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.

7. Chapter 7

Neal woke up at six in the morning, the way he had as long as he had remembered. He didn't like waking up at six in the morning, but it was habit. Wake up, wash his face, put on loose practice clothing, go outside to his gloriously beautiful lists.

It was nice, running through the exercises he had done every nearly every morning of his life, in the environment he was supposed to. This wasn't the expanded backyard that he and his brothers and his sister had been forced to train in, under the watchful eye of their mother, his entire childhood. This wasn't the Quidditch and Quodpot pitch, where he had faithfully run through his exercises every morning at six in the morning at AIM.

It wasn't that he liked early mornings, or the sword. It was that, in some ways, he had known nothing else. He was Song, and like his ancestors before him, he carried a sword. That line apparently rang equally strong on his father's side too – by now, he had seen the Great Roll of Knights, carefully preserved in the Queenscove library. The sword was a part of him, and even if he didn't always like it, he still went out faithfully, every morning, even when he was tired, when it was cold, when he was sick, and he ran through an hour of sword exercises.

At AIM, it had connected him to his family. He had known that, at six in the morning, Graeme was outside, shivering on some mountain in the Appalachians, running through the same exercises as him. He had known that Will was out in the freezing cold, two layers of fleece shirts with an integrated Warming Charm, seeing his breath in the air as he ran through the same exercises. He knew that Jessa, at Ilvermorny, ran through her exercises just as her brothers did, just as Mom did at home. That didn't mean it was easy, but it did make it easier, and he would never be the one that didn't do his exercises that day. Not when he knew his brothers and sister were out there, in much colder conditions than he enjoyed, doing their exercises. Not when he knew that they would hold each other to account, when they came home, and Graeme loved beating them all into the dirt.

It became easier when Kel started at AIM. They had met almost by chance, running into each other just past at six in the morning – Kel with a naginata, heading out of Oliver Hall, looking for a place to practice, and Neal with his sword, walking out of Pettingill Hall. They had stared at each other in shock for a solid minute, then Neal had given her his most ridiculous bow and motioned for her to lead the way to Quidditch and Quodpot pitch. There, they had struck up what seemed like an unlikely friendship: Neal, a third-year Healer, and Kel, a first-year in general studies. Neal, a half-Chinese heirloom-caster – Kel, an American halfblood raised in Japan, who practiced the naginata.

Then, John had shown up, and while he wasn't a traditional caster like the two of them, he was a Natural Legilimens who kept his powerful gift under control partially through intense physical conditioning. He, too, had slammed into them just past six in the morning, early in his first year, and he ran laps and trained his Natural Legilimency while they practiced. It was their time, early in the mornings, and they didn't need to talk. They just moved, and they kept each other company through mornings that were too cold, too tiring, too dull, and pushed each other when one of them wanted to say, just one day. Just one day, he'd like to sleep in. Just one day, and therein lay madness.

"Literally," John had muttered once, bleary-eyed, ten after six in the morning on a cold February day when Neal had needed to rustle him out of bed. "Ugh, fine, I'm coming. I don't want to go mad."

One day would lead to two days, which led to three or more, so Neal never did take that one day. It was a good time for him to sit and concentrate, to focus, to think, as his body mechanically followed the routine he had set for it long ago.

A few days on, Neal was facing reality. He was the Lord Queenscove. Sirius had checked the Book of Gold, kept at the Ministry, and confirmed it – Neal now appeared in the Book of Gold, the thirty-fifth Lord of Queenscove. Sirius had even peeked in the Wizengamot – the Queenscove seat, in the Gold section, was lit again, the graven letters reading Queenscove now beside the Black seat that Sirius himself sat in, two down from the ancient Peverell seat.

He still couldn't leave the grounds, not without a pounding headache. The only good thing, according to both Sirius and Blake, was that no one yet realized that the Queenscove seat had awoken. Once they did, he would have a line of potential allies and enemies pounding his doors, and no doubt when that happened, he would want to throw them all into the sea.

His castle might even comply. It was unreasonably accommodating of even his most ridiculous requests. It made him new bedrooms at his every whim – he had decided, one morning after writing a half-dozen letters to his family and friends about what had happened, that it would be nice to have bedrooms for everyone. The ones for Kel and Yuki (before she, in his dreams, moved into his rooms) had a distinct Japanese minimalism. Graeme's, Will's and Tina's were all done in with tasteful rustic Canadiana (the castle had point-blank refused to make one bedroom for Will and Tina, insisting on two). His parents' room had a huge four-poster bed, just like the one at home that Mom adored and that Dad always humoured her with. Neal didn't even know where his castle had found all the weapons to stack Fei's room with, and Jessa's room was fit for a princess. Even Dom had a bedroom, stacked with a liquor cabinet that Neal knew Dom would quite happily drink his way through.

When others, like Archie or Sirius, came by, the castle always delighted in making more rooms for them, even if they only rarely stayed the night. The castle hoped – the castle wanted to be bustling and busy, the castle wanted a dozen Queenscoves and their families living in it, sleeping in its bedrooms, training in its lists, drinking tea in its parlours, sewing in its solars, studying in its library. It wanted feasts in the hall again, and with the amount in the Queenscove trust, the one that Lord Gershom had set aside almost a thousand years ago, feasts that Neal could well afford. He had almost fainted looking at the amount in the Queenscove trust – it was more than he could spend in a lifetime, especially with a puppy-dog of a castle that seemed to give him everything he wanted on a whim anyway.

Even the house-elves, once Neal had gotten used to them, were too eager to please. He had breakfast laid out for him every morning, at eight-thirty after he had finished his exercises, then Sirius or Archie would be over – Sirius to help him deal with getting control over his castle, and Archie, sometimes with Hermione, just to check in on him. After they left, Neal would ensconce himself in the massive Queenscove library (stacked overmuch, he thought, with treatises on chivalry), looking for ways out of his dilemma while his castle whimpered and fretted that he wanted to leave in the back of his head. There was lunch out in the kitchens, ready whenever he wanted it, and dinner at seven each night – again, in the kitchens, because hell if Neal was going to have a formal dinner alone in his hall. No matter what his overgrown puppy of a castle wanted.

Sometimes, Francesca would come by in the afternoons, if she worked up the nerve to try the Floo – she loved his castle, and could often be found reading or daydreaming in a patch of sunlight in one of his south-facing solars. If she was there, he could bet that Blake would be by later that day, looking for her, a No-Maj science or math textbook under one arm. He always knew when they arrived – the wards would vibrate, his castle would tell him who it was and where they were, giving him a quick image of them if he wanted.

"In the blue solar," he would say, when Blake poked his head in the doorway to the library, not even looking up from whatever book he was reading on noble manors or noble obligations or whatever it was, trying to find a way out. "Comme toujours."

A shifting of feet. "Merci," the other boy would mutter, and his accent was tolerable, if not good.

"De rien," Neal would reply, flipping a page. "But be careful, eh? John is overprotective. With some reason, though I won't say good reason."

"I have no intentions on her person," Blake would snap, orange-yellow eyes flashing, his voice stiff. Neal thought he even believed it.

"Sure. Just don't do anything in my castle, buddy."

It took him almost two weeks, all told, to realize that there was no way out. It was just as Blake had said – once bound, the Lord of a noble house was bound, and the only ways out were by a challenge, preferably from his father or one of his siblings, or death. He could just imagine his brothers: Graeme would laugh so hard he cracked a rib, then refuse because who wanted responsibility, and Will would just smile angelically and remind Neal that he had told him not to do it and Neal had made his bed and would just have to lie in it. Mom and Dad had a life in Montreal, and Jessa – he wouldn't even allow Jessa to challenge him for title. If one of them had to be stuck in a dangerous country, a dangerous political situation, better him than Jessa.

But it sucked. Criss, it sucked. He wanted to go home. He wanted a massive tray of poutine from La Banquise, he wanted to stop at Schwarz's for smoked meat. He wanted to hike up Mont Royale in the middle of the city; he wanted to walk down Rue St. Catharines, enjoying the food, the parties, the beer. He wanted to risk his life on those rickety little stairways so common on l'Île de Montréal under a foot of snow, he wanted to freeze his ass off in the cold Quebec winter, he wanted to yell at his siblings about who had to go clear out the training yard in the morning (his vote was either Graeme or Jessa – they had fire to throw around).

He didn't want to be stuck halfway around the world, away from his family, away from his friends. He didn't want to have a noble seat, and a castle, in the middle of a country he would never belong in, where they would call him a blood traitor, where they discriminated against newbloods and halfbloods. He didn't want to have anything at all to do with Wizarding Britain!

He had broken into the liquor cabinet in Dom's bedroom, pulling out a bottle of Firewhiskey. He wasn't normally much of a drinker, but he figured that this realization was one where a drink (or three) was necessary. He was stuck. Trapped. Stranded. Lost in time and space. He poured his first glass of Firewhiskey and threw it back with a bit of a grimace.

"Drinking alone?"

Neal knew the voice by now – a little mocking, a little sarcastic.

"Tais-toi, Blake," he muttered. He actually had no idea how proficient the other boy was in French. Pleasantries, basics, he certainly understood, most of the swear words he didn't. He wondered if shut up would go over Blake's head. "Weren't you just leaving?"

Blake tilted his head, orange-yellow eyes thoughtful. "I was – but somehow I suspect Archie and the Lord Black would be less than pleased to hear that I left you drinking alone."

Neal offered him the bottle, but Blake grimaced and turned away. Neal shrugged, pulling the bottle back towards himself. "You'll still be leaving me drinking alone, if you aren't drinking."

Something flashed in Blake's eyes, and he came into the kitchen and sat down across from him, arms crossed. "Trust me, Queenscove, were I capable of drinking, I would have drunk myself to St. Mungo's by now." A weighty pause, then he looked down, away, and his voice was a little softer. "My best friend, before all this – he told me if he caught me with another drink in hand, he'd force me into rehabilitation."

There was silence as Neal processed his words, then he pulled the Firewhiskey even farther away from Blake and wrapped his arms around it, like a stuffed toy. "Guess none for you, then. Too bad."

Blake studied him for a few minutes. Then, with a heavy sigh and a disgusted mutter, something about how Hufflepuff he was becoming, he pulled out his wand and summoned a glass, then filled it with water. "So? Why are you drinking alone?"

Neal glared at him and poured a himself second glass of Firewhiskey. Firewhiskey wasn't even good. He and Dom would have still drunk it, laughing all the while, Graeme and Tina would have joined them, and Will would cross his arms and tell them all that they were going to destroy their livers. But he would run interference with Jessa anyway for them.

"Right, I suppose that's obvious," Blake muttered, taking a drink from his glass of water. "Well, that's an irony. I'd challenge you for title, were I blood-related. There are many advantages to your position."

Neal snorted softly. "I'm stuck, Blake. Trapped in a country I hate, in a place I don't belong. Crissez the title and the money. I just want to be Neal Queenscove, third son. Healer. Câlisse, how am I supposed to get Yuki to fall in love with me from Wizarding Britain? I can't even leave Queenscove without blinding headaches."

"Well, the last one is easy enough to handle," Blake remarked, a little wry. "As surprised as I am to learn that you don't consider a castle, a noble title, and enough money to make the top twenty wealthiest families in Wizarding Britain assets enough to court someone, noble lords can and do leave their lands. Lord Potter is certainly gone right now, indefinitely so, having left his lands in the stewardship of Lord Black. You have only to let your lands settle down to having you as Lord, learn to trust you not to abandon them, and you can do the same. Assign your proxy in the Wizengamot to another Lord whose judgement you trust, leave your lands in the hands of a steward you trust. Queenscove will accept that, if it trusts you."

Neal made a face. It seemed counter-intuitive, almost dishonest – make his lands trust him, so he could hand them over to someone else and abandon them. Why couldn't he just be straight with his lands? Hey, it was a mistake that I even prodded your primal keystone with my blood-and-bone imbued heirloom. I'm not your Lord – I was never supposed to be here. So let me go, eh?

But he was stuck. Magically speaking, now that he was bound to the lands, he was the Lord Queenscove. There was no other acceptable way out, so maybe he had no choice. Maybe this was the only way out.

"How do I make the lands trust me?" His voice was quiet, and he brought his glass of Firewhiskey to his lips. "You – I've never – I'm not—"

"And I was raised to this." Blake smiled very slightly, though Neal picked up traces of sadness, resignation in his face, too. "And I enjoyed my status while I had it, I assure you. Rosier is quite different than Queenscove, newer, so our lands have less personality, shall we say? I expect I would be able to establish control within a week or so, but then I'd have to focus on the challenges to my title. My blood-status, my bastard lineage… I have many cousins, and were I to claim title, I would have little choice but to fight to keep it."

"Neither of my brothers are insane or stupid enough to want a castle," Neal replied bluntly, staring down at his glass of Firewhiskey. "They told me not to come. They told me that there would be nothing left for me here. I didn't listen – I just wanted to see it."

Blake didn't seem to know what to say to that, and to be fair, Neal didn't think there was a response. Half-Chinese he might be, but his genes for alcohol tolerance came directly from the Queenscoves. He was sober enough to know that, in this, he and Blake were two opposites. Blake had been raised to nobility, raised to expect the title and everything that went with it, and then he had had that all taken away from him. Neal hadn't, and yet he found himself with all the things that Blake had lost. "Sorry," he muttered. "I shouldn't have said that."

Blake didn't reply for a minute, but then he nodded. "An apology was not necessary."

"Sorry. I'm Canadian." Neal rolled his eyes and took another sip of his Firewhiskey. "Apologizing is our way of life. I apologize as an introduction, I apologize to inanimate objects, I apologize for apologizing. Get used to it."

Blake laughed. It wasn't a very nice laugh, a little sharp, but if Neal had to choose a word to describe Blake, it would be sharp. He was too well put together, always wound up, tighter than a watch spring. "To return to your question, however, I think the first step to having your lands trust you would be accepting your new status and acting as the Lord you now are instead of looking for ways out. That means learning about and liaising with your fellow nobles, taking your seat on the Wizengamot. Attending parties and establishing your family's, and your House's, reputation. Learning which of your fellow nobles can be trusted to handle your proxy at the Wizengamot as you would handle it, and who can be trusted to be a good steward for your land."

Neal stared into his glass of Firewhiskey. It didn't have any answers for him. It didn't even taste that good. "Exactly none of that sounds appealing. I don't know any other nobles – I don't even know if I want to know any other nobles. Sirius is one thing, but the rest…"

"The Lord Black is a unique case." Blake shook his head, raising his glass of water to his lips. "The Blacks are historically Dark, but the Lord Black is currently politically Neutral, though I'd say he is very likely to return to the Light faction now that Archie is, well, Archie. He has a very close alliance with the Potters, who hold the Peverell seat. He does, however, also have to maintain a delicate balancing act with his family's traditional allies, such the Malfoys, and Archie's mother was a Fawley: Book of Silver, Light, but pureblood supremacists. Not the Rosiers, my … former family was considered a little too lower class for them, since we are only Book of Copper. It is only in the last generation, with our wealth, that we were able to enjoy the same prestige as the Blacks."

Neal paused, looking the other boy over as he nursed his water, looking very much like he wanted something stronger. "You know a lot."

"Raised to it."

"Do you regret it? What happened, being disowned…"

Blake shrugged, a little stiff, and there was a pause before he replied. "It is what it is, Queenscove. I miss some things – I miss the power, the prestige, and the money. But my House was different than yours; politically, it is part of the SOW Party, which means blood status is incredibly important, as is our image. With my gift, my blood-status would have come out one way or another, and I did not like hiding my talent. I did not like fearing, at every step, that my friends and my family would reject me if they found out."

"And you were disowned," Neal replied flatly. "They found out, and you were disowned. Sorry."

Blake laughed again, this one a little lighter, more genuine. "And somehow, the reality of that is better than the fear. I am more free now than I have ever been in my entire life, Queenscove. I can wear what I want to wear, do what I want to do, say what I want to say without worrying about how it will be taken. My family still supports me, very quietly so, and a few of my old acquaintances have reached out to me. Not many, but a few. It is what it is."

"I see." Neal was silent for a few minutes, thinking it over. Blake knew a lot, and if Neal had to kick around in Wizarding Britain for a while, learning how to be the Lord Queenscove, meeting nobles and pretending to be chummy with them, then Blake could be a useful reference and ally. And if he did have to set up the Queenscove reputation, then he might as well do it properly. "Would you help me? You know a lot of these people, their reputations, their positions, and I don't. I have no idea how I'm supposed to become a noble Lord that my lands feel like they can trust."

There was silence, and Blake's expression seemed to be a combination of mingled respect with surprise with humour. "What's in it for me?"

"I could pay you."

"I have a job." Blake shrugged diffidently. "It pays me well enough. Do better than that, Queenscove."

"I could just not tell John about how many hours you spend not-flirting with his quasi-sister in my castle." Neal glared at him. He was pretty sure that Blake was only joking about the money – Blake himself had said, only a few minutes ago, that he missed having money. "I could also swear not to back him up when he inevitably finds out and wants me to help him thrash you for it."

Blake laughed, probably the most genuine laugh Neal had heard from him all night. "Blackmail? Better, but no. There's nothing going on there, Queenscove."

"You wish there were, though."

"No, I don't," Blake denied, and Neal snorted disbelievingly in reply. Blake sighed, looking away, almost a little regretful. "No, truly. Someone as beautiful as her deserves someone who can provide for her, with his own manor and a Gringotts account that can buy her whatever she wants. Someone with status, not a halfblood bastard who lives with his mother."

"I don't think that's true, but sure." Neal was silent for a minute. "Sixty Galleons a month."

"A hundred and fifty."

"This isn't a full-time job, Blake, don't pretend like it is one. Eighty."

"A hundred."

"Eighty, and I'll promise not to tell John about what you've been getting up to with Francesca in my blue solar, not to back him up when he inevitably comes to me wanting my help to thrash you, and not to bother you and Francesca when you're here, at least not without good reason. Does that work?" Neal glared at him, throwing back what remained of his second glass of Firewhiskey.

Blake was silent for a few minutes, thinking it over, then he smirked. "Throw in a ten percent bonus for good performance, Queenscove, and I think we have a deal. Give me a few days to prepare the contract. I'll be by on Saturday and be prepared to memorize a hundred family names and their reputations."

XXX

Life was different on the other side.

His first day had been good – overwhelming, but good. He had a new image, he had tried new things, he had let himself be swept up in Archie's enthusiasm and excitement over his birthday, as much as he could have been. He had eaten too much strange food, he had figured out how to use chopsticks, and everything had been interesting. A little unnerving, yes, but interesting.

It was over the next few days that things started sinking in. He wasn't Aldon Rosier anymore. He was Aldon Blake – subject of scandal, non-noble. Not poor, because it turned out that Christie was quite wealthy in her own right, but not as wealthy as he had once been. The first time he had walked into Diagon Alley, after coming to, had been a shock.

"Is that—" He heard someone mutter, behind him.

"Hush. Don't stare," he heard a woman's voice saying. "Don't look at him."

"What is he wearing?" That gasp had been more familiar – he had looked up, looked around for the source, finally identifying it as Tracey Davis, one of the underclassmen in Slytherin House. She was side by side with Daphne Greengrass, and Aldon had a sudden flashback of gripping the girl's magical core, squeezing like it was an overripe orange. He remembered everything – he remembered enjoying her gasps of pain, her tears, and the knowledge that if he just squeezed a little harder, her little core would pop and her magic would flood her system, burning her from the inside out. He turned away sharply, trying to shake the memory from his head (those weren't his feelings, were they?) and headed back down the street. He was just going to Flourish and Blotts, anyway.

The whispers followed him, uncomfortable, and the salesperson at the bookshop would barely look at him while Aldon bought his books – just a few Runes books, this time, though the books both at Christie's penthouse and at his new workplace were really very good. Still, the whole experience had been uncomfortable, and he avoided Diagon to the extent that he could. Only a few of his many contacts – Pansy Parkinson and Lucian Bole – had reached out to him by owl since he had resurfaced, but neither had suggested meeting with him. Not that he knew where they would meet, if they asked. Not Diagon Alley, with its whispers – certainly not the Muggle world.

The Muggle world was strange, too new without Archie or one of his friends. At least, in Diagon Alley, he had known what everything was and how to go about his business – he didn't even have that in the Muggle world. He had gotten lost, the first two times he had left his new home without someone, having to work his way home with a number of quiet Point Me spells, before he figured out that he could Apparate quite conveniently into the emergency stairwell in his mother's building. That, more than anything, had been a lifesaver in terms of getting lost.

Muggle technology was everywhere. It was fascinating and frustrating by turns – one moment, he would be staring in wonder at the television, telling him the news or stories from around the world, and the next, he would be swearing at the coffeemaker. He just wanted a bloody cup of coffee – why did the thing have so many parts? What was wrong with a good old French press?

"Do you need some help, Aldon?" Christie would always ask, her voice filled with uncertainty.

"No, no," Aldon would reply, sweating and trying to put a smile on his face for her. "I'm just – I'll be fine."

She would always come and help him anyway.

He still didn't know how he was supposed to treat her. She was his mother, and over the last few weeks, possessed or not, she had gone out of her way to care for him. He didn't comprehend the sheer amount of love she must have had for him, knowing so little about him – she had accepted the upheaval of her life with no complaints, put him in her guest bedroom without question, now went out of her way to try to see that he had all the things he was used to having, all the things he liked to have around him. He knew that she expected his father to take him back eventually, and she believed that Aldon would still have the life that she had once given him up for: the noble Rosier title, the world at his feet. For her, it was just about getting through these next few months, these next few years, and Aldon would resume his proper place in Society. Everything she offered him came with those words: I know it's hard, sweetheart, but it's only for a little while. Eveline and your father and I, we'll sort it out for you.

Aldon didn't know how to tell her that his mother and father weren't that good as people, and politics didn't work that way.

At least work was going well. He had worked at the New Developments Division and liked it before, but the new company, as Blake & Associates, was very different. It was smaller than the New Developments Division had been, because some of the staff had left rather than follow Chris to her new company. Master Phillips, the Potions Master, had left for a job at a private development company, and their Runes Mistress, Marion Thornbury, had opted to emigrate to America given the changing politics. Her departure, at least, left Aldon with a clear position – he had a NEWT in Ancient Runes, and even without a Mastery, someone needed to be there to handle the Runes-based project submissions. The rest of the team that he remembered was still there: Ryu Takahashi, the brooms expert; Aman Kaur, their resident Defense Mistress; Albert McEvoy, the experimental Charms researcher.

None of them said anything about Aldon's changed circumstances when he returned. Rather, Aman greeted him with a warm hug and announced that he would have the desk next to her, Ryu brought in a cheesecake, made by his wife, to celebrate his return, and Albert complimented him on his new look. Everyone else was dressed differently too – they were in the City, so wizarding robes were nowhere to be seen. Instead, there were neat, pressed dresses for the women, slacks and collared shirts for the men. Even compared to the rest, Aldon was a little overdressed, but he preferred it that way.

No one mentioned his new last name, no one said anything about the newly revealed relationship between him and their boss, who now just went by Christie and not Director Blake. "We're not much for standing on ceremony, here," she had told him with a smile, his first day. "It's not like at the Trust, where we were part of a bigger enterprise, so we had to keep to some of the same standards as the rest of the company. It's more secure here, too, for us, so we're free to say what we want to say. Less risk of being overheard."

That part was true, Aldon thought wryly. Finding his way to the office had been an adventure. He would have liked to Apparate there, but there really wasn't a good Apparition point in the City. The City was the financial heart of London, and even if it was tiny, maybe only a square mile in size, it seemed like a million Muggles were commuting in to work there every day. The Underground was an utter nightmare of people, but after a week of fruitless searching for a good Apparition point, he had simply realized that there was no better option. Safe Apparition into the City just couldn't be done – not unless he left an opening in the office wards for Apparition, and that was, from a security point of view, completely unacceptable.

Then, they were on the twenty-fourth floor of a tall, glass office tower. The first time Aldon had gotten into the little box that shot off in the sky, he had fought not to show any sign of his panic as the doors closed, with him and twelve other people in it. His ears popped when they raced up the floors, so many floors. There were lifts in the wizarding world, of course – the Ministry of Magic had one. But that one was quite a bit slower, and it only went down eleven floors, not the sixty-eight floors that his office tower had. It was enough floors that there were separate banks of elevators to take, depending on which floor they needed – the first bank serviced only the first sixteen floors, the next the next sixteen, and so on.

His office, too, was very different than the old space at the Rosier Investment Trust. Instead of no windows, they now had light streaming in from all four walls. All of them had desks close to the tinted windows, with blinds if they wanted a bit of shade, and there were huge tables for meetings in the middle, with glass-enclosed meeting rooms dotting the space here and there. Those tables and meeting rooms were also useful when any of them needed a bit more space, such as when Aldon needed to spread out massive runic diagrams, nearly crawling over the tables to examine them in detail. The office was bright, cheerful, open, and all the chairs were weird plastic and they spun and rolled and there didn't seem to be anything magic about them at all.

Aldon had a plastic keycard, too, to get access into his office itself. There were wards, hiding their magic and protecting the space, but Chris had deemed that an extra layer of Muggle security, with an electronic card-lock and security system, was worth it. Aldon's first project at the new Blake & Associates had been to redo all the magical wards; he didn't know who had constructed the wards before, but they weren't, in his view, strong enough. He had strengthened them, added an extra six loops of protective charms, two concealment charms, and a soundproofing spell, all carefully avoiding the delicate Muggle electronics.

The last part had made him glad that he had approached Francesca about her inventions in his week off, before starting work. She was, now that he had gotten to speaking with her, utterly and completely brilliant as well as stunningly beautiful, but he didn't quite know what to make of her. That first day, as soft as her voice had been, she had been awkward, abrupt – she had walked him through her device with little fanfare, then abandoned him in a Muggle public library. The next, when he had surprised her with some of his own collection of magical theory textbooks while she read in the formal sitting room at Grimmauld Place (he had noted what she was researching, before), she had given him a test of his numerical analysis abilities.

He was endlessly thankful that he had taken Arithmancy and NEWT-level Transfiguration for that. Arithmancy, NEWT-level Transfiguration, and his summer working in the New Developments Division, because he didn't think anyone without those would have fared half so well. And he hadn't even finished it! She had taken it from him, checked it over with a dark, critical, beautiful eye, then apparently decided he was worth his salt and taken him to a bookshop like he had never seen, full of books about numbers and things he didn't know or understand. Then, she had taken him to the introductory sections, pulling out heavy, glossy books and dropping them in his arms.

But she had smiled, there. She had smiled, at him, as she dropped the last book, one on electromagnetic theory, into his arms, and the smile had lit up her whole face. It had taken his breath away, and he had thought, for a split instant, that he would do nearly anything for another smile like that. Then, after she had helped him sort out the purchase of the books, she had said she was hungry and suggested eating something, so he had found himself in a dark, tiny, almost intimate place, his knees bumping into hers underneath their tiny table despite his best efforts, slurping up a bowl of what she called ramen.

"This place is all right," she had confided quietly to him. "Students like it, and it's cheap, but I've had better ramen."

He had agreed, because he hadn't known what else to do.

As hard as her test of his numerical analysis had been, the books she had gotten him were worse. He cottoned on to most of the concepts quickly, but the problems posed at the end of every section were challenging. He found a reason, almost every day, to swing by Grimmauld Place, to work through them and ask her questions. She always put down what she was reading to help him, if he needed it.

Sometimes, sitting across from him, she would have one of his magical theory books. He wished, sometimes, that she would ask him for help too, but she never seemed to need it. Once she finished each book, she would put it down on the table, pull out one of her innumerable notebooks, and sit there, legs pulled up in front of her, a pen decorated teddy bears in her hand, lost in thought. Other times, she would have her nose in a light paperback, like nothing he had ever seen before; once, when she had gone off in search of a tray of tea, he had swiped it and flipped through it. It had been a romance – something sweet, about a ghostly knight who fell in love with the girl who lived in his castle. He had swallowed, feeling a little guilty for having looked, and put it back before she could know that he had ever picked it up.

She made him tea, a few times. She said it was nothing, and she was making tea for herself, too, but it didn't feel like nothing. She even put out milk and sugar, and she was always careful to top off his mug before touching hers. It felt like something, when she poured tea into a mug and handed it to him, when her fingers brushed against his as he accepted it.

Her hands were small, pretty, her nails decorated with tiny, enamel flowers. Her hair was always perfect, either flowing down her back, or pinned up and back, falling in a cascade around her shoulders. The way she tucked herself up in her chair, both legs up – she was small, delicate, fragile. If there was one thing that Aldon missed about being a Rosier, it was the power, the money that had come with being the Rosier Heir. If he were Aldon Rosier, he could consider courting her – but then, if he were Aldon Rosier, he wouldn't be sitting across from her now, watching her read. And Aldon Rosier wouldn't have known the first thing about appreciating her; Aldon Rosier would have dismissed her as pretty but irrelevant, because she was a Muggleborn, because she didn't have a wand, and because she had no connections of note.

Life was strange.

The new Lord Queenscove was a surprise – Aldon had been nearly about to leave, when Archie's friend had tumbled out of the Floo, panicked and terrified, newly bound to his lands. Aldon couldn't help but mock him, a little, but Francesca had looked at him, frowning a little, so he had desisted. She had never said if she and the new Lord Queenscove were friends, but he guessed that they had to be on good terms when she started disappearing to Queenscove some afternoons, curling up in one of the Lord Queenscove's parlours to read.

He would have been jealous, if he thought there was anything there. But there wasn't. The Lord Queenscove simply seemed not to notice the beautiful girl in his castle, and merely gave Aldon directions on where to find her if he went after her. It was Queenscove's disinterested and dismissive hospitality towards himself and Francesca that had made Aldon stop when he had caught the new Lord Queenscove drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Firewhiskey.

He had gotten something out of it, though. An extra eighty Galleons a month, with a bonus for good performance, that topped up his income very nicely. He did have to guide a bumbling foreigner, who swore in the strangest French that he had ever heard, through Wizarding British Society for it, but he thought that Queenscove would shine, when he was done with him. He wouldn't be a part of the SOW Party, that much was obvious, but Aldon hoped he wouldn't fall in line so easily with the Light faction, either. He wouldn't like for Queenscove to simply become another one of Lord Dumbledore's nameless, faceless cronies, and besides, having another noble in his corner for his next plans could be useful.

Queenscove, after all, came from a world where there was no nobility. He hadn't been noble before, and he didn't really seem to care for it. Queenscove came from a world where there was rule of law for all, instead of rule by privilege; where everyone had a vote in how the country's affairs were run. Now, wasn't that an idea?

"Widespread enfranchisement," Aldon announced, taking a seat beside Archie in the Grimmauld Place kitchen. Hermione, sitting on Archie's other side, shot him a considering look. At the table were also Derrick Holden, newly employed stocking shelves at Quality Quidditch Supplies and Isran Ali, a week away from returning to America for a job as an international political analyst for The New York Ghost. From Ireland, Sean Docherty and Saiorse Riordan had come, both halfbloods, and from Scotland, there was Toby MacLean, a Muggleborn, oddly dressed in shorts but a long-sleeved shirt. Percy Weasley was there, wearing a thoughtful frown, and John was newly back from Germany, sitting beside Francesca. The Lord Black hovered by the counter, side by side with Remus Lupin, both of whom looked distinctly uneasy. Queenscove had said he was interested, but he still wasn't able to leave his lands, so Aldon or Archie would have to carry news to him later.

Aldon had done the secrecy wards himself for this conversation. Seventeen spells, to trap the conversation within. He had even bound everyone in the spell that Alex had shown him, some six months ago – he hadn't remembered it, but with a communication orb between them, it had only taken him about sixteen tries to get Alex's attention, and the spell. He was as confident as he could possibly be that they could talk safely. "What is the difference between Wizarding Britain and most other countries? Widespread enfranchisement. The vote. We can't force the repeal of the blood discrimination laws directly, not with the political system we have currently – if we could, Lord Dumbledore would have been successful decades ago. And, frankly, even if we were successful, even if we did to change the laws now, there would be no guarantee it couldn't change right back later. We need structural change – widespread emancipation is the answer."

There was silence for a minute. Judging from their expressions, Lupin and the Lord Black were unconvinced, as Aldon expected they would be – he was fairly certain that they were here largely to try to dissuade them all from doing anything rash. Or maybe, to dissuade them from doing anything at all. Aldon had let Archie invite whomever he pleased to the meeting, whomever he trusted, and Aldon was there to assess them all and make sure that none of them talked.

But Hermione was nodding, though she wore a slight scowl. The scowl was because Aldon had suggested it, he was sure.

"Aldon is right," she said. Aldon smirked – if Hermione agreed, despite her personal distaste for him, he could count on his reasons being well-supported. "The largest problem has always been that the nobility, which is nearly entirely pureblood, has held total control over the political process for centuries. Some nobles advocate for newbloods and halfbloods, but that is largely a matter of sympathy – they don't live our experiences. If we manage to bring about widespread enfranchisement, it completely changes the picture – for the first time, we'll be able to advocate for ourselves."

"There's no guarantee that the blood equality laws will change just because the vote is widespread," Lupin offered, his voice gentle. "Most of the recognized citizens of Wizarding Britain are also purebloods, and you may find that they are no easier to sway than nobles."

Sean glared at him. "Some political voice is better than no political voice," he snapped. "Not all newbloods and halfbloods are undocumented. With widespread enfranchisement, we could also lobby better for a change in the citizenship laws. It's a step forward, at least."

Lupin held his hands up as a gesture of peace. "I'm only pointing it out for consideration. I, too, am a halfblood."

"The bigger issue is the matter of political support," Aldon interrupted, before anyone else could cut in. So, Sean was quick to anger – that was important to know. People who were quick to anger were not people that Aldon wanted to see in a revolution. Sean would need to be handled carefully. "The fact of the matter is, everyone who currently has political power already has an entrenched position on halfblood and Muggleborn rights. They are frequently deadlocked, and we are unlikely to succeed without more sources of political support."

Isran was nodding, thoughtful. "If we advocate for widespread emancipation, it opens the political landscape to more players – it gives us political support from people who never had a voice before, it gets them interested in issues. We can begin organizing if people are interested."

"And shaping ourselves around widespread enfranchisement draws in purebloods who may not care about the blood equality laws, but do care about certain, other outstanding problems," Saoirse added, shooting Sean a warning look and putting one hand on his arm, while Toby leaned forward in interest. "The prohibitions on traditional casting, for example. Greater representation for shifter interests, or Guild interests."

The three of them shared a look, and Aldon made a note of it. Certain, other outstanding problems, they said, with specific mentions of the prohibitions on traditional casting and other interests, then that look. Aldon would parade naked down Diagon Alley if all three of them didn't have other interests, and likely something in common. Ireland and Scotland, two halfbloods and a Muggleborn, from two different American schools – what did they have in common?

There was a sharp intake of breath, from Percy, who shook his head. "How, exactly, are you planning on proceeding with this? How are you planning on building support for your cause? You're all going to be arrested for sedition, if not something else."

"Isn't that what you're here for?" Derrick grinned, his eyes sharp even as he lounged in his seat. "Telling us how we can do this without being arrested and sent to Azkaban?"

Percy glared at him, then reached for the pitcher of water that Archie had thought to put out earlier, before the meeting had started in earnest. He poured himself a glass and didn't dignify Derrick with a response.

"I do think that Percy has a point," the Lord Black said, breaking into the silence and stepping forward to stand beside Archie. "What you're proposing is dangerous. Justice has come out and said the laws were unjust, and Archie was only convicted on a technicality. The Light faction can now push for a repeal of the laws in the Wizengamot. I appreciate that you're all idealistic and want change, but this isn't the way."

There was a long moment of silence, and there was more than one tense face around the room. Aldon leaned back, interested in seeing how Archie would deal with this – the Lord Black was Archie's father, but these were Archie's allies, and if he had read the room correctly, none of them would be comfortable leaving it to the Light faction. Aldon certainly wasn't.

Archie was frowning, but he didn't respond right away, seeming to think it over. Hermione had her lips pursed beside him, while Isran was carefully looking down. Sean and Derrick were exchanging dark looks, and Toby was fiddling self-consciously with one of his sleeves. The silence stretched, longer than comfortable, while Aldon studied everyone at the table in turn. Francesca was huddled close to John, gravitating to him as she always had before, tugging at his arm to get his attention. Once she had it, he would have thought she would have whispered something to him, but instead they only exchanged a long look, then turned their attention back to the rest of the table.

It was Saoirse who broke the silence, her blue eyes flashing, voice hard. Her hands were clasped in front of her on the table, white with the strength of her grip, and she was pointedly looking at the Lord Black, not at Archie.

"And what is your way, Lord Black?" she asked, her voice shaking a little with repressed anger. "Continue as you are, as you and Dumbledore and your cronies have for forty years, barely able to stem the tide of legislation against us? You don't stand with us, Black – you aren't there when we're arrested for things they let you off on, you don't get stopped and held for questioning like we do, you aren't exiled from your ancestral lands like we are. Your first language is not banned, as mine is, on pain of death – you did not need to teach Archie the ways of your people late at night, under the strongest wards your people knew how to cast. You were not forced to watch your uncle be executed for speaking his language when you were seven."

She wasn't crying. Instead, she was speaking with an iron-cast sort of strength. Your people, Aldon noted. We. Us. That language, that intonation –Saoirse Riordan spoke for a people. Traditional casters, if Aldon had to guess, much like Cedric. He wondered if Cedric had answers – he would need to meet with him and find out. He moved on, looking over the other two in her group. Sean wore a mulish expression, but Toby was fiddling with his sleeve again, and Aldon was struck with the temptation to demand that he pull up his sleeves and show them all what he was hiding.

"Sympathy only goes so far, Lord Black – I'm hardly surprised that, now that your son is safe, you're done. I'm not done – I and my people will not be done until we can walk free again, until we can speak our language in the open. You say we should rely on you. I say, fuck you. Your people aren't dying." Saoirse leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, a cool expression on her face, waiting for an answer to her challenge.

Archie stood up, holding his hands out in a calming gesture. He was speaking slowly, picking his words carefully, but his grey eyes were bright, direct.

"You're right, Saoirse," he said, and Aldon had the impression that he meant it. "You're absolutely right – we don't understand. I could never understand what you and your people have gone through. People need to speak, advocate, and vote for themselves instead of being forced to rely on the whims of strangers."

He took a breath, looking at the Lord Black, a pleading note in his grey eyes. "Dad, if you died tomorrow, Uncle Regulus would be the custodian of both the Black and Potter seats. That would seriously change the balance of power in the Wizengamot, and that's not right. The system is inherently unstable, with individual people mattering more than ideas or rights."

There was another long pause, though Aldon noted that the Lord Black's expression had changed, darkened, as he looked away. He was still listening, Aldon thought, he just wasn't sure he liked what he was hearing. In his turn, Archie sighed, looking back around the table. "But you know, Saoirse, I promised, in my interview in the American Standard, that I would advocate for change, and I will. But you know better than anyone that it's dangerous, so let's talk about making it less dangerous. Percy, can you tell us about the sedition laws? What can we do, how can we avoid them?"

Percy sighed, running one hand through flaming red hair. Aldon wasn't entirely sure why Percy had come – of all the Weasley children, he would have marked Percy as being the least likely to become involved in any revolutionary mission. Then again, Percy had been Archie's lawyer through the trial, his legal practice was founded on Muggleborn and halfblood criminal cases, and he had been willing to summon Justice for them. Percy wasn't his brothers, but he brought something else to the table.

"I can't tell you which laws will be relevant unless I know what you're thinking about doing," Percy said, gesturing helplessly with his hands. "A public speech, rally, or any public gathering? You'll be charged with disturbing the peace and unlawful assembly. If some members have gone in disguise to your gathering, they'll also be charged with wearing a disguise to the unlawful assembly. Then, the speeches themselves – if there's any encouragement to violence or breaking the law, you're looking at sedition. If anyone in the audience works for the Ministry, you're looking at an aggravated charge of sedition for encouraging a member of the Ministry to subvert the state. And then, of courses, any number of things could happen at your gathering that could cause problems – if the Aurors come and people don't go quietly, it will be assaulting an Auror, obstruction of justice, common assault, assault with a weapon…"

"So, what I'm hearing is, no live assemblies," John said, voice dry, motioning for Archie to sit back down with one hand. "No public gatherings, no press conferences."

"I would strongly advise against it." Percy nodded slowly, tilting his head a little in consideration. "No public gatherings. They can do less about private meetings, but even that … let's say we found a noble manor large enough to host a press conference – while we might avoid the unlawful assembly charge that way, there would still be the sedition issue."

"The SOW Party has press conferences," Hermione muttered under her breath, scowling, putting her head in her hands. "We had press conferences in the Triwizard Tournament."

"The SOW Party also has considerable political power." Percy shrugged, reaching for his glass of water. "They will not be charged for doing the same things that you might want to, and that is a reality that you need to accept. And in the Triwizard Tournament, all the press conferences were held under the lens of the International Confederation of Wizards. You don't have that protection anymore."

"And that means no protest marches or sit-ins." Archie shook his head, looking strangely disappointed. "Damn it. I always wanted to do a sit-in at the Ministry, but I guess we wouldn't have enough people for that yet anyway. All right. If we take out any public gathering, a press conference, and everything of that nature, what are we left with?"

There was a long, drawn-out pause, before Hermione spoke. "We were getting word out about Archie's trial – Archie's American Standard interview went out that way, too. We have the information network we need to spread a paper, and we can probably work up funding through the BIA if we keep it above-board."

Another moment of silence, before Derrick spoke up, tilting his head, first one way, then the other, in thought. "Low quality paper, something cheap, and we get a No-Maj printing press and set up in the No-Maj world, keep the cost low. No charms to make the pictures move. We can recoup some of the funds through advertisements, in time, but let's keep the paper free. We'll have to subsidize it through the BIA and private funding – the Prophet's costs are subsidized by the Ministry, that's how they can use such high-quality paper and charm it and keep the costs as low as they are."

"Those can all be treated as stylistic choices," Toby volunteered, a smile coming across his face as he leaned forward in interest. "We don't use the high-quality paper, we don't have moving pictures, but we tell it like it is – a paper by the people, for the people. It's just the same thing we did for the trial, but on a bigger scale."

"It works with what Archie's been doing so far, too – it's platform to keep changing the public perception of newbloods and halfbloods, as well as to put out a lot of other things that the Daily Prophet wouldn't publish." Lupin added, almost the first time he had spoken all evening, his voice quiet.

John nodded, with Francesca leaning against his arm. He exchanged quick look with her, then he smiled. "I like that idea. You can include, not just the Wizarding British political news or analysis, but No-Maj news, international news, reports from the ICW. No-Maj book, movie or TV show reviews."

Aldon's eyes lingered on the two of them for a brief second. There was something between the two of them – Aldon hadn't formed his impression that they were betrothed from nothing. John was gay, and he had a boyfriend in Germany, and he did see Francesca as a little sister, and all those things were true, but there was something else there between them. John was a Natural Legilimens, but even if John could read her mind, that didn't explain the way that Francesca's own expressions would shift, slightly, every time they had these long looks, these silent exchanges.

There was something between them, and even if it wasn't romantic, Aldon wanted to know what. He would have to find a way to find out, later. "The Ministry and SOW Party would likely let a paper go," he said, rejoining the conversation with barely any sign of where his thoughts had been, moments before. "There are several independent magazines and papers: Witch Weekly, The Quibbler, specialty magazines that run the spectrum from Quidditch to Ancient Runes. The Ministry has always stringently avoided the appearance of interfering with the press and has only relied on its heavy subsidy of the Daily Prophet to control the media. The Daily Prophet is the only daily paper and the cheapest paper, and it has never really had any competition in Wizarding Britain itself."

"We couldn't do a daily paper," Derrick interrupted, holding one hand up. "During the year, with most of you back in school or in America, it'll just be me – we can't possibly put out a daily paper. Twice weekly, tops, more likely once a week. I do have a job. And content – what do we do for content? Aside from the movie and book reviews, we have to have something of substance, and we can't just repeat the news in the Prophet."

"More analysis, more correction." Isran smiled, but it wasn't a nice smile – he had ideas. "Who wants to write a weekly analysis correcting the Prophet, with citations?"

Derrick laughed out loud. "That would take too much paper, to correct everything! We're trying to keep costs down, Isran."

"But the major factual inaccuracies…" Hermione, too, was smiling. "I can do it, or I can split it with Isran or someone else. Under a pseudonym? Should we use pseudonyms?"

"Percy?" Archie asked, looking at the barrister, whose forefinger was tapping against the table in thought, blue eyes staring off into the distance. "What are the risks of a paper?"

"Depends what's in it." Percy sighed, turning his attention back to the table. "Reviews of Muggle books or movies aren't going to attract attention, and correcting the Prophet is likely only going to only be seen as an inter-paper fight, while Muggle news is mostly going to be seen as entertaining. International news…"

He paused, thinking it over, then he shook his head. "The risks will be with independent reporting, opinion pieces, and the exact sort of advocacy you were looking to do – you cannot actively advocate against the Ministry, and any suggestion that people engage in illegal activities or violence will be grounds for a sedition charge. I don't know how far they will push it, so I would also avoid any suggestion of gathering. On the other hand, if it stays entirely on the ideas front… you may be able to avoid a charge. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement does not want a fuzzy case, and they do not want another trial so soon after the last. They know that Archie is willing to summon Justice to his aid, and any trial with Justice is inherently unpredictable."

Aldon swallowed thickly, looking away, struck suddenly by memories. Not his memories – hers. A million trials, in a million different places, a million different crimes. Treason was a main theme, along with regicide, rebellion plots. He remembered death sentences with surprising clarity: gripping a person's core, squeezing and squeezing until the bonds were snapped, until magic flooded the person and burned them from the inside out. He remembered the screaming, the flames that would consume them as they died. Death was one of the better sentences; it was painful, but then it was over, and according to some, there was still the afterlife. Aldon also remembered, not through himself, the feeling of ripping out a soul – reaching beyond someone's magical core, past the thin, silvery boundary separating magic and soul, and tearing it out, releasing it into the wild. Then, the person would still breathe, they would still live, but there would be nothing there, and it would be up to their families to dispose of them. He remembered the overwhelming helplessness of being possessed – the terrifying distance, the uncaring, the inhumane focus on one, simple thing. He did not, in truth, want to summon Justice again.

He did not want to be across from one of his allies again. He did not want to remember squeezing their cores until they exploded, he did not want to remember ripping out their souls. He barely wanted to remember the delicate, surgical precision it had taken to separate Archie's gift from his core and dissipate it into the air, and that had been almost interesting. Aldon took a deep breath, his head spinning a little, as he forced himself to focus back on the conversation happening in front of him.

"It sounds like a paper will work," Archie was saying, tapping his lower lip thoughtfully, though the Lord Black's face was a dark cloud. "We can be careful not to directly challenge the Ministry, we'll go out of our way to tell people to follow the law, and pseudonyms will only make it safer. Do you think there'll be problems with pseudonyms?"

"Using pseudonyms would detract from our legitimacy." Hermione's voice trailed off, thinking.

"Not as much as of a problem as you would think," Lupin interrupted, from his position leaning next to the counter. His voice was mild, but Aldon thought he saw a slight glimmer of interest. "Most of the people reading your paper are going to understand the risks. Pseudonyms would be a good idea, as much as possible."

"We could launch it with an interview with Archie – do it right before he heads back to America," Isran added, drawing an arc on the table with his hands. "Then, Archie is in America when it's released, and hopefully by the time the holidays come around, it's blown over. We'll have to be careful about what he says, but it's an additional measure of security for us all."

"So, what do we call it?" Archie was nearly bouncing in his seat, already a hundred percent behind this new plan. That was clearly something that they had toned down for his last public interview – his excitability. His natural enthusiasm was good, but it did need to be controlled. "We need a name! Otherwise, how will people remember us?"

That was true, and Aldon grimaced. They did need a name, one that expressed who they were with a few words. Ideally, it would be one that Archie himself, or the people who knew the target market, would come up with – it had to be something they could connect with. As much as Aldon was a halfblood, he was stuck between two worlds, with neither enough experience to belong with the Muggleborns and halfbloods, nor the blood-status to belong in his old world.

The silence stretched on, most of them thinking. Francesca stood up, but only to reach for the teapot, clean it out, and to make a pot of tea for the table. There weren't enough mugs for everyone, nor enough tea, but she filled all the mugs and offered them around anyway. Aldon was bizarrely pleased that he was one of the first people to whom that she offered a mug.

"It's a paper by the people, for the people, that's the reputation you want," John spoke up finally, waving off a mug of tea. It had taken Aldon far too long to get a grasp on John – he was easygoing, but he was devoted and protective of his friends. That was why he was here, halfway around the world, helping to plot a rebellion in a country that was not his own. "In America, we have a saying – we the people. First words of the No-Maj American constitution. That's a little too American, but there's a starting point for you."

"How about The People's Voice? I don't love that," Hermione said, wrinkling her nose slightly. "Or maybe in Latin, the Vox Populi."

Saoirse gagged and shook her head, waving one hand. "Not in Latin. Nothing in Latin – it is associated with Latinate spellcasting among my people."

"And it's snobby," Toby added, grimacing. "We might cast spells in pseudo-Latin, but we don't speak it. Naming ourselves in Latin makes us sound elitist."

"Even anything with the People – you will be criticized on whether you can truly represent the people," Percy added, his voice hesitant. Aldon wondered if Percy felt as awkward as he did – the Weasleys were purebloods, but they were non-noble blood traitors. He had been permitted to school at Hogwarts, but the Weasleys had never had any real status or prestige. "I suggest something else – perhaps look at the other content you intend on running. Reviews of Muggle movies and books, you had mentioned?"

"A link between worlds!" Archie blurted out, lighting up immediately, a wide grin spreading across his face. He had thrown his arms up in excitement. "No, a bridge between worlds! No, wait, something like the Report from the Bridge, like in Star Trek!"

"No!" Hermione snapped, while half the table cracked up in laughter. As Aldon understood it, Archie had watched some episodes of Star Trek at Hermione's house, and had been obsessed with ever since. Aldon had been ignoring the references he had been making all week. "Sedition charges, Archie! Do you really think the Ministry won't pick up on the use of bridge as a military command centre for a ship?"

Archie deflated immediately, though Aldon was pleased to see that he didn't pout. Pouting was not a good look for a revolutionary leader. "Okay. I guess that rules out The Bridge Report, too."

"But not Bridge." Derrick smiled, thinking it over. "I like Bridge. It's vague enough that people can take what they want from it. It can be a link between worlds, or a path from the present to the future. And if you want, it can also be a military command centre."

Aldon shot him a sharp look. An odd sentence, that – maybe Derrick was more willing to countenance outright action than the others? He would file that piece of information away for later.

"Bridge," Isran echoed thoughtfully, leaning forward over his mug of tea. "I like it. It also feels hopeful, somehow. New."

"That's just something we're imposing," Hermione said, rolling her eyes, while Archie bobbed hopefully beside her, grey eyes shining. "But I have no better ideas, and Archie obviously likes it. Can anyone think of any reason why this wouldn't be a good idea? I agree with Derrick, it's vague enough that the Ministry can't read much into it."

Aldon threw a look around the room. The Lord Black's face was stormy, but it seemed that he didn't want to get into it in front of everyone, and Aldon guessed that he would be talking to Archie privately later. Lupin's face was politely engaged. Sean, Saoirse and Toby were exchanging another look, and Aldon picked up a few nods in that circle – he would have to talk to Cedric about Saoirse, if he could track him down, and he would need to find other ways of pinning down the other two. Derrick and Isran were both smiling, but they weren't entirely friendly smiles. John and Francesca were exchanging yet another look, and Francesca shook her head slightly, but neither of them said anything. He caught Percy's eye – Percy shrugged slightly, and Aldon nodded in reply. He didn't have anything to add, either.

"I think that's settled, then," Hermione said, nodding slowly as she thought it through. "I'll talk to the British International Association about funding. We'll go from there."

That night, Aldon stopped off at a Muggle stationary store and picked up a set of spiral-bound notebooks, a few pens and some ink. The selection of notebooks and pens was far wider than he had expected – it seemed like notebooks came in all colours, many of which had inspirational slogans on them: Do All Things with Love, Dream Big, Only in the Darkness Can You See the Stars. He ignored all of those, instead choosing plain black, and then spent far too long hovering over the pens. He couldn't tell the difference between many of them: rollerballs, gel pens, he didn't even know. They all wrote very easily, and he knew that this was what Archie and his friends tended to use, but none of them would ever feel right to him. Instead, he went to the back of the store, eventually finding the fountain pens, where the tips looked much more like a quill tip than any of the others, and he went with those, even if they were far pricier than any of the alternatives.

Back in Chris' penthouse, he curled up on the bed in the guest bedroom (his bedroom now, he supposed – his trunk was at the end of the bed, with his clothing folded neatly inside it, but otherwise the room showed no other signs that he had moved in), and started making notes. Archie Black: too excitable but engaging and a good figurehead. Hermione Granger: sharp and judgemental, effective at convincing Archie to make certain decisions. Saiorse Riordan: Ask Cedric about her. Likely has some authority in a group of traditional Irish casters. Sean Docherty: short-tempered. Be cautious with him. Connected with undocumented witches and wizards? Derrick Holden: inclined to active violence? Working in Diagon Alley. Tobias MacLean: corner him and demand to see his arms. Hiding something. Isran Ali: Working at the New York Ghost. And so on, and so forth.

At the end, he paused, then he reached for his ritual knife. He had never cast a blood-ward before, but it would be best for something like this. His notebook needed to be sealed and warded from everyone but him, but he needed it to be easily accessible by him. With a blood-ward, he would be able to access it only with his magical signature, and the ward would fall only on his death.

Then, after that, he reached for a sheet of parchment and began drafting a letter to Cedric Diggory.

XXX

John was back, and that made things easier. Things were always easier for Francesca when John was around – as much as he didn't like doing it, he would talk for her, and even if he sometimes liked to torment her, she always felt safe when John was around. She had let him know, mind-to-mind, about everything that had happened while he was away, far faster than it would have taken anyone else to catch him up, starting with Neal and his new castle.

Francesca loved Queenscove. It was a perfect storybook castle, and she loved whiling away her afternoons there over a romance novel or two (or three, or more). Neal's new library was stuffed full of romantic stories of knights, their ladies and chivalry. She could perfectly imagine herself in a castle like this somewhere, with walls big and strong enough to make her feel safe and secure, from which she could keep out the world. In her romantic fantasies, there would be knights who would come to seek her hand, but she would stand on the battlements and chuck lightning at them until they all went away. Until one day, a knight came who was strong enough, smart enough, honourable and persistent and chivalrous enough that she would perhaps consider him, and then maybe she would lower the drawbridge, raise the portcullises, invite him in and serve him tea with her grandmother's good tea ceremony set.

Real men didn't exist like that, of course, but it was nice to dream.

Her mindscape was a castle too, albeit a much smaller one, perfectly up to date with all the most modern technologies. They were in her most comfortable solar, a setup of virtual tea on the coffee table in front of them just because she liked it, lounging on a puffy, completely anachronistic sofa across from the biggest home theatre system she could imagine. John's avatar was rolling around on the floor laughing – she had moved on from a virtual tour of Neal's castle to Aldon Blake, formerly Rosier, who always seemed to track her down wherever she was so that he could…

Do math around you. John laughed, his avatar's eyes gleaming in amusement just as Francesca was sure his real eyes would be doing. He just does math around you. Why is that?

He wanted to help with the ACD. Francesca shrugged, but she was smiling nonetheless. I was testing him. See?

She waved a hand, throwing up her memories of the day that she had given him a test then taken him to the university bookstore. She focused on the furrow that had formed between Aldon's eyes through half the test, the way he bit his lower lip just a little, that expression of sheer stubbornness that had shown up about forty minutes in and which hadn't disappeared until she had forcibly taken the test from him. John broke out in new gales of virtual laughter.

You gave him a math test?! He choked out, laughing so hard he was snorting. Giggle-snorting, Francesca called it. And then you basically called him an idiot when you took the test away from him. That's awesome. You're awesome.

He did alright though. Francesca shrugged again, with another smile. He got through most of it up to single-variable calculus! I treated him to ramen afterwards because I felt bad for him. He looked a little shell-shocked. But now, he comes around with the textbooks, almost every day.

Is that bothering you? John stopped laughing, panting instead, and as amused as his facial expression was even in avatar form, his thoughts were sharp. I can go kick his ass, if you want. Did you really need five textbooks?

Francesca shook her head. Mostly he just sits there and works, asks me questions occasionally. And the books aren't all necessary, I don't think – I just gave them to him to see what he would do. If he's serious about helping, I don't want to deal with someone who is weird about No-Majs or No-Maj technology.

John raised an eyebrow with a knowing and sympathetic grin. Francesca could always rely on John knowing more than she said. Archie's enthusiasm getting to you?

She rolled her eyes and threw up another memory – an afternoon where Hermione had been busy, so Archie had followed her to her favourite coffee shop where she was planning on working over a mocha, then asked her so many questions that she had simply turned the laptop around and put on a game for him. He had been utterly insufferable about it ever since. I made a mistake, Francesca admitted with a grimace. Now he bothers me to make a computer work at Grimmauld Place. I don't want a weird technology fetishist like Archie, but I also don't want to deal with someone who can't respect No-Maj technology just because it's No-Maj, like some people at school.

Good point. John nodded. But can I have a seat at the table the next time you decide to give Aldon Blake a math test? I want to watch his thoughts when he does it – he still sounds like a badly tuned radio, even with the books I lent him before I left.

There was the sound of a voice clearing, breaking through the room, and John grimaced. Speak of the devil. He's standing in the doorway. Out, quick.

Francesca nodded hurriedly, and John was gone, out of her mindscape before the second had even elapsed. He would always be better at a quick exit from the mindscape than she would be, a decade of experience in the mind arts keeping him both more aware of their surroundings and better at moving in the mindscape. She struggled upwards, mentally locking her castle as she exited her mindscape, but it took her a second to return to the reality where Aldon Blake was hovering in her doorway, his eagle eyes thoughtful as they roved between her and John where they sat on her bed, staring deeply into each other's eyes.

She flushed a little and looked down. She knew what it looked like, but it wasn't like that. It really, really wasn't.

"Aldon!" John said, faux-casual, swinging his legs over the side of her bed. He was a far worse actor than Archie. "Hey, man! I haven't talked to you since I got back, how's it going?"

John shot her a sudden, quick glance, a wicked idea shining in his eyes. Hey, do you think talking about sex will awkward him out enough to forget this? I'll totally talk about sex. Gerry is awesome in bed.

Francesca resisted the urge to smack him. John was such an idiot sometimes. He probably just wanted to see how uncomfortable he could make Aldon. I don't think Aldon Blake forgets anything, but feel free to try anyway.

"Aldon," she greeted him instead, a little stiff. "How can we help you?"

The older boy paused, looking between the two of them again, but evidently decided that discretion was the better part of valour and moved on. His mouth firmed. "I am glad to have caught the both of you."

"And I'm glad you're not back in robes," John said, eyeing Aldon appreciatively and making no attempt to hide it. "If I weren't seeing someone and if Gerry wasn't as good in bed as he is—ow!"

Francesca had actually leaned over and hit him on the shoulder then. As if making Aldon feel awkward would do anything but fix their weirdness in his brain for later.

But his thoughts right now are awesome, John fired back at her. He's so embarrassed and hiding it! I'll show you later.

How could I resist that? Francesca suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. She turned back to Aldon instead, fighting to remember the last thing he had said and realizing she had lost the train of conversation. Ugh, John was so much better at following multiple conversation threads than her. "Um, I'm sorry. You were saying…?"

Aldon paused, open-mouthed for an instant, then he cleared his throat again. "I was hoping to speak with you. With both of you, since John is back."

That much was obvious by the fact that he was hovering in her doorway, but Francesca did him the courtesy of not pointing out that he was speaking to them. Instead, she simply waited, hoping he would get to the point. He didn't have textbooks under his arm, so it had to be something else.

"Er," he tried again. "Perhaps we might adjourn to for the sitting room? Or the kitchen?"

John snorted, and Francesca knew without him saying anything that he was laughing at Aldon's use of language. Adjourn, really.

"Why?" she asked, her voice blunt.

"I thought it might be more comfortable." Aldon shifted on his feet, slightly, looking away. There was a slight blush on his face. Aldon got so flustered about the most minor of things, really. Their entire time at ramen, he had apologized incessantly every time he had knocked her knees with his, and his expression when she called for the bill, swiped it from under his nose, and paid for it with her father's credit card had been utterly priceless. Some mix of shame, embarrassment, and something else, and he couldn't even use his chopsticks correctly.

"Don't want to enter the monster's lair?" John smirked lazily, falling back on Francesca's bed and propping himself up on his elbows. "I understand. Monster eats men for breakfast. I'm only safe because I'm gay."

"I understood you to be the true terror, John, rather than Francesca," Aldon snapped in reply, orange-yellow eyes flashing. "Something about how you take your older brotherly duties very seriously?"

John waved a hand in the air, completely uncaring. "Guilty as charged. But a knight needs to slay a dragon to win a princess, right? I'm the dragon, see, thought you'd have worked that out by now. Knights, absolutely delicious, you know."

Francesca did roll her eyes then, shoving at John's bulk with her legs, but he didn't budge an inch. Not a surprise, considering he had eighty pounds on her, and it wasn't like shoving him worked any other time. "Um, in any case," she said, pulling the conversation back to where it started before John could engage in more pointed banter that she wouldn't be able to understand without Aldon's thoughts. "What is it, Aldon? You can come in, if you like."

"Er—" he said, somehow unbalanced, while John laughed. Aldon glared at John for a moment, then he took two steps into Francesca's room: one in, and one to his right, where he leaned against the wall in an even worse position of repose than John had managed. They were both terrible actors. "Very well, then. I wanted to speak to you about the ACD. Both of you, since you, John, have the only working prototype."

John shot her a look, and as light-hearted as John always made himself out to be, he was more intelligent than he let on. He wants to bring us to Blake & Associates. He wants to pitch the ACD for funding and bring in more of his co-workers for help on research and development.

What?! Francesca's eyes widened, and her breath quickened in panic. But the ACD – it's mine. Mine! I don't want other people on it I don't like other people other people are scary and they'll be mean about it and I don't want to deal with that and no! I don't want it! Make him go away!

Hey. He sat up, grabbing her wrist, his breathing slow and steady as he stared at her. She locked her breathing with his automatically – stupid Healer tricks. Stupid Healer tricks that had been used a few too many times on her. This was completely grounds for a panic attack. Calm down, Chess. Let's hear him out. Not everyone is like people at school, you said he hasn't made fun of you—

Yet. He hasn't done anything yet, that doesn't mean he's not going to. Francesca's mental voice was a grumble.

Yeah, and you threw calculus and physics at the poor guy. John smiled very slightly. That would be enough to make literally anyone else run away. You said yourself that he's been coming by every day, he's interested, and he hasn't done anything. Don't you think that deserves a chance, at least?

She grumbled at him again mentally, something without words, just annoyance and feeling. John coughed, letting go of her wrist and turning back to Aldon with the clear and obvious intent to pretend like nothing weird had happened at all. Which, for anyone who knew them at all, nothing weird had happened. This was an everyday occurrence in the Holmes Wing.

"You were saying?" John asked pleasantly.

Aldon's eyes lingered on the two of them again, but Francesca set her chin stubbornly. John was going to brazen this out, so she would hide behind him and let him do it. She didn't want to explain her relationship with John to Aldon. She barely knew him! A couple weeks or so of math and tea over math didn't make them friends, only friendly.

"As I was saying," Aldon continued slowly, apparently deciding to let it go, but Francesca doubted he would forget. He was probably filing it away in his memories for later consideration. "I would like to bring the both of you to Blake & Associates to show the ACD. It's a remarkable achievement, and while you've made enormous strides on it alone, I think you've reached the point where other collaborators are necessary. Blake & Associates has significant resources, both financial and in terms of expertise – we have a resident Charms Master, Defense Master, Alchemy Master, and so on."

"And what are you?" John grinned, a bit predatory. "Master of none?"

Aldon glared at him. "Currently, I'm the Runes expert," he replied stiffly. "I have a NEWT in the subject. As well as in Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Ward Construction and Curse-breaking, as it happens."

"What the fuck is a NEWT?" John snorted, and even Francesca hid a laugh. "It sounds like a joke."

Aldon paused again, apparently not sure what to say, then, evidently, he decided to ignore it. "That is not important, but my point is – I think progress can be made faster with more funding, with a team of people behind it. I believe in the ACD, Francesca. It has the potential to completely change spellcasting as we know it. I reviewed the paper you gave me – I agree that it can be adapted to just about any spell. I am, as you know, less familiar on the Muggle technology front, but if successful, I think you could conceivably put runic efficiency and complex spell-work, such as warding or looped Amplification charms, into the hands of your average witch or wizard. The possibilities are intriguing, and I'd like to see further investment into the idea." He smiled suddenly, his amber eyes locked on Francesca alone. "Or, truthfully: I would just like to make working on the ACD part of my day job."

"Hey, dragon in the room," John barked, rolling his eyes, before he turned to Francesca. So? What do you think?

Francesca shot him an unimpressed look. I think he has a silver tongue. I don't want to involve a ton of people – I don't want to deal with people. I don't want to make a pitch, I don't want to stand in front of a crowd of people who are going to judge me and laugh at me and I don't even know what while I stumble through a speech, I don't want to deal with questions. I don't want it, John, make him go away.

"Excuse us for a moment," John said, looking over at Aldon and waving his hand in a motion for him to leave the room. "We have to talk about this."

"We, um, really don't," Francesca tried to interrupt, frowning. It did not sound like John planned on making Aldon go away, or with backing her up on her refusal, so maybe it would be best if she cut this train off herself. It was bad enough that she had been talked into showing Aldon her ACD, and she couldn't deny that it was fun throwing calculus and physics at him, but enough was enough. Maybe one person, she could think about bringing in, but a whole team? A venture funding firm? A partnership? "I'm sorry, Aldon, it's just – I'm not—"

"Ignore her," John said loudly, talking over her and making shooing motions with his hands. "She doesn't know what she's talking about right now. Out, out, and shut the door behind you."

Aldon obeyed immediately, smartly shutting the door behind him, and he was barely out of the room before Francesca was glaring daggers at John. Between the two of them, glaring daggers actually meant something – she dove through his mists, her avatar hitting his like a bullet in the clouds over his mindscape, a nearly perfect model of New York City. What was that about, John? I said no! No no no no no no no! I don't want to deal with strangers, I don't want to talk in front of people, I don't want to deal with it! I just want to be left alone to work on it, I just want to invent things and I don't want to deal with investors and garbage like that, I don't want it! Why would you say that to him?!

John caught her, not that she could literally be injured in his mindscape and set her down on the rooftop of his mental representation of the Rockefeller Center. Chess, you also want your ACD to take over the world – you can't hide that from me! You're obsessed with it, with making it something that can and will bring spellcasting into the modern era! I'm not stupid, Chess, I know you've been stuck for nearly a year – your development was insane over the first two years, but since the prototype, all your improvements have been on minor things like weight and battery life. If you want to achieve your dreams, you have to take some risks. Come on, think about it – Blake & Associates has both the money and the expertise, they can help you make the ACD as big as you've always dreamed it could be.

I can get past this block, John, Francesca spat at him, shoving him. He stumbled, because they were in a mindscape and not in real life, and things like weight didn't mean anything. Are you saying I'm not smart enough? I'm smart, John, I made it this far!

You made it this far largely because of luck, monster. John pushed her back, because in the mindscape, she wouldn't topple over or fall off the building, and even if she did, this was John's mindscape. She would flip, rolling over like a cat, and land on her feet on the streets of Manhattan below. His mental voice was hard, unrelenting in a way it never would have been in front of other people. You got lucky finding the papers for the proto-runes and the magical blocking potion. Your main area of expertise is No-Maj materials and technology; it's not runes, not magical theory, not Potions, not Charms or Transfigurations or whatever else might come up that you might need. You can't learn everything – the ACD needs people who have expertise in those areas, and funding would let those people work on it full time. Don't you want to see the ACD take over the world as soon as possible? Don't you want to have one of your very own? Because you don't have one, and you're not going to have one unless you open up and let people help you.

Francesca stumbled back, his thoughts a slap a thousand times harder than the little mental shove that he had given her. She did want an ACD, her own ACD, a better one that let her access the world of spells that John, that Archie and Hermione took for granted. She wanted to have that flexibility too, instead of having a set of pre-planned paper spells that she had to carry in a stack around with her, only six or seven because any more than that got confusing to keep track of. She had off the cuff spells, here and there, simple runes that she had memorized like a heat-spell or her lightning spell, but the things that Archie and everyone else used all the time, things like Summoning Charms, were beyond her. The ACD of her dreams would have a hundred spells programmed in it, it would let her cast just like everyone else, but faster, more efficiently, and it would be pink, and she wouldn't be weird. I – you – how can you say that?

Her avatar was crying, and she was pretty sure her real body was crying too. She threw a bunch of memories at him – memories of people laughing at her and her spellcasting, people pretending to befriend her over those stupid CD player cases, people throwing hexes at her because she was different, her memories playing themselves out in the clouds around them. A hundred different painful memories, many of the voices ringing out around them.

Wandless. No-Maj. Waste of space. Ugly, because the easiest insult for a girl was to call her ugly. Stupid. Retarded. Defective. There was a jinx that she couldn't defend against because she couldn't find her shield spell fast enough, followed by laughter – another memory, or maybe a half dozen of them, of trip jinxes that she hadn't seen. A dozen times where Neal had quietly patched her up, undoing whatever curse she had been caught up in, promising to say nothing to John about it so that John wouldn't go on a useless revenge hunt, not that she knew where the curse had come from half the time anyway. Her mental map of AIM, with all the safe places highlighted where she could go if she needed a place to hide, where John or one of their other friends could likely be found. The memory of the month or so where people were surprisingly nice to her, where that bunch of girls had invited her shopping in town, then had taken her wallet and abandoned her there when she said she couldn't make CD cases for them all. She had found a quiet street, had one of her worst panic attacks in years, and John had had to track her down and take her home. And get her wallet back for her.

They were in his mindscape, so John dismissed her memories away with barely any effort, throwing up a hundred of his own memories to paint the grey clouds. Memories of her inventions, memories of the Tournament, memories of every time he or Daine or Neal or Kel or anyone else had stepped in to help her, no questions asked, no return favours owed. People were good to her, even at school – not everyone was like her bullies.

God, she hated that John was so good at the mind arts.

Fuck those other people, Chess. He waved his hand again, and the memories disappeared. They're small-minded and shitty, and you shouldn't let the garbage they say about you define you. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, this is your best chance to make your dreams for the ACD come true. Go with it, don't let shitty people hold you back. That's how they win, you know.

She sniffled, her avatar wiping her eyes, though she didn't have the sort of control over her real body from her mindscape that she could do the same to her real body. Her makeup would be a mess, after this. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't, John. People don't like me. I'm not likeable, I'm not good at talking. Talking is stupid. It's all doomed to failure anyway, so I mean… it's easier if I just do it all myself.

I can name a dozen guys at school who would swear up and down that you're very likeable. John sighed, rubbing one hand over his forehead. Come on, monster, don't let your ridiculous trust issues and anxiety hold you back from this. I'll be behind you, I'm always behind you. I'll send any contracts to Tina and Will for their review, and we'll clean it up, we'll make it air-tight to protect you. Please, take a risk. Please. For me?

Francesca snort-giggled through tears. All those guys at school are idiots, John. They just like the person they think I am, not me. I don't know who the person they think they like is, but it isn't me. I'm not that kind, or that sweet, or whatever.

John shrugged. I think you'd be surprised on that, but I agree, they're all awful. Even the ones I like are awful. Whoever you date is your choice, Chess, I'm just there to torment all of them. Come on, take this chance. It's not even just Aldon, it's his mom's company, and as far as I can tell, they're completely legit. I'll be behind you on the pitch, all the way, and from his thoughts, Aldon is there too. He means it, when he says he loves the ACD and that he wants to help, and while he has the usual thoughts that most guys who are into girls have when he looks at you, he's not sketchy about it.

Francesca gave a watery smile at the usual thoughts. She knew what that meant – people thought she was pretty, some people wanted more with her, but John generally didn't care unless they were sketchy about it, the criteria for which he had never satisfactorily explained to her. She sniffed. Okay. Okay. I guess I can try. Go kick him out of the hallway where he's probably hovering, I need to go and fix my makeup and I'd rather he not see my streaky gross crying face.

I think your streaky gross crying face would have him on his knees in front of you asking how he can make it all better, John thought, his mental voice dry. Or he would run screaming for the hills, which would honestly be equally hilarious. I'll go rustle him out and make him wait in the formal sitting room downstairs. Go fix your makeup, little sis. I love you.

Love you too, you big soft-hearted idiot. Francesca shook her head and jumped backwards off the edge of the Rockefeller Center, doing that little mental twist to disappear from John's mindscape. John was still there, sitting on her bed, when she came to, and he shot her a quick, happy, grin before diving on her for a hug – big and warm and very John. She wiped her face on his shoulder, leaving foundation and eyeshadow and mascara on his t-shirt.

"I'm proud of you, little monster," he muttered in her ear. "I'll go take care of the devil on your doorstep. Take whatever time you need to fix your face."

It only took her fifteen minutes to redo her makeup, but it took them nearly fifteen hours to prepare her pitch. They holed up in one of the public library's study rooms, and since it was still summer, it seemed like no one minded. As he promised, John was beside her nearly the entire time, making helpful suggestions on how to word things best for mages to understand and sending Aldon to get innumerable cups of fancy tea from the local coffee shop.

"It was a London Fog that she wanted," John would snap at the older boy, a hint of laughter in his brown eyes. "You've just brought back regular tea with milk! Get it right, man."

Francesca would just hand Aldon more of her British pounds and wordlessly turn back to her laptop, where she was drafting her pitch, the table littered with empty paper cups that had once held tea. Then coffee, as the hours grew later, until the library kicked them out and they went to work in a pub instead. It was a good thing that Francesca had proofread so many of Dad's grant proposals – a pitch was much the same.

She spent a page working through the background theory of her device, including her hypothesis on the nature of wandlore and how it fit into magical frequency, including a diagram. She then added in several pages on the physics principles behind the ACD, including an introduction to electromagnetic frequency and resonance, including the math, for which the textbooks she had made Aldon buy proved to be exceptionally handy. She allowed Aldon to proofread those sections since he now understood it better than John did, which he did with more pleasure than was really warranted. She had finished the conceptual diagrams of the ACD and the next steps pages outlining her most pressing problems: problems in magical theory to expand the ACD's use beyond just John, problems breaking down the proto-runic theory for more spells, problems integrating a microcontroller. The only thing left of the actual pitch document was Aldon's pages, since he offered to write the summary of the proto-runes article.

And therein lay the issue. Aldon had written it out, including a second example of the proto-runes, in beautiful, flowing script over four sheets of paper.

Francesca stared at his sheets for a moment, uncomprehending. She supposed it was enough that he had written it with a pen on four sheets of A4 instead of a quill and a scroll of parchment, but her tired brain just wasn't computing it. She had slept only four hours the night before, they had all crashed near three in the morning. She and John had offered to share her bed so that Aldon could have John's bed, but Aldon had looked completely horrified and refused, taking the couch in the formal sitting room at Grimmauld Place instead.

Aldon's script was a hundred times more beautiful than her cursive, but she couldn't make heads or tails of it in her current state. She felt ready to cry, looking over his beautiful pages, even thinking about deciphering them to put into her pitch. "Um," she said, staring at his papers. "These, um, flourishes – is it an f, or an s?"

"An s," Aldon said, frowning a little. "This is how all nobles are trained to write."

She handed his handwritten explanation to John, rubbing her eyes. "I'm sorry, but – I can't—"

"Aldon can type it out, and I'll edit it," John said quickly, shoving the sheets back at the older boy. "You still need to get clothes for the presentation tomorrow, you said. Go on, go shopping. I'll keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't fry your computer."

"Excuse me?" Aldon blinked, then he looked down at the laptop as John slid it in front of him, a look of apprehension coming across his sharp face. "Er – I'm sure that either of you would be much better suited—"

"Just type it out, man. The machine isn't going to bite you. You're the only one here who can read your handwriting anyway." John nodded at the laptop. Francesca thought about it for a minute, but John knew his way around a word processor. And she did need clothes appropriate for a professional pitch. Something clean and crisp, in black. And sky-high heels with pointed toes, and more makeup than she had brought with her to Britain. And maybe she could go have a bit of a panic while she went about it – her third in two days, all thankfully in the safety of her mindscape.

"Yes, Aldon, please," she said, standing up and reaching for her purse. She would shop, and get something for John to wear, too. "Type it out. So – so it fits with the rest of the pitch. We'll put it, um, before the diagrams. John, would you…"

"Wouldn't have offered if I wasn't going to," John said, flashing her an encouraging smile. He pulled his chair beside Aldon's. "Come on, man. Based on your clothes, we've gotten you into the 1920s, now let's bring you into the 1990s. Computer. Type."

Aldon stared down at the laptop keys, a hint of nervousness in his wildflower honey eyes. He reached out with a single finger and hit a key – a P. He was going to be a nightmare to watch typing, Francesca realized, watching the way he held his hands, the way he stared at the keyboard. He was going to pick at every letter through his entire four-page, handwritten summary, and it was going to be painful to watch.

I'll bring you back a mocha, she shot at John, who only grinned.

Bring back three. He can have one if he can figure out typing with two fingers, otherwise we'll split the third!

When she came back, four hours later, Aldon looked like he had a headache, John was laughing as he proofread the entire document, and Francesca had three mochas in hand. Aldon had, in fact, earned his as he had started typing with two fingers on each hand and hit the not at all impressive ten words per minute.

The next morning, John hit the print-shop to print and bind ten copies of her pitch while Francesca spent her morning hours panicking and getting ready. A major presentation? That called for make-up, and lots of it, a little different than her usual. First, she went with heavy dark eyeliner, then she hesitated, and wiped it all off. Aldon was conservative – maybe this was a little too much. She should have gone with magic, maybe, like most of the people at school, but she didn't know any runic makeup spells. No-Maj makeup would have to be good enough, but she went with more neutral colours, this time.

Her new suit was tailored perfectly with a few sizing charms, and her new heels would hurt, but she needed the height. Three-and-a-half inches, far higher than her normal – but she didn't want to be staring up at people. She would just have to manage with it.

She glanced at the time – she didn't have enough of it left. John was probably back already, so she couldn't do her hair properly. She sighed, shaky, then put it in a simple ponytail and picked out her jewellery: a golden pendant, flat and round with ruby-studded starburst, given to her by her grandmother, tiny gold and ruby earrings with a matching ring on her right hand from her father.

The girl that stared back at her in the mirror didn't look like a mess of nerves. She looked confident, she looked like she knew what she was talking about, like she knew her own worth and the worth of her invention. She looked ready for a major business presentation. She didn't look like Francesca in the least, but that was a good thing – she didn't want to look like herself.

She wanted to look more. Because when she looked like more, when the person in the mirror looked confident and beautiful, it was easier to make herself believe that she could be that person, too. She reached over to her bed, which had three different handbags on it, and took her time picking out the one that would make the statement she needed. The Coach bag, in brown, she decided eventually. All her handbags were her mother's castoffs, but if there was anyone Francesca wanted to channel today, it was her mother, Grace Cheung, COO in Silicon Valley, tiger mother and terror of many boardrooms.

She had even called home, early that morning, to tell her parents about the pitch. Predictably, her father was all over her, telling her how proud he was and how he believed in her, while her mother had a completely different kind of support to give.

"Did you get the suit? The shoes? And your pitch is ready?" Even over the phone, her mother sounded sharp, aggressive.

Francesca made noises of assent to each of her questions.

"Then why are you calling me? Don't call me until you have a deal, this call is expensive," her mother said, then she promptly hung up the phone.

Her mother didn't waste time on things like nerves, or lack of confidence, or whatever it was that was bothering Francesca that day, and she didn't have time to coddle Francesca through her fits of emotion, as she called them. Her mother simply expected Francesca to go out and do whatever needed to be done, and failure was not an option. Failure was never an option, because Grace Cheung and Jackson Lam did not raise a failure.

Francesca hoped that her mom's no-nonsense bravery came with her designer handbag, her suit, and her shoes, and walked out the door.

John and Aldon were waiting by the front door, John a neatly pressed, collared shirt, without a tie, and black slacks and Aldon in much the same, though Aldon seemed to have developed an attachment to waistcoats and had one of those on, too. They made for a good picture, Francesca thought, a little hysterical. John, with mousy brown hair, shorn close to his head, tall, broad-shouldered and bulky; Aldon, dark hair swept up and out of his face, slender and elegant. John had a cardboard box under one arm, and a quick peek inside showed that her pitch was there, under a plain white cover that read simply, The Assistive Casting Device: A Proposal for Partnership.

"Let's go," she said, and her voice was calm and blunt, at complete odds with her heart, which was hammering wildly. John shot her a look, wordlessly checking in on her, but she shook her head, blinking. "Come on. The commute shouldn't be more than forty minutes, but let's get there a half-hour early, at least."

They walked to Caledonian Road Station in absolute silence, riding the Piccadilly line into the City. Aldon took the lead from there, marching them up endless staircases, then a short, five-minute walk above ground to his office tower. Twenty-fourth floor, and they were a full forty minutes early, and Francesca's feet were killing her.

She took a moment to be grateful for black tights, because the backs of her ankles were bleeding. John or Archie could take care of that later, but for now, the pain was good. The pain made her sharp, it made her focus on something that wasn't the ache in her stomach that came from doing things that were absolutely, mind-bogglingly terrifying. Aldon disappeared into his office, presumably to prepare a boardroom, while John handed her a copy of her pitch. She glanced over it, barely seeing it, words jumping out here and there at her as she flipped through the pages. It looked good, it looked clean and professional, as bold and strong as Francesca hoped she looked, nerves aside.

All too soon, Aldon waved them in, and Francesca set her chin stubbornly as she stood up, John's reassuring bulk behind her. She had decided to do this, so she would, and she would channel her mother and brazen her way through and if she got funding, they would celebrate, and if she didn't, she could tell John she tried.

She stepped into the boardroom, her eyes sweeping over Aldon, the brunette woman that she recognized as his mother, and several people she didn't know. There were introductions, but she didn't hear them – Aldon took care of those, she only nodded numbly when he announced who she was to the room. John took care of passing out her pitch to everyone, and then, then it was time.

She stood up, and the heels helped. The way they clicked against the floor helped. The pain in her feet and ankles helped. The power suit helped, her makeup helped. She wasn't herself anymore – she wasn't Francesca Lam, but something more. She could – she would – panic later, but that was a later problem. Now, it was time to work.

"Good afternoon, everyone," she said, and her voice was calm, mild. "As Aldon has so kindly said, my name is Francesca Lam, and I am here to propose a partnership with your firm on my invention. I call it the Assistive Casting Device – it is a new method of channelling magic that incorporates No-Maj technological principles, which I hope will bring runic efficiency and complex, multi-layered spellcasting into the hands of your average mage."

Aldon had said that the wards at Blake & Associates would hold the Trace, so Francesca pulled out her first paper illusion charm. They were arranged in order, so she didn't have to think too much about the spells behind her. They were set up to go along with her presentation, flashing her diagrams in full colour, while she explained her theory behind about magical frequencies, electromagnetic frequencies, and resonance. Aldon took over briefly, to explain the proto-runes paper, but left it to Francesca to go through the rest.

They put in their formal demonstration, also their proof of concept, in the middle of the presentation – Francesca simply held up another paper spell, launching a fire spell at John, which he blocked with barely an effort. Aldon threw a few attack spells at John too, but the ACD was fresh on batteries, so it was fine. The plan was for Aldon to throw attack spells at random points at John for the rest of the presentation, both to highlight the ACD's speed and efficiency and to keep things interesting, while Francesca finished going through the next steps for her device.

"Everything is, of course, in my proposal. Are there any questions?" Her voice was calm even if her thoughts were rattling around in her head. The planned part of her presentation was done – now it was discussion, now was when these powerful, well-dressed strangers would start laughing at her, when they would start attacking her. She made eye contact with John, sitting across the table from her.

Breathe, monster, he said, as he batted away a Stupefy spell that Aldon had just thrown at him. You're almost there, and then we'll go out to that fancy boba place you like. Or ice cream. Whatever you want.

"I'd like to be able to see the ACD closer," one of the people around the boardroom table, a thin man with greying brown hair and a pointed nose, said. Francesca glanced at John again, tilting her head, and he leaned over, rolling his sleeve up easily for the mage's scrutiny. The mage looked it over, considering, then nodded. "Very interesting. I'm intrigued, and the proof of concept is there. Aldon, obviously you've put in a lot of thought in this – what do you think?"

"I strongly support the ACD," Aldon replied instantly, flicking his wand one more time at John, who deflected the spell with only a thought. Francesca didn't even know what it was, that time, but probably another minor jinx. "There is a working proof of concept, and while I do not have a strong grasp of the Muggle science, I have reviewed the proto-runes article, and Master Blayways does set up the basics of a proto-runic alphabet for spells. It needs work, but I do think it can be used and adapted to any spell."

Aldon's mother, the eponymous Blake of the firm, was studying the next steps page instead. Her expression was thoughtful, and she was chewing on her lip, the way Aldon did sometimes when he was thinking. "The issue is the magical theory. I don't think that research linking an individual's magic to Muggle science exists – since magical children are generally withdrawn from Muggle society very young, I don't believe anyone has ever done research along these lines. In fact, I can only name perhaps a handful of people who have the Muggle background in science to even approach this – even the Muggle Studies teachers at most of the schools in America only know the culture, nothing like this. We would need to effectively do all the base research ourselves. Ideally, I'd hire a Master in Magical Theory, but there are none I would trust in Britain, and I doubt I can persuade anyone to come here, in the current environment—"

"I could do it," Aldon spoke up, and Francesca nearly stopped breathing. Her eyes darted to John, who was smiling in pleased excitement – they were thinking about it. They were actually thinking about it! She didn't know yet if that was a good thing, a bad thing, a terrifying thing, or maybe some combination of all three. She looked back at Aldon, who had his right leg propped over his left knee, his voice cool. "I enjoy magical theory. I tested in the top ten percent for the secondary examinations across Europe in the subject. I can look into that as well as the runes."

"It's still quite a lot of work," Blake said slowly, looking through the proposal again. "We normally take on smaller projects, less risk, but on the other hand …" Her eyes went up, looked at the ACD sitting innocently on John's wrist. "It works. It works, and it's a huge development for spell-casting."

"Imagine – forget shield charms, even Fortis, as useful as it is. People could be carrying around portable wards. Five-to-seven woven protection charms, launching as quickly as a Protego or Fortis." Aldon was smiling slightly, an almost dreamy look coming into his golden eyes. His eyes were really very nice. "Or, combining it with a wand – a portable, fast, amplification loop. Or we could expand it to a full casting method – hundreds of spells, at your fingertips, with runic efficiency and speed built in. It changes the world."

"It changes something, but this sort of research is costly. Then again, the potential profits are staggering – I would not be shocked if, fifty years from now, these ACDs will be more common than wands. And we would be at the forefront." Blake looked up from the booklet, taking a deep, shaky, breath, coming to a decision. "Aldon, call our solicitors – we need a contract to formalize the partnership and determine an appropriate cut of the profits. Miss Lam, I know you're back to America within the week, so things will need to move quickly. We'll set up a communication orb between you and someone in our office, then we should be able to negotiate and start work remotely. We're in."

XXX

"Arch, can we talk?"

Archie couldn't actually hear his Dad, not over the music blaring through his headphones as he looked down at the questions that had been sent to him by the newly formed Bridge, but he understood the meaning well enough. He smiled, hitting to stop button on his new CD player that Chess had finally managed to make for him, to replace his old one, and pulled his headphones off to hang around his neck. "Yeah, Dad. Of course. What's up?"

Dad took a seat across from him at the kitchen table, eyeing the sheets of paper Archie had in front of him with a hint of caution, of suspicion. "Just – have you really thought through what you're doing? This – this paper, it's incredibly dangerous. We got out of a tight situation before, with the trial, and anything more will be – well, I can't say what would happen with any certainty, but what you're talking about – it will be sedition, Archie. You're pushing to a full rebellion, and it's dangerous. We can do this legally, in the Wizengamot, especially when your friend takes his seat there. There's really – there's no need for you, or your friends, to be taking these kinds of risks, Archie."

He had known this was coming – Dad had been unhappy beside him, through the entire meeting about Bridge. He even understood, because it was dangerous, and the trial had been awful for Dad. Dad hadn't said anything about it at the time, because Archie had needed him too badly, but it couldn't have been easy watching as his only son went through a two-and-a-half-week trial where a death sentence was one of the better options. Dad was a man of action; he liked to be the one going out and fixing things with his hands or his magic, and it would have been in his instincts to spirit Archie away somewhere overseas where he couldn't be touched.

The trial had taken a different kind of strength – it had taken a willingness to sit there, under the intense pressure of the crosshairs, and stay steady and unwavering under it knowing the possible consequences. It hadn't been easy for Dad, so of course Dad didn't want to see more of the same.

All Archie could do was to try and be careful. There were a hundred secrecies and protections built into Bridge – Archie didn't know everyone who would be involved in it. He was the most well-known of them, and he was most likely to be targeted by the Ministry if it all went south, so he would know as little as possible. His interview was done in writing, so he didn't know who his interviewer would be. He didn't know if they had gotten their own printing press, or where it was kept, though he guessed that it had to be in the No-Maj world. That would have to be enough.

"Dad," he said quietly, raