop her as soon as school started, as soon as his friends started making fun of her? He just didn't get it, how he could go from singing Summer Nights to just avoiding her like that? And then to joining the track team to impress her, then giving up as Sandra changed to suit him? It didn't really make any sense to him, and he couldn't connect.

He might have had a better fit with Kenickie, and if he won that role, he would get to sing Greased Lightning. Kenickie had a furious on-again-off-again relationship with Rizzo, which Archie knew he could act – he loved brash, bold characters like that, and they were so much fun! The only problem with Kenickie was that he didn't like the pregnancy subplot that Rizzo had, because even if Kenickie didn't know, it made him sort of uncomfortable.

That really only left Rump (who was most notable for mooning people), Doody (a younger gang member who mostly wanted to be a rock-and-roll guitarist), or Sonny (who was a coward, and who didn't have a musical number at all). Of the three, he probably would try for Doody the hardest, except that he couldn't even fake being able to play a guitar. None of these roles were great for him, but he would try anyway.

And he would be fifteen. Fifteen was absolutely the time to win a romantic lead, right? If only he could figure out Danny Zuko!

The fireplace beside him lit up, and Aldon came tumbling out, a book in hand. He had been off in the Potter Library for several days, searching through it for whatever he was looking for. He hadn't been explicit, only saying that, if only he could work it out, he might have an idea. Something better than just challenging the Ministry's evidence, kicking out Archie's interview as unreliable, or a necessity defence that Archie still thought was pretty good, but that both Aldon and Hermione thought was ridiculous.

"I have it!" Aldon said, and his upper-class accent was even sharper when he was emotional. This was, Archie thought, probably the most excited he had ever seen the Rosier Heir – his orange eyes were lit up, and there was a smile on his face that Archie could only describe as predatory. He slammed the book on the table – one of the old Potter journals, very old by the look of the cracked and worn spine, written in what looked like Norman French. "One of the early Peverells was a Truth-Speaker, and he wrote about it! He wrote about a Truth-Speaker's role in the wizarding courts!"

"Aldon, what on earth are you talking about?" Hermione picked up the book with careful fingers, paging through it hesitantly.

"I just spent four hours deciphering the thing, but I have it!" Aldon said, waving his hands, more expressive than Archie had ever seen him before. Aldon did sarcasm, he did mockery, and sometimes Archie saw hints of sharp intelligence or heartfelt sincerity or something else, something deep and genuine, but this was the first time that Archie had seen him excited. Aldon headed for the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup, then sat down at the table, pulling the book back towards himself. "Truth-Speakers used to be an integral part of the Wizarding Courts of Law because they could summon Justice herself."

A silence greeted his words as both Archie and Hermione stared at him.

"Summon…. Justice herself?" Hermione asked, her voice a little skeptical. "Explain."

"The Incarnation of Justice, to be exact." Aldon flipped through the pages until he found the passage he wanted. "Lord Throckmorton was accused of high treason and, being a wizarding noble, invoked his right to trial by Justice Herself. I prayed for days that I would not be selected for the rite of summoning, but to no avail. God give me strength."

Aldon flipped a few pages. "A few days later, he writes this: I have been dreading this day, yet I knew it would come. There are too few Truth-Speakers to avoid the Lady forever. I have only a little time, so I will write what I can. At the appointed hour, I attended the Wizarding Courts and spilled my blood on Her design. "My name is Master Thomas Catullus Peverell," I said, for the Lady always wishes an introduction. "I am one of your Chosen. On the demand of the accused, I implore you, Lady, to hear this trial for high treason." I remember little of what follows."Aldon took a deep breath of satisfaction. "I can summon Justice for you."

Hermione stared at him. "I'm… still not following. What do you mean, summon Justice?"

Aldon huffed, annoyed, but his voice took on a lecturing tone. The one that Hermione hated, to be exact, and Archie rested a hand on her arm as her eyes narrowed and she gritted her teeth. "There are Incarnations, aren't there? Concepts that people have believed in, relied on, for so long that they become embodied in a sort of… elemental being. When you go into the oldest legends, you sometimes come across mention of them: Dominion, which the Egyptian wizards thankfully trapped in a physical form to keep his influence from our lives, or Justice, who ran trials for the Romans and the Greeks, or Mercy, who sometimes stayed Justice's hand. We've lost the ability to invoke most of them, but they exist, a sort of consciousness created by our own beliefs. Justice has not been summoned for near five hundred years, but I expect that is because the Statute of Secrecy was on the horizon and our people were drawing back from the Muggle world, and Truth-Speakers who had the ability to invoke Justice were becoming rarer. So, the courts moved on, using wizard-made law, instead of invoking something greater."

From the look on Hermione's face, Archie could tell she was itching to dive into the library herself. It was interesting, but she wouldn't just take Aldon's word for it. "Even accepting this as true, how does this help us? This all sounds very speculative and risky – you're running off a few pages of text, this doesn't seem very well supported at all."

"But what do we have to lose?" Aldon's eyes had narrowed, too, the orange of his irises burning. "You have some intelligence. You know as well as I do that there is no winning on the law. All we have are legal loopholes, tricks, elaborate stories that suggest something else happened than what actually did. But we don't really believe what the ruse itself was wrong, in the circumstances, do we? So, we change the laws. Let them answer to something higher than the Wizengamot's laws – let them justify why blood identity theft is wrong in front of Justice Herself."

"And what rules does Justice work by? How does she decide what is right, and what is wrong? Is it just some consensus, between all the people in the world and what they believe is just? How does this work in our favour? And what about you?" Hermione grabbed the book, turning back a few pages to the first paragraphs. "What you read earlier – the writer is obviously afraid of the rite of summoning, he's trying to avoid it. There's something more here, something else, and I don't like it. We need more research before this even becomes a viable option!"

"I'm kind of liking the idea though," Archie butted in, thinking it over. Making the Ministry answer to Justice Herself on the laws? That sounded far more interesting than the strategies they were looking at before.

"Then help me with more research," Aldon snapped. "Let's get Percy in here – he can get us some old trial records where Justice was invoked from the Inns of Court. We can prepare for this, far better than the Ministry can because we know what we are planning. As for the rite itself, let me deal with it. All of the Truth-Speakers who mention it seem to have survived, so it can't be that bad."

"Famous last words." Hermione shook her head, lips pursed. "Of course, all the ones who mention it survived – they survived to write about it. Fine. I suppose it's worth exploring. Give me what you have."

She looked like she had taken a bite of a very sour lemon as she said so, while Aldon's smile was sharp in victory. Time for some teasing, if only to break the tension a little. He put one arm around Hermione, leaning closer to her. "But you can explore it here, can't you? I want you here, beside me."

"I suppose this is my invitation to disappear," Aldon said dryly, handing her the book. "Enjoy the Norman French then, if you can even read it. I will fetch my other records for you, and contact Percy."

There was a sound of a throat clearing from the doorway to the kitchen, and Archie looked up, seeing Dad standing there, an uncertain look on his face. "Dad, what is it?"

"Draco and Pansy are here to see you, Arch." Dad said, and Archie spotted two blonde heads behind him. Dad stood out of the way, letting them into the kitchen. He stiffened – he hadn't expected Harry's friends to come seeking him out, and for a moment, he didn't know what to do.

He had no reason to like them. Memories swirled in his head – two pretty, poisonous gifts for Harry in their first year, books about pureblood wizarding genealogy and contact books that were more like dossiers. The first time Archie had met them, at the third-year Gala, when Draco Malfoy seemed proud, looking forward to upholding pureblood supremacy to the world, when they had insulted Harry and hurt her so deeply with their cold attitudes. The fourth-year Gala, when Malfoy had written off AIM without even a second thought, when Harry had been both happy to see them, and sad that they didn't see her. But there were other memories there, too – Pansy Parkinson, dancing with Harry at the third year Gala. Archie, acting as John Hale, infusing his character with shades of Malfoy, of Nott, thinking that maybe they had simply never known any different, trying for some understanding. Malfoy, saving Harry's life at the end of their third year. Harry, being so happy when she told Archie about her friends.

At least he was wearing his AIM sweatshirt, Archie thought vaguely as he swallowed, feeling Hermione take his hand and hold it tight. His sweatshirt should be an easy physical signifier that he was not Harry.

He wanted to tell them to go. Harry wasn't here, and Archie wasn't their friend, and he wanted to smash through the boundaries that he and Harry had set and yell at them all the things he had wanted to yell at them before. He wanted to rage at Malfoy for every little comment he had ever said to Harry that might have hurt her, and he wanted to dig into them, hard, about the world their families had helped create, the world where he and Harry had to do the ruse for her to go to Hogwarts, where Harry was now a fugitive because she had been charged with some hundred-odd crimes, the world where the lines they had drawn, between Muggle and wizarding, between pureblood and Muggleborn, had cost him his Mum.

But that wasn't fair to them. They were just kids – they weren't the ones who created that world, and maybe they were just the lucky ones. They were the ones that never needed to question, because the laws didn't affect them. They were the ones that hadn't lost anything, because the world that had been created for them, the world they saw, only benefitted them. They never saw the things they had lost, the things they had never known enough to miss. Maybe they were starting to see it now, with the loss of their best friend, and how was he supposed to handle that?

Harry wouldn't like for him to fly off the handle at her friends. She had wanted them to like her for her, he remembered – she had tried so hard for them to like her at the Galas, only for them to shut her out. For Harry, he still had to try to protect this friendship. If they even still wanted to be her friends, knowing that she was a halfblood.

"I'll be leaving now. Pansy. Malfoy." Aldon made to head for the fireplace, reaching for the Floo, but Archie grabbed the sleeve of his robes. See, that was something robes were good for – there was so much extra cloth, it was easy for him to grab onto Aldon, to stop him from going!

"Al," Archie choked out, his voice dry. He couldn't believe this was the approach he was taking. "Al, help me out here. Pureblood etiquette question."

Aldon raised an eyebrow. "A pureblood etiquette question." He repeated the words slowly, skepticism lining his words. Then he tilted his head a little, clearly picking up on Archie's panic. "What is it?"

"Formal introductions," Archie babbled. He did not want to be left with Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, even if he had Dad there, even if he had Hermione there. It was too weird, the collision of worlds, and it would be easier if there was someone else there that could help him bridge it. Someone who had known Harry as Rigel Black, because he hadn't, and Hermione hadn't, and Dad hadn't really. "If I only met someone while pretending to be someone else, have I been formally introduced to them? Is it really proper for me to have a conversation with them now as myself without a formal introduction?"

He was grasping at straws, he was pretty sure, and he could tell from the slight tug on one side of Aldon's mouth that Aldon knew it. But Aldon still seemed to think about it seriously, taking one look at the two Heirs. "I suppose not, no."

"Would you…" Archie begged him with his eyes. It wasn't the Look, which had fallen into disfavour as he had grown older. This was a different look, still pleading, but with less innocent need, more respectful demand, more obligation. "Please?"

There was another pause, as Aldon turned to look at the two newcomers, then he sighed heavily, turning back and sitting down properly at the kitchen table. "Very well. Arcturus Rigel Black, may I present to you Draco Malfoy, the Malfoy Family Heir, and Pandora Parkinson, the Parkinson Family Heiress. Lord Black, I assume you need no introduction."

"Oh, and I'm chopped liver, am I?" Hermione's voice was acerbic, biting as she threw the words across the table.

"Not at all, Hermione. I just didn't think you would care to be acquainted with the Heirs to two of the most highly respected and powerful SOW Party families." Aldon's expression was amused, though Archie half-suspected that he was as unsettled as Archie himself. He was too purposely relaxed, his hands idle and loose while he leaned back casually in his seat. "I'm giving you an out."

"My girlfriend, Hermione Granger," Archie supplied instead, squeezing her hand – as much for himself as to reassure her. How the hell were formal introductions supposed to go, anyway?

"We are truly honoured that the two of you have found time in your schedules to visit." Aldon's voice light, gentle, a host's gesture, but Archie could hear the mockery colouring his words. Malfoy and Parkinson could too, he was sure. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"Oh, come off it, Rosier." Malfoy snapped, stalking into the warm kitchen and putting his hands on the table. An aggressive stance – he hadn't sat down, only walked in and set his hands, shoulder-width apart, on the kitchen table. Archie exchanged a look with his Dad, whose expression had tightened a little at the gesture. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Consulting." Aldon crossed his arms over his chest, a smile curling on his lips. "And you?"

"We're worried about Harry," Parkinson ventured, her voice soft, heartfelt, and her wide blue eyes spoke of genuine concern. She walked gracefully into the kitchen, resting on hand on Malfoy's arm – the blond boy straightened, adopting a position of casual ease, one hand covering hers.

"We were hoping you might have news about her." Malfoy's tone was abrupt. "That you might tell us where she went, how she's doing…"

"She's a fugitive, how do you think she's doing?" Aldon laughed, light, bell-like laughter that still sounded jagged, as he leaned forward, folding his hands on the kitchen table. His orange eyes were narrowed in hostility. "Do not lie to me. Arch, Pansy is worried, but Malfoy is at least half-lying. My guess is, he came hoping to find Rigel, hoping none of it was true, that it was all an elaborate prank. How does it feel, Malfoy, finding out that your best friend is a halfblood? How does it feel knowing that your father's policies have her running for her life? Will you still stand by her, knowing that she's not pure, betraying your family? Or will you take whatever we might be foolish enough to tell you back to the Ministry, joining the hunt to bring her to justice? Your family motto is blood over honour, isn't it?"

"Aldon!" Archie snapped, taken aback by his new friend's icy rage. Having him stay was a mistake. Aldon's words were still light, still mocking, but he had honed it to a knife-like edge. "They were Harry's best friends! Of course, they're worried about her."

"Tell them nothing, Archie." Aldon leaned back in his chair. "They might have been Rigel's friends, but they are not Harry's friends, and they are not your friends. You don't know who they will tell. You ought not have said that Hermione was your girlfriend. She will be used against you, now."

"We wouldn't do that!" Parkinson's voice was shrill as she turned to Aldon, her expression openly hurt, heartbroken, and there were tears in her voice, a hint of them in her blue eyes. "How could you even say that, Aldon? You know me!"

There was a long pause as Aldon stared at her, considering.

"You are an absolutely peerless liar, Pansy." Aldon's voice was delicate, a cat's soft purr. "Really, none better, stellar performance. I like you, Pansy, I really do – but I will still counsel Archie to tell you nothing."

"Archie," Malfoy repeated, looking now at Archie. "Archie?"

"Yeah, that would be me." Archie smiled, a little apologetically, trying to smooth the waters. He couldn't deny that watching Aldon ask all the questions some part of him wanted to ask wasn't satisfying, but the longer he had watched, the more he had realized that just wasn't him. He wasn't prepared to pull out the stops like that, to whip hurtful accusations at someone else, and Harry had cared deeply for her friends. "You were Harry's best friends, and I know Harry cared for you both very much. I wish I could tell you something, but I don't know anything. I know that when I last spoke to her, more than a month ago, she was fine. I don't know where she's gone, and if you truly care for her, don't look for her. Not while the charges hang over her. Let her go – she's safer abroad than here."

"You spoke to her." Malfoy's grey eyes narrowed, and Archie heard a sigh from beside him. Damn it – it had been a thoughtless comment, just something to reassure them, not information. "When? How? Is she in America?"

"We had other ways of communicating." Archie shook his head, pressing his lips tight as he glanced at Dad again. Dad had been quiet, waiting for them to work it out themselves – this was between him and Harry's friends, or maybe it was between Harry and her friends, and unless things got out of hand, Dad would let Archie work it out. What would he have said, anyway? "We don't anymore, so I'm the same as you – I have no idea where she has gone, or how she is doing, but I trust that she is doing well."

"She should be here – she should be surrounded by her friends, her family, after such a traumatic experience." Malfoy turned away, swallowing.

"Oh, for goodness' sake. If she didn't have hundred-odd charges against her, maybe she would be," Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Stop crying and pretending like this isn't the exact result of the pureblood supremacist policies that your families have pushed for decades."

There was something like a laugh from Archie's other side, and Archie was reminded again of why Hermione and Aldon didn't just come out and kill each other. They fought about most things – they fought about their attitudes, about their methods, about how to solve a problem, but when it came down to it, they did have the same goals.

"Unless there's anything else…" Archie let the words drift, into an awkward silence. He didn't want to kick them out, but he didn't really see what other reason they should stay. They weren't friends. They were here to find out about Harry, and they had found out everything they were going to find out. What else was there? What else had they in common?

Archie was getting ready to stand trial, and he wanted to turn the world as they knew it upside down. What was he supposed to say?

"Thank you, Arcturus," Malfoy said abruptly, his posture ramrod straight and stiff. "For your time."

"You're very welcome, and it's Archie." Archie hesitated, standing up. "I can show you out, if you want."

"No need." Malfoy waved a hand, then held his arm out for Parkinson to take. "I hope the next time we meet, it will be under better circumstances."

"I think we can both hope for that," Archie replied agreeably, sitting back down, with the kindest smile he could muster. "It's what Harry would have wanted."

XXX

They were barely out of the front gate before she spoke.

"I told you that this was a bad idea." Pansy sighed. "Aldon was a surprise, but he has been odd, withdrawn, over the past several weeks… I ought to mention it to Father. Otherwise, I think that went about as well as we could reasonably expect."

"How can she just disappear, though?" Draco ground his teeth a little, then he snapped his fingers for his house-elf. It was rude to come, uninvited, to another noble manor house through methods like the Floo, so he had asked one of the Malfoy house-elves to transport them. The house-elf appeared – she had simply been lurking nearby, out of sight. "Tiffin! Malfoy Manor, please."

"Of course, Master Draco," the elf-said, taking their arms and Disapparating them with a crack, returning them to the comfortable Malfoy gardens. Draco nodded his thanks to her, and she bustled off, returning to her usual chores.

It had taken the two of them weeks to come to terms with the ruse, but if there was one thing Draco Malfoy knew, it was that Rigel Black, or Harry Potter, as it turned out, needed their help. She always had. She had always been a magnet for trouble, she had always struggled with asking for help, and now she was on the run. Of course, she needed their help. They still loved her, and they were still behind her, as much as they could be. Draco's hands were a little tied right now, but through her marriage meetings, Pansy had some connections abroad. She had asked around in France, since they both knew that Rigel spoke French, so it seemed like as good a bet as any.

It was only when they hit a wall that Draco had insisted on reaching out to the real Arcturus Rigel Black, and they had thought they were prepared for just about anything. And yet, somehow, he could never have imagined the scene he had been greeted with: the Black Heir flirting outrageously with a Muggleborn (Draco had heard the accent), in common Muggle clothes, proudly wearing the insignia of a second-rate American school, taking a common nickname instead of the name of the stars that had been given him. It was shocking, almost offensive.

"And they have a point, Drake – we can search for her, but I still don't think that she should be coming back, now." Pansy's voice was musing, even if, by her expression, she was less than happy about it. "She has been charged with a lot of criminal offences."

"But if she were just back here, we could do something about that." He and Pansy had been arguing about this for weeks. Draco thought that it was better for Harry to come home – there was no reason why they couldn't make an exception for Harry Potter in these circumstances. She was brilliant, she was powerful – she was like Uncle Severus, obviously an exception to the usual rules. He was sure that, once she came home, he could help guide her into a prominent position in the SOW Party, just like Uncle Severus. It didn't matter that she was a halfblood, she acted far more pureblooded than most, including the real Black Heir. And, with the Marriage Law on the horizon, all she needed to do was marry a pureblood and she would be legally a pureblood. It was so simple.

Home was where she should be, where she would be surrounded by her family, by her friends, by people who loved her. Home was where she would recover from the obvious trauma she had to have suffered, having been kidnapped by a madman, and she had had such a hard four years before that too. Home was where Draco was, where Pansy was, home was where they could show her that nothing had changed, not really. They still loved her, even if her name was Harry Potter and not Rigel Black, even if she was a girl and not a boy, even if she wasn't pure. They would make it work, because the alternative was accepting that Rigel Black had never existed, and neither had their friendship.

Pansy thought that even if they managed to track her down, they should only provide her support from abroad. They could help her with money, with their connections, but she could not come home, not until they dealt with the charges.

"I don't know." Pansy lowered her voice, a careful glance to both sides of her, though Draco knew they were nowhere near the listening spells that littered the gardens. "There's only so much we can do. Her magical power is one thing, but I don't know how far that will go, not for a scandal on this scale. Her mother's spell, a week ago – they're talking about naming it a Great Work of Magic, but the Potters are certainly not welcome in the Wizengamot right now. How are you doing with the charges?"

Draco sighed, looking away. "Not well," he admitted. "I've been talking to Father and Mother, but… no luck yet."

Pansy shook her head. "Until then, I don't think she can return. Not if we can't guarantee her safety, Drake."

"Pans…" Draco looked at her again, taking a breath. He had an idea, but he wasn't sure it was a good one. It didn't seem that terrible – not if Harry was in a safe country, and they couldn't even know that unless they tracked her down. "Black did tell us something. He said when they last spoke. He had some other way of communicating with her, and he – or Harry – even mentioned it, last summer when he – Black, I suppose – was under Quarantine in the Darien Gap. What do you think?"

"Like a communication orb, or something like that." Pansy had always been quick on the uptake. "You're thinking…"

"I report it." Draco took a deep breath. "They're one unit, so they could track one with the other. They can find Harry's using Black's."

Pansy sucked in a breath. "Drake…"

"No, think about it, Pans." Draco's words quickened as he thought it through. "We can't do anything without knowing where she is. If we report it, they might be able to track her down, and if she's in a safe country, then we know where she is, we can help her. Just reporting it doesn't mean she'll come back necessarily – we can deal with that part when we come to it."

"I don't know." Pansy hesitated. "I see your point, but if they find her, they'll try to extradite her back to Wizarding Britain. We don't know where she is, we don't know how that country will react, we don't know where we'll be on getting the charges lifted. I don't like it."

"Do we have any other choices, now?" Draco reached for her hand. "We were at a dead end, before – that was why you agreed to come see Black with me."

Pansy didn't look at him, studying the flowers as she thought. Draco didn't disturb her. She was thinking about it, and she would fold. She had to fold. They were at a dead end, otherwise, and Pansy worried about Rigel almost as much as he did.

"All right," she said finally, decisively. "But only because Black said that whatever they had didn't work anymore. Even if they track it down, I expect we'll just find out where she has been, and at least they will give us a new place to start our searches again."

Draco smiled, relieved, and squeezed her hand. They had a new lead, and they could keep looking for her, and someone, somewhere, had to know something. Harry Potter couldn't just have disappeared – Draco would keep looking for her until he found her.

Then he would smack her upside the head for worrying them so much, and he would yell at her. Then he would hug her, they both would, and he would make her swear never to do anything like that ever again, and they would set about making everything right again.

XXX

John stared at the book in front of him, puzzling out the notation as he held down three strings on the fretboard and hit the strings with his pick. It didn't sound right. After an hour, it still didn't sound right. His fingers hurt.

John couldn't play the guitar, but there wasn't no better time to begin learning. Archie was understandably preoccupied with his upcoming trial, Chess was still working for her dad and obsessing over her ACD, and it wasn't like John was any help with that other than as an experimental test subject. Other than sightseeing trips (mainly to castles), hanging out with Archie, his early morning workout and a bit of Duelling every now and then with Sirius and Remus, he was at loose ends.

The guitar was a cool instrument, and all the best music in the world was for guitar, so why not? He hummed the words under his breath.

"Once I rose above the noise and confusion, just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion, I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high…" He tried to strum along on his guitar, but his hands were too slow, fumbling through the chords.

He sounded like shit. Complete and utter shit. But at least there was nowhere to go but up, and once he figured it out, wouldn't Gerry be so impressed?

In Britain, it was at least easier to get out to call him from a public pay phone. Chess thought he was mooning a little much, considering he had only spent a couple weeks with Gerry over the Tournament, but Gerry was just…

Like Hermione and Archie, he was strong, he was passionate, he was courageous and willing to take a stand. But he and his friends were also willing to take a stand for something that simply did not affect them. Gerhardt Riemann was a German pureblood, the exact sort of stock of which Grindelwald, of which Lord Riddle would approve. He thought that Gerhardt's family had even been on the side of Grindelwald during the Wars, but that was where the similarities ended. Gerry was vehement in his opposition to any and every form of blood discrimination, because they had already seen the world to which that led. In the Grindelwald Wars, the Second World War, and in the Holocaust.

The offer Gerry had made, sanctuary for blood refugees, hadn't been an idle one. Gerhardt Riemann had had his pick of jobs on graduation, and he had picked a policy analyst position at the Department of International Affairs at the German Ministry of Magic. From what he had told John, he was working on making his offer a reality. Soon, there would be a streamlined process in Germany for British blood refugees, and John thought he was the greatest person in the world for it.

"Though my eyes could see, I still was a blind man, though my mind could think, I still was a madman, I hear the voices when I'm dreaming, I can hear them say…" He hit the fretboard, trying to make his idiot fingers move faster through the chords. "Carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more!"

There was an awkward throat clearing noise from the door to the formal sitting room, also known as that weird other common space where everyone seemed to go when they didn't really want to be bothered but also didn't want to shut themselves away. He looked up, seeing Aldon Rosier standing in the doorway.

Aldon's thoughts buzzed in his head, like a poorly tuned radio. He caught snatches, a word here, a fragment there, but not everything. Aldon's Occlumency shields were weak, and it wouldn't take much for John to rip them away, if he wanted.

He wondered if he should mention something about that to him. He could give Aldon a better grounding in the basics of Occlumency, which he sorely needed if he was going to accomplish half of what he wanted to do, but like Hermione, Aldon hadn't asked. And he also wasn't a close enough friend for John to say, and by the way, your shields are shit. Want some help with that?

He had tried that on Hermione, some three months after he had gotten to know her. She had glared at him, and eventually John had just given her a bunch of solid Occlumency textbooks to study from, the kind that had practice problems and things, and he let her know every now and then what was working and what wasn't. She was all right now, as far as he could tell, but it wasn't as if he had ever assaulted her mind to test her shields fully. She wasn't like Archie, who let him assault his shields as a training exercise every couple of months.

From the snatches that John caught, Aldon thought he sounded terrible. Since John agreed, he wasn't offended. "What's up?"

"I was wondering if you had time to talk?" Aldon looked a little uncertain, almost, though his thoughts seemed to be fixated on he had to ask now, before he forgot. Again. John shrugged and set down his guitar. "I wanted to ask you some questions about your magical channelling method, the new one."

"Magical channelling method?" John cocked his head to one side, confused, until he caught a few more fragments from Aldon's mind. Something about the Tournament, something about his arm. "Oh, do you mean the ACD?"

"The…" Aldon walked in and sat down, leaning forward curiously. "ACD?"

"Assistive casting device." John held it out to show him – the ACD wasn't on, since he didn't need it right now, but the batteries were full. It was a bit of a different model than the one that he had had in the Tournament, a little sleeker, but the real improvements Chess had managed over the past few months mostly related to power conservation. It would now run for six hours continuously, give or take, and she was working on making it lighter with some new, thinner plastics.

Aldon leaned forward, a little hesitant, eyeing the white plastic, the dark panel in the middle where the proto-runes would appear for the Fortis shield. He reached out, touching the dark panel with one curious finger. "How does it work, if you don't mind me asking?"

John raised an eyebrow, hiding a laugh. Chess had been annoyed at Aldon for weeks, muttering about how he had underestimated her and her precious baby, and Aldon didn't even know that the ACD was hers? That was awesome. That was amazingly awesome.

Aldon also happened to think that he and Chess were engaged, by the snatches that John had caught every now and then, which was just such a hilarious thought that John hadn't bothered to correct him. To make things even more entertaining, Aldon thought she was beautiful, and every now and then John would catch some hint of resigned jealousy, namely how John was lucky son of a bitch. It was too bad he couldn't share the humour with anyone else – even Chess would probably just find it weird and kind of gross and put a boot into his fun by telling Aldon that no, they weren't engaged.

"No fucking clue," he replied cheerfully, pulling his arm away. That wasn't strictly accurate – he knew a bit of the basics, from what Chess had explained over the years, but it was more fun this way. And Chess had to stop avoiding him sometime, it may as well be now. Social interaction was good for her. "Why are you asking me, anyway? Why not the inventor?"

"The inventor?" Aldon looked taken aback, though there was a twitch when John swore. Aldon was so uptight about his language, even if he swore like a sailor in his own head. When he was upset or annoyed, his shields wavered, which meant that John got more than his fair share of Aldon's swear words.

"Yeah, Monster, also known as Chess, also known as Francesca. Little Asian girl, about five foot two but often pretends like she's five foot four, likes romance novels, dance, and technology." The expression on Aldon's face was priceless – stunned disbelief warring with a sharp spike of jealousy warring with Aldon kicking himself. John couldn't help but poke the bear a little more. "What, just because she's pretty means she can't be smart?"

"Of course not," Aldon snapped, his denial too sharp. An unconscious bias he hadn't known he had, that he was now rejecting, based on the pieces that John was now picking up. "From a magical theory perspective, the ACD is fascinating. If you can't answer, would you introduce me to her?"

"Sure, why not?" John shrugged casually, catching another fragment of thought. Something about how it just wasn't fair that John's betrothed was both stunning and a brilliant magical theorist. He hid a smile. "Fair warning – she's kind of mad at you, she says you underestimated the ACD in the Tournament and that she improved both rate of casting and power conserved by far more than a factor of three. She was my strategist, you know."

XXX

Francesca was hitting a wall. Again.

Walls, puzzles, obstacles, all of those had been common over the past few years. She hadn't invented the ACD easily – it was a device that had come with blood, sweat, and so many tears, but it worked! It worked, and she had a functioning prototype for John, but then she had slammed into this wall, and she was stuck. She had been for months. Nearly a year, truth be told.

She didn't know enough about magic. John had been a lucky case – his magical frequency matched well with the electromagnetic wavelength of gallium-nitride blue LEDs, so hitting resonance was easy for him. She had gotten lucky with the proto-runes – the paper that she had found had actually taken apart and used the Fortis spell as an exemplar, so she didn't need to work out the methodology in any detail, though she was convinced that the basics of the proto-rune theory laid out in the paper could be used to construct more efficient, effective spells. Once that was done, she would be able to put in a microcontroller, and she would have to make something more conservative of space that would still emit light at the frequency of GaN blue LEDs, and then because John would be able to select between spells, she would need to develop some sort of a user interface.

And all of that was just the beginning. It still didn't help Francesca turn the ACD into something that could be widely used. Magical frequencies were complex, and what worked for John didn't work for anyone else. That was good, but she needed to find a way to work out someone's magical frequency to build around them. Either that, or she needed to break her ACD from its reliance on resonance to work. Maybe both.

She counted out the problems, and they were all so overwhelming – she did not want a device that only did one spell, that only worked for one person. She wanted a device that could be customized for every mage, that would cast whatever spell she wanted, and of course she wanted it to cast faster and more efficiently than a wand did. She wanted a device, a better magical channelling method that would render all other channelling methods obsolete.

Or, at least, send wand-users the way of paper-casters and heirloom-casters, reducing the primacy of that one instrument. In her dream world, being Wandless would not be an insult. Being Wandless would be the default, and people would have to go out of their way to pick up and learn how to use a wand. And most people wouldn't, because her method would be better.

But that was a long way away, because the only improvements she had made over the past few months had been on the things that didn't really matter, not for her key problems. Her improvements were in energy conservation, so the batteries would run longer, and in the weight of the device overall. And even that – a six-hour battery life was not enough.

If only there was an auto-charging mechanism where the person could use their magic to top up the batteries, or to run the device off their core! But that required more understanding of the interaction between magic and electricity, to connect them and control the interaction instead of just blocking them off from each other. It required more basic research, something bigger and broader than just her and John.

At least some of her experiments thinning the plastics and the layer of aerogel she needed were working, she thought grumpily. The Potter Potions lab was far better than the Black one, which had been turned into a swimming pool. Not that Francesca had any problems with pools, since it was really a very nice use of the space, but it had meant she didn't have anywhere to work on the magical blocking potion until they had access to Potter Place. Even if she did have to take the cursed Floo to get there, and even if the giant, quad-Amplification loop inked onto the floor in the lab was kind of creepy.

She had examined it, the first time she had come in. It was huge, stretching halfway across the floor, centred on the bench closest to the doors. The location was meant to tap into any residual traces of Harry Potter, boosting the connection for the song – a place where Harry had spent a lot of time, where maybe the objects would remember her magical signature, would weave a little extra power into the compulsion spell, since Lady Potter had been demanding information about her daughter. Francesca had taken a song-casting class last year, since she didn't need a wand for it, but something like this was far beyond her abilities. She had a general idea of what was done, but she didn't have the kind of magical power to even dream about this kind of spell. The whole set up was unnerving, so she had set up her cauldron in a back corner as far away as possible, brewing up enough blocking potion for her next set of larger scale tests, then gotten out of there.

The current version, her sixth, seemed to be holding up all right. She had essentially created a larger version of the containment cases that she used for the CD players, but this time she had put a boombox inside, which would hopefully be audible from outside the containment so she would know exactly when her protections failed. The backyard was an excellent place for testing – her fourth version had cracked a bit, releasing the potion, and while Sirius had said that he hated that rug anyway, she figured it would probably better to play things safe. The sixth version was on its third day, which was the best so far!

She brought the boombox outside and set it the ground, checking the casing over quickly for cracks or anything of the like. She didn't see any, so she pressed play, then took position as the first few notes came out into the air.

It wasn't typically her taste in music, but this song spoke to her, in a way that some songs did. It wanted her to dance to it, it wanted her to give it a routine that would express everything about it perfectly, that would make an audience weep. She didn't know what that routine was, yet, but it would come to her in time. For now, she relaxed, let the notes fill her and take her away.

She used the spiral ascent, the first one she had ever learned, because it was elegant. It was elegant, and the opening of this song was too, even if its content was the tragedy of war. That was why it worked – the contrast between the beauty and the sorrow made them both more poignant. She went a little higher than normal into the air, forty-five feet as opposed to the competition regulation of thirty, then let herself go, let the music speak through her.

Magical dance was unlike anything else in the world. It wasn't like No-Maj dance – it was more like a conglomeration of No-Maj dance with figure-skating, diving, and a touch of gymnastics, with a heavy dose of illusion magic. Magical dance wasn't just beautiful, it was powerful, it was athletic. It required skill and practice and too many hours with a headache from trying to manage multiple spells at once, too many falls on her face in bad landings. But it was something else, too – it was magic, and magical dance was what reminded Francesca that, wand or not, she was still a mage. Magical dance didn't use wands.

Some parts of the song were slow, Dolores O'Riordan's words a mournful croon, and for these parts Francesca went with contemporary dance, moving with languid grace, expressing her sorrow through her body. Forget the little runic air-hardening charms drawn on shoes, that beginner dancers relied on – for Francesca, the rune for the air-hardening charm was in her mind, underneath her, as big and as broad as it needed to be for her to fall, for her to catch herself, for her to roll through the air and spin back to her feet at the end. The runes for the coloured fog were in her mind, and with expert precision she looped that rune onto her pinky finger, tossing it below her, and she knew that it would hold without her paying much attention to it. The fog there, grey, was the fog of war, and she prepared the next sets of spells carefully in her mind, pinning them on her fingers. All it would take were little flicks, and the fog of war would be lit from within by sparks of gunfire and electricity.

The slow parts of the song were meant for her to show her artistry. Artistry was her grace, her beauty, how pretty the judges thought her piece was, and it was the bane of Francesca's existence. Artistry was why she hadn't won the women's soloist competition last year, because she had blown the winner's technical score out of the water. She had blown everyone's technical score out of the water. But they said she didn't show enough passion, enough anger, even though Francesca had been the first person in history to throw real lightning around in a dance competition. Then she had stood there, third place, and she had wept on the podium, tears of rage and devastation, and thank heaven that the judges had thought she was crying because she was so happy about placing third, when she had wanted first.

The song picked up, into the chorus, and Francesca leapt into what would become the more technical portion of the routine. Air-hardening charm and glide spell as she headed into her first jumping spin-pass, leaping into what would be, in figure-skating, a double axel, catching herself with another glide spell and air-hardening charm, then a single axel jump turning into a low spin. For this section, she pulled her lightning spell, a real attack spell, sending it crashing through the centre of her routine as she turned around it. Her timing had been perfect – the lightning spell capped off the first chorus, and they were back into the slow, mournful sound of the verses.

Another mother's breaking heart is taking over. When the violence causes silence, we must be mistaken. It's the same old theme, since 1916, in your head, in your head, they're still fighting... The second verse was darker than the first, and she dropped a little in height, dancing on top of her own coloured fog. John was there – she could feel him below her, but she ignored him. He would wait for her. The song was half-over, and she was lower to the ground, so she needed to climb back up another few feet for her finale. For now, her own fog wove around her, pulling her down, pulling her under as she danced struggle, she danced sorrow and sadness.

It was a minor explosive rune, thrown beneath her, that she timed with a jump ascent to push herself back up. Ten metres was the regulation standard for the finale drop, and with this song, with these lyrics, she had to do a hard landing. This was a song about the tragedy of war, and an elegant, perfect landing just didn't work. Her ending tumble-pass had to be broken. It had to be graceless, it had to be raw, it had to be as ugly as war – that's what the song wanted. Like war, her dance had to start elegant, proud and glorious, and then it had to fall apart, because war was not elegant, war was not proud, and war was not glorious, and only then would the song be seen.

She fell. On purpose, she fell, a back tuck, and she managed to put two rotations, head over heels, before rolling into position for a hard landing, her arms splayed and primed with strength runes, which would prevent her from injuring herself. She would land with the exact last note of this song, and it would be perfect.

"Arresto Momentum!"

The voice was wrong. The spell was wrong, and Francesca's eyes jerked open as she, against her will, slowed down and tumbled gently, harmlessly, on the grass. It was only a fraction of a second, but the moment was gone – her perfect landing was gone!

She shot to her feet, looking for the newcomer. Golden eyes, like glowing amber, a little wide in shock, with messy dark hair and a narrow, pointed nose. Aldon Rosier, standing beside John.

She straightened her skirt primly, smoothing it to hide the slight tremble in her hands, and glared at her best friend. You didn't say you had brought someone with you. He wrecked the ending of my routine! I had it timed just right.

It was very pretty anyway, Chess. Cut him a break, he hasn't seen magical dance before, he thinks you fell. And you didn't look. John shrugged a little.

I don't like strangers, John. Francesca tucked one strand of hair behind her ear with one trembling hand, fixing it from where it had fallen out of place during her dance. You know I don't like strangers. What am I supposed to say to him? Hello, Aldon. You wrecked the ending of my routine. And my ACD improves casting time and spell efficiency by factors of six and eighteen, not three.

Monster, he's hardly a stranger. He's been hanging around every day for about two weeks. You'll have to talk to him eventually, it might as well be now. John cleared his throat, motioning for Aldon to join him as he walked towards her. "Aldon, this is Francesca Lam. I call her Monster or Chess. Chess, Aldon Rosier. He has some questions about the ACD."

Aldon bowed at her, stiffly formal, and Francesca glanced over at John again. Why is he bowing? What am I supposed to do in return? Am I supposed to bow too? I don't get it.

Nobles. John rolled his eyes slightly. I don't think there's a wrong answer.

Aldon did seem to be waiting for a response, so Francesca dipped a curtsey. It was a dancer's curtsey, something they did at the end of a performance, thanking the audience and the judges for watching them, and she was sure that it was nothing like a noble curtsey at all. Still, it was better than saying anything, and she didn't know what to say anyway.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lam," he offered, his voice a little hesitant. Francesca was sure there was some part to this ritual she was missing. "Please, call me Aldon."

"Francesca," she replied bluntly. Only John and Archie called her Chess, and only John called her Monster. She glanced at John again. What now?

He wants to know about the ACD. John tilted his head. Come on, talking isn't that hard, Chess. Conversation isn't that hard. Just pretend like he's one of us, or a new person in your dorm. You do all right in your dorm.

At school, I pretend like the new people in Holmes Wing don't exist for three months, and by then they're just part of the group. And even then, I don't talk a lot to them. You know that. Francesca sighed a little, turning her focus back on Aldon, watching him warily. "The ACD. It's mine. What, um, do you want to know?"

"I was hoping you would be so kind as to give me an overview of how it works?" His voice seemed genuinely hopeful, curious, but Francesca was too smart to take that at face value. Sometimes people asked about what she was doing, what she was reading, what she was experimenting with, to try to get something else from her, or to try to get something to use against her. Like with the stupid CD player cases – people would try to butter up to her, pretending an interest, pretending to be her friend, only to be angry or disappointed and yell at her when she didn't just up and give them one. She supposed the most fortunate thing was that, three years of No-Maj Studies or not, people who understood No-Maj science were still so rare that at least she didn't really need to worry about anyone scooping her – she could take her time until her inventions were perfect, until they were ready to be shown to the world.

Francesca didn't want to publish one or two little papers here and there, nor did she want to get bogged down on side projects like CD player cases when they were only a means to her final product. She wanted to release the final ACD when it was finished, completed and perfect, and watch it change spell-casting forever.

She tilted her head, glancing over at John, who sighed in return.

He's all right, Chess. Uptight, but that's the noble upbringing, I think. He's genuinely curious – he likes magical theory. And someone from Hogwarts isn't going to have the kind of background to steal your ideas.

Ugh, fine. "The ACD uses, um, a lot of No-Maj scientific principles to work. I don't think – no, um, I don't know if you would understand it even if I did, um, explain it?"

John put his head in his hands.

"No offence intended, of course," Francesca added hastily, looking down at the ground. It wasn't that she didn't want someone to help her with the ACD, it was that the list of people she would trust to help her with it was vanishingly small. There was John, a great experimental subject, and there was Professor Ryan, who provided oversight and talked her through the complicated electrical engineering hardware concepts she was still weak on.

Aldon tilted his head a little, a half-smile coming onto his lips. "I understand your nervousness – the ACD is a remarkable invention, with a lot of applications in sensitive areas. Would it help you to know that I have a thorough grounding in magical theory? And I have also worked quite a lot with new inventions before – my… biological mother runs the division of the Rosier Investment Trust responsible for investment in new wizarding technologies, and I interned there for two summers. Most recently, we funded the development of the Firebolt, and we have other projects on the go as well, such as improvements to Omnioculars, and so on." He paused. "Or, they do, I suppose."

That got a bit more of Francesca's attention. Magical theorist, with experience at what sounded like some sort of venture funding firm, specifically in a group that worked with new technologies. She did need someone with a better grounding in magical theory.

But that didn't mean he wouldn't try to steal her ideas. Having a knowledgeable magical theorist falling in her lap, when she was struggling with some of those exact concepts, someone who had connections to venture funding, that was far too good to be true.

Good things didn't just happen to Francesca. The last random good thing that had happened to her was finding out she was a mage and going to AIM and look how that had turned out. She was not like Archie – even if AIM held many good things, like John and dance, it also held a lot of hurt. She would be all too happy to leave.

She remembered how excited she had been, taking the Portkey from San Francisco to AIM with her luggage, carrying her new robes, her new spellbooks, her new wand. She remembered fighting with her parents to let her go at all, since she had been doing so well in her accelerated program at No-Maj school that she had gotten into the top high school in the city three years early. But this was magic, and she had fought so hard to be allowed to go. That first day at AIM had been wonderful, and she had worked up the courage to talk to those three kids, all in her dorm, who had an extra seat at their table. Somehow, they had let her join them, and then, miraculously, they had let her keep hanging out with them when everything changed.

She remembered too well the change – the fact that magic just didn't work for her the way it seemed to work for Archie, or Hermione, or John. Not being able to cast any spells, getting farther and farther behind with every class. All the theory in the world didn't seem to help, and people started to whisper about her, about how they must have made a mistake, letting her in. Then those weeks when she had been pulled out of classes for testing, so much testing, not knowing whether they would kick her out or not, long weeks where the professors would send her to read at the back of the room while the real mages got to play with magic. And the whispers turned to insults, both veiled and outright, and people started laughing at her, playing tricks on her, taking her things or tripping her between classes, hexing her, pranking her. Because it was funny, because she wasn't like them, because she couldn't do magic the way they could. Francesca was a mistake, and she should have left school instead of being a wandless embarrassment to AIM.

For Francesca, all the good things that happened to her were the result of endless work. She did well in dance because she practiced three hours per day, five days per week when she was at school; she succeeded on the ACD because she had obsessed over it for three years, spending all her spare time reading papers, thinking about it, trying new things and experimenting. Good things did not just happen to Francesca, and a well-connected magical theorist with a genuine interest in her work was absolutely too good to be true. He wanted something.

"I – I don't know," Francesca hedged, biting her lip. What would she say? She didn't want to be too rude turning him down. "I just – it's really complicated, you really need some understanding of No-Maj physics to even really get the base concept of how it works—"

"I can learn what I need to learn to understand, if you point me in the right direction." Aldon frowned slightly, but he didn't seem to be offended. "Please don't lie to me. It… irritates my magic."

He was a Truth-Speaker – right. Francesca wasn't entirely sure what had set him off since, strictly speaking, what she had said was true, but she flushed anyway. "Um, I don't know what to say? I, um, I worked really hard on the ACD. It's very important to me, and, um, as you say, it is sensitive. I – um, how do I say this?"

She looked to John, who was looking away from her, and his surface thoughts were completely useless. They were all about how it would be good for her to make more friends and interact more with new people, and if she had Aldon Rosier to geek out about magical theory with, hopefully he wouldn't be caught up in it as often. And, by the way John was now innocently staring into space, he planned on being no help to her at all.

"Are you concerned I have other motives for looking at your device?" Aldon asked, upfront, his voice rather gentle. Why was it that he sounded like that? He was always so cutting when he spoke to Hermione, dry and carefully polite when he talked to Archie. To John, he seemed to be reserved and almost a little subdued, but that gentle tone was different, new. "I promise I won't try to steal your invention, Francesca."

"And why – why should I trust you?" She shook her head, taking a small step back. "I – I don't really…"

She glanced over at John again – he met her eyes, this time. Give him a chance, Chess. From what I've seen of his mind, he really does have an interest in magical theory, and he has worked evaluating potential new inventions for two summers. You've been stuck for awhile – maybe it's time for a change?

"I'm not asking you to trust me, or at least not fully," Aldon tilted his head to one side, thinking about it. "Non-disclosure agreements are standard at the Rosier Investment Trust, because most inventors are hesitant to share their ideas without one. I can find a template for us to enter on charmed parchment, so you'll know if I've broken it, if you like. Would that make you feel more comfortable?"

Francesca looked at John again.

Take a chance on him, Monster. A non-disclosure agreement sounds good, and it'll provide some protection for you. And if he hurts you, I'll fuck him up. Sound good?

Francesca pressed her lips together, feeling very much like she had been pushed into a corner. "Fine," she said abruptly. "If – if you get the, um, non-disclosure agreement, I'll look at it. If it works out, I guess I can, um, walk you through it."

He had a template non-disclosure agreement to her within a few days, and if Francesca dawdled a little in reviewing it, well, who was to know? She was busy.

XXX

"The two of you are insane," Percy announced, looking between Hermione and Aldon. He was pale, his blue eyes were wide, and his red curls were a mess from the number of times he had tugged at them over the past hour. Hermione and Aldon had researched the summoning ritual ad nauseum over the last week – with Percy's help, Hermione and Aldon had gotten access to legal libraries and had spent the last few days in a mad research tear, with pauses for vicious arguments at least twice a day. "I let you into the Inns of Court because I thought that, with further research, the two of you would move on from this crazy idea, not that you would become more determined to pursue it!"

Aldon and Hermione might have fought like cats and dogs, they might have spent more than a few hours casting aspersions on each other's intelligence, willpower, and common sense, and there might have been more than one hex thrown (Hermione had, Archie was proud to say, come out on top every time), but they had succeeded. They had hashed out far more details on how to summon Justice, and what would happen if they did so, and Aldon had even managed to get into the Wizarding Courts of Law in his guise as a noble heir to confirm that the ritual would still work. It would – he had found the traditional designs that he would need to use, on the steps to the top dais of the courtroom, and a well-meaning court clerk had helpfully explained to him that the top dais, with its simple, plain chair, represented Justice. No one was allowed to go back there, she had said, and in fact no one could. There was some sort of spell locking the top dais from everyone, and not even dust settled on that chair.

"It is a far better option than simply folding for the Ministry," Aldon said, a look of deep satisfaction on his face. "From our research, it really does appear that Justice follows higher principles than wizard-made law. She cares deeply about due process and keeping the law out of people's lives to the extent possible – do no harm, and do as you will, and all that. She does not care for morality laws overmuch. There's an infamous succession case from about 1103 involving adultery where she ruled that, since the King had clearly acknowledged the Crown Prince before his death, regardless of his actual parentage, she did not care whether he was, by blood, the King's son or not. I think it can be argued that blood identity theft is akin to a crime of morality, and it should be possible for us to argue to strike the law on that basis. If we strike blood identity theft as a law, then arguably, Archie has not committed any crime at all – at least, not within Wizarding Britain. We can argue that the law is unjust because it differentiates on blood status to certain groups' detriment, thereby interfering with their lives, and that there is no justified reason for doing so."

"There are disadvantages, too," Hermione said, pursing her lips. Aldon was a thousand percent behind this new plan, while Hermione was still cautious. "First, Justice has only ever been summoned to hear cases of national importance: royal succession, treason, regicide, and the like. We don't know whether Justice will hear this one—"

"But it is a case of national importance, if a little unorthodox, so that should be no issue," Aldon interrupted, throwing Hermione a glare. Hermione returned the glare, her eyes narrowing slightly, but Archie didn't worry. They wouldn't be too bad with Percy in the room.

"We don't know whether Justice will hear this one," Hermione repeated, daring Aldon with her eyes to interrupt again, "and it looks like, if Justice is called, it is automatically a capital offence or something similar. When Justice is called, it is blood, soul, and magic on the line, nothing less. There are no records of Justice, when called to hear a trial, issuing sentences like imprisonments or fines – on conviction, at best, it's a loss of some part of the person's magic. At worst, it's death or the loss of their soul."

"But that may only be because Justice is only called for matters of national importance," Aldon interrupted again, throwing Hermione a look that dared her to keep telling him what to do. "There's nothing conclusive recorded on that point, it's only taken as a given in the trial records."

"You are both insane," Percy repeated, looking from one to the other. "Justice has not been summoned in more than four hundred years – I did not think that was anything more than legend."

Hermione glanced at Aldon, an annoyed scowl coming onto her face. "On that point, I will regrettably have to agree with Aldon. Legends always have a basis in truth and the records themselves, taken in their totality, as well as the physical evidence of the courtroom show that it can be done, and that it was done in the past – not often, but maybe once a decade. The question is, should we?"

"They probably stopped doing it because they could not identify any Truth-Speakers." Aldon smirked. "My talent was never a common one, and it became somewhat rarer with passage of the Statute of Secrecy. In addition, even a gap of fifty years may be enough for wizards to forget that it was possible at all."

"Mages, Aldon, not wizards." Hermione's correction was sharp, even if Archie had to have heard it a dozen times just in the last month. "I'd appreciate it if you used gender-neutral terminology."

"You're in Wizarding Britain, Hermione." Aldon crossed his arms over his chest. "The recognized terminology here is witch and wizard. Use them."

Archie held his hands up. "Can we get back to the topic, please? Aldon, I would appreciate the gender-neutral terminology, too."

Aldon scowled at him too, and it was plain as day that he had no intention of doing so. Archie sighed internally – he would have to find another way to convince him to adopt mages in lieu of witches and wizards later. Aside from being gender-neutral, it was also easier and faster!

"In any case," Aldon said, his words clipped with annoyance, as he turned back to Percy. "Wouldn't you like to run a trial out of legend? The first trial before Justice Herself in nearly five hundred years?"

"Not especially," Percy said bluntly, looking at Archie. "A trial before Lady Justice is inherently unpredictable, and I do not like unpredictability. Archie, I must counsel you against this ridiculous proposal – I can tell you what is likely to happen if you plead guilty, I can tell you what is likely to happen if you do not plead guilty, I can provide you with advice under the law as it was written. But if you choose to invoke the Incarnation of Justice, I cannot tell you what might happen, if it even works. Please, think this through – the trial is less than a week away, now."

Archie sighed, rubbing his forehead. It didn't seem like he had any good options. He could plead guilty – the Ministry's plea deal expired one minute after the trial began, and that would cut the fine by a third. He could plead guilty without taking the plea deal, and Percy was sure he could argue for an even lower fine than a thousand galleons. Neither of those were really options, though, because Archie did not want to plead guilty. He wouldn't reach his goal of drawing the most attention possible to the injustice of the blood discrimination laws if he pled guilty. Dad, though, wanted him to plead guilty – he wanted Archie to put this behind him and move on.

He could plead not guilty, and then there were the potential defense strategies. He could have Percy claw holes in the prosecution's evidence, but he knew he had done it, everyone knew he had done it, and if he did that, he felt like he would be weaselling out, pretending that something else might have happened. He could go with the necessity defense, but Hermione and Aldon both thought that was stupid in its absurdity, because it didn't really make any sense. He liked that one because then, he would be able to talk about all of Harry's good deeds, and because really – it was a little true. Even if Archie had said no, Harry probably would have done something to go to Hogwarts anyway. He could see it happening. Or he could invoke his ancient, noble rights, and invoke Justice to preside over the trial, and they could make arguments directly on whether the blood discrimination laws were just. But it sounded like that was the riskiest option, because neither Percy, nor Hermione, nor even Aldon could really predict what might happen. And, from Hermione's words, it sounded like it was the most dangerous option for Archie. Dad would hate it.

"No, you can't just come in," Archie heard Dad snapping. He looked to the doorway to the kitchen, standing up with a frown, and both Aldon and Hermione had their wands in hand. "Let me see that!"

"What is it?" Archie stood, taking a few steps towards the door. Something was wrong. Dad wouldn't sound like that otherwise – Dad was snarling, angry, trailing along behind two Aurors as they strode into the warm kitchen. Auror Dawlish, and someone that Archie didn't recognize. "Dad?"

"Arcturus Rigel Black," Auror Dawlish's words were brisk, professional. "We have a warrant to search your house in search of evidence of a crime. We received a tip stating that you have been in communication with Harry Potter since her escape." He held up a piece of parchment, a look of cruel satisfaction on his face. "Your absolute right of silence won't help you here."

"Let me see that," Percy snapped, grabbing the parchment out of Auror Dawlish's hands. He scanned it quickly. "Archie, they have authorization to search for any communication orbs or similar that you might have with Harriett. Go get anything you might have."

Archie bobbed his head quickly, running upstairs for the mirror, passing six more Aurors on the way. He was so relieved that Harry had been warned about the connection and had either ditched or destroyed her mirror. Thank god for Chess, who had warned them, and for John, who had given him a strategy for this. He could hand over his half of the mirror without any worry whatsoever.

Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, though. Archie shook his head, disappointed, as he grabbed his Two-Way mirror off his bedside table. It had to have been them. No one else had heard about the mirror so recently, and of those who knew about it – John, Chess, Aldon, Hermione, his family – no one would have tipped the Aurors off. He had not really expected Malfoy or Parkinson to betray Harry like that – or, maybe, he had half-expected Malfoy to do something of the sort, but not Parkinson, whom he had, on his more objective moments, considered friendly enough. How could they?Friends did not betray each other, friends didn't even think about betraying each other, and even if Archie was not friends with them, he would have liked to think that they cared enough about Harry, at least, not to put her in more danger!

Maybe Harry's friendship meant less to them since she wasn't a pureblood, Archie thought, pressing his lips together. Blood before honour, Aldon had said the Malfoy motto was, and it certainly sounded like that was what he was following. If Archie had any way of communicating with Harry, he would have to tell her that, at her friends' first real test of loyalty, they had failed. They didn't deserve her – Harry could do so much better than friends who would sell her out at the first opportunity!

He headed back into the kitchen, handing the Two-Way mirror to Auror Dawlish with no ceremony. Dawlish held it up, examining it closely.

"Is this everything, Archie?" Percy asked, serious, folding up the search warrant slowly.

"Yes," Archie replied, but he couldn't resist adding a bit more. "It was only once, more than a month ago. I don't know where she is now, and I haven't heard from her."

Percy shook his head slightly, a motion for him to shut up before he said too much. "Thank you. Aurors, I assume this satisfies your search warrant. My client has been cooperative, and there is no need for anything further. Please leave, and take the Auror unit in the hallway with you."

Auror Dawlish looked up, eyebrow raised. "With only a Two-Way Mirror? I'm afraid this isn't satisfactory at all – how do we know that there isn't more? The warrant permits us to search for all possible communication devices, not to accept what you and your client deem it acceptable for us to have. Aurors," he raised his voice, calling for the Aurors in the hallway, "search the manor, and look for anything odd, anything unusual! Remember that Harriett Potter is clever – seize anything that you don't recognize, since it could be a communication device!"

"Auror Dawlish!" Percy pushed forward, standing between Archie and the Aurors. "You know very that this is a breach of Archie's rights – under the terms of the search warrant, you have exactly what you were searching for, and by going any farther you will be surpassing the authority of your warrant!"

"He's right, Dawlish," Dad said, a stern frown on his face as he looked between Dawlish and his partner, in the kitchen, and the six Aurors in the hallway. "Has your promotion gone to your head, or have all of you simply lost your minds without James in charge? This is a clear case of over-searching, and it will be treated like one unless you leave, now."

"You have not been an Auror in many years, Lord Black," Dawlish replied, shaking his head. "You've forgotten that whether something is over-searching depends on what we find. Aurors – get to it!"

"This is illegal!" Percy spat, but there didn't seem to be any point as the team of Aurors spread out and began ransacking Grimmauld Place. "I'll have anything you find tossed, and you very well know it!"

It was one of the hardest afternoons of Archie's life. At first, with Hermione at one side, holding his arm, and Aldon flipping through a magical theory textbook on the other with an air of forced calm, Archie tried to count the afternoons that had been worse. There was the day that Mum died, that was worse. There was the afternoon of the final Triwizard Tournament. Mum's funeral had been pretty bad, but he didn't know if it was worse than this. The night that he had found out about the Marriage Law and the Quarantine at Hogwarts was bad, but not this bad. Finding out that Mum had died of a treatable illness, that had been worse.

It didn't help. Counting out the days that had been worse, a sick compilation of his bad days, it didn't make this day, this afternoon, any less bad. It didn't make him feel better, knowing there had been worse days.

He watched as they started bringing things out, tossing everything into a brown bag that clearly had an undetectable Extension Charm built in. They hit Chess' and John's rooms first – thank the gods Chess and John were out! Thank god that Chess had taken her laptop with her to recharge and do some work in the public library, and that John always carried his ACD with him. The Aurors brought out the thing that she called a breadboard, which she used to try to design electrical circuits, tossing it carelessly into the bag, as well as her LED lights, her boombox that she was currently toying with, her plastics and aerogels and other No-Maj materials, and Archie didn't know how he was going to tell her what had happened. He didn't understand her work, but for all he knew, they were throwing away months of her research. He swallowed thickly.

Then they went into his room, and his heart crumpled as they started bringing down his things. They started with his books, bringing them down in stacks, throwing them in a willy-nilly jumble into the bag. The Annotated Shakespeare, that John had gotten him for his very first Christmas after he went to AIM, his copy of Lonely Planet London that he used to stave off insanity over long summers, the collected writings of Martin Luther King Jr. that inspired him. Dracula, I, Robot, The Left Hand of Darkness, The Hobbit, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, The Man in the High Castle, To Kill A Mockingbird, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Dune, The Crucible, My Own Country, the collection of No-Maj fairy tales that Hermione had gotten him against her own better judgement, all those and many more. Those were his – those were his books, and they didn't care.

"Yes, because Muggle books are a communication device," Dad said, deeply scathing, as Archie struggled to breathe, as he started blinking furiously and taking deep, ragged breaths, trying to stop himself from crying. They were his books. Books that transported him to new worlds, to worlds that existed that he had never seen, past-worlds or fantasy-worlds that didn't exist and never would, future-worlds that might come later. Books that gave him characters he loved, from Othello to Samwise Gamgee, from Lucy Pevensie to Bob Arctor, from Sherlock Holmes to Jay Gatsby. Books that taught him to question, books that questioned the nature of humanity, books with heroes and villains that struggled over what was right. Books that were his light when everything felt dark, books that let him escape from his own life for a few hours, books that let him dream about making something better – they were taking them away, throwing them carelessly into that bottomless, brown, bag.

Dad tried to get in the way, to stop them, but he was firmly pushed aside, and he only just stopped himself from going for his wand. Archie wiped his eyes, trying to be discreet about it, but there were only so many ways to discreetly dab away tears. Hermione was rubbing him on the back, he realized, and a soft hiccoughing noise was coming from his chest as he started sniffling. Aldon's face was a polite mask of distaste, and he kept flipping pages in his book without reading them.

"We're just following orders, Lord Black," he heard an Auror say, not unkindly. "We look it over, and if everything checks out, you'll get it all back. We just need to look for any codes, things like that. You understand."

"No, I really don't, Auror Asiado," Dad snapped. "In my day, we didn't exceed our warrants' authority when conducting a search!"

"This is completely and utterly needless." Percy's voice was icy. "This is a serious breach of the Blacks' civil rights, and you can rest assured that they will be advised of their options with respect to a lawsuit."

The Auror shrugged at the two of them, a little helplessly, but kept on throwing Archie's books into the bag.

It wasn't just the books. Archie's CD player, in its hard case, was thrown into the bag, along with his headphones, his collection of CDs: his special mix of Disney songs from Chess, who had gone out of her way to record all of his favourites for him, his Cats, his Phantom of the Opera, his Johnny Cash, Madonna, The Cranberries. His copy of Les Misérables, the original 1986 recording from London, which had the very best rendition of Empty Chairs and Empty Tables. He could hear brittle, cracking noises inside the bag, and he knew that that was the noise of the delicate plastic cases for his CDs, being shattered by all the books they had thrown in before. His AIM sweaters went in too, along with a dozen knick-knacks, momentos, random No-Maj things that he had collected over the years. His canvas jacket, too small for him now, that he had used in first year when he played Anybodys. His packet of glow in the dark stars, which he always used to decorate his ceiling at AIM. The bear wearing a kilt from Edinburgh that he had never gotten around to giving to Hermione.

"It'll be all right, Archie," he could hear Hermione whispering, as he fumbled for his handkerchief. It was just things, he knew. It was just books and music and mementos going into that bag, and it was nothing that couldn't be replaced. And yet, it still hurt. It still hurt, because these things, these books and music and momentos, they all meant something to him, they were all things that he loved and wanted to keep close to him. His hands were shaky as he unfolded his handkerchief, as he wiped his face, blew his nose. He tried to keep his sobs quiet, but those were his books, his music, that they were throwing it all away, like they were meaningless, like they were nothing! Hermione let go of his arm and turned him towards her, drawing him into a hug. He buried his head into her warm curls as she kept murmuring small comforts into his ear. "They can all be replaced. Francesca would love to go shopping for you, she and John would love running all over London looking for things for you."

"How much will she need to cover it?" Archie heard Dad ask, his voice somehow distant as he sobbed, muffled sounds of hurt, into Hermione's shoulder. "I don't know how much Muggle books or CDs cost."

"The books and CDs themselves, not that much, no more than two hundred pounds, I don't think," Hermione replied quietly, rubbing Archie's back. "It's the protective case on the CD player that's the issue. It's custom-made, one of Francesca's inventions, and there I don't think it's so much cost as it is production time and materials. They've taken her materials too – we'll need to wait for her and John to get back before we know how bad that is, but fortunately I think she was only experimenting on the boombox."

"Shut up." Aldon's voice was low, but sharp. "They haven't left yet. Fuck, why don't the lot of you have any sense?"

The room fell silent, with only the sound of more things being thrown into the bag, and Archie burrowed his head deeper into Hermione's shoulder. It was only things, only things, and it wasn't that bad. It wasn't that bad, so he needed to pull himself together.

It was just all so needless. They didn't have any other communication devices, and Archie had given up his mirror without a fight. From what Dad and Percy said, the Aurors had broken the law by ransacking his house, as they did, and they had known it while they had done it. Most of the things they had taken couldn't even be argued to be a communication device! They just hadn't cared, or maybe, probably, it was an excuse for something else. He grabbed onto the grain of anger and held it, gripped it in his mind until it hurt, because anger was good – anger was necessary when dealing with someone like Auror Dawlish, anger was better than tears. What they had done was wrong, because they just didn't care to follow their own laws. The Auror that had been left with them, Asiado, ignored them all, feigning deafness.

By the time Auror Dawlish was back in the kitchen, Archie was calm again, though he knew his face puffy, swollen, and that his eyes were bloodshot. He was still sniffling, every now and then, but at least he wasn't in the middle of a full-blown breakdown. He knew that Dawlish could see it from the way he ran his cold eyes over Archie's face.

He snorted softly, a small huff of derision, then he looked up to Dad, whose expression had turned to stone. "Lord Black, we'll be on our way. Feel free to lodge a formal protest, not that it'll do you any good considering everything we found."

"Yes, books and music, clothes and souvenirs," Percy snarled at him. Archie had almost forgotten that he was there, standing with his hands firm on the kitchen table, his face pale in mixed shock and fury. "You know you broke the law, and you know you exceeded your warrant's authority. I will have everything you confiscated today tossed for the illegal search and seizure. What was the point of today, Dawlish? Tell me, what purpose did all of this serve?"

"Just bringing criminals to justice, counsellor." Dawlish turned away, motioning for his Aurors to follow him. The front door slammed after them, the snap loud in the silence.

Archie sniffed. They're only things, he reminded himself, as Aldon pulled out his wand again and pointed it at the magical theory text that he had been idly flipping through for the better part of two hours. "Reparifarge," he muttered, and the book turned into Archie's script, Grease, which Aldon slid across the table to him. "I… Transfigured it as a precaution, when I heard them coming. I recognized Dawlish's voice."

"Have a lot of experience hiding contraband items, Aldon?" Dad's voice was quiet, with a hint of a laugh.

"Censored magical theory books and journals, mainly, Transfigured as Quidditch memorabilia and a chess set. A little more complex as subterfuge – I had to fake an interest in Quidditch for it. My favourite team was supposed to be the Tornadoes, and of course that meant I had to actually follow the Tornadoes, and… it was complicated." Aldon looked away awkwardly, clearing his throat. Hermione snorted, covering up a small laugh.

Archie smiled weakly, trembling a little. "Deep down, you are a nerd, aren't you? Protecting textbooks."

"I have no idea what that means." Aldon frowned. "Should I be offended? I feel like I ought to be offended."

"They missed a few other things, too." Dad patted him on the back. "Your AIM Triwizard sweater and Triwizard team jacket were in the laundry, and I still have Cosmos – I had it in your mother's box of records, in the formal sitting room. The rest, we'll replace. Don't worry about it, Arch."

"We can get the items back, too." Percy shook his head, his mouth a grim line of determination. "The law is clear on search warrants. My apologies for being unable to prevent this, Archie. They did not have the authority to conduct the search they did, and they should not have done it – you can be sure that I'll be raising it with the court."

Archie nodded, but his mouth firmed. The Aurors weren't following the law – they hadn't given him the things he was entitled to for his first night in prison (though he hadn't minded that part at all, really), they used a search warrant to raid and ransack his house and take away so many of the things he loved, for no discernable reason. Why should he respect the law, when they clearly didn't? Why should he play by the rules they set, when they could apparently break them whenever they wanted with no consequences whatsoever? Why shouldn't he hold them to account with something truly impartial, something a little unexpected, something straight out of legend?

Archie felt a little reckless, off-balance, and a bit of risk sounded perfect to him, right now.

"Hey, Perce," he said, taking a deep breath. "Let's do it. Summon Justice, I mean. If anyone can prepare for a trial out of legend, it's you. I trust you to pull me out of the fire."

Percy was silent for a moment, thinking. And then he nodded, just once. "We'll go down in history for this, Archie. I just hope we can get back up again afterwards."

XXX

AN: Look, it's Aldon! Why did you have to become such a creeper, Aldon? Also, this was the chapter where I reread it and thought, "oh, I accidentally wrote in a classic enemies-to-lovers trope, oops." So, uh, if anyone wants to write me some enemies-to-lovers fic of fic of fic and doesn't mind breaking Archie's poor heart, I'd love some for my birthday? Thanks go to meek_bookworm for toning down Aldon's creepiness so you don't have to rinse your brains as much as you might have had to, and extra special thanks go this time to SHL and JAP for your help on search warrants, search and seizure, and over-searching.

Next Chapter: I hear your voice in the wind / It follows me, it cuts right through the noise / As we spin on dance floors made of ice / So rest your hand in mine / Steady now, ignore the sound of breaking lines / The crack beneath our feet as time runs out (Politics of Love, by Rise Against)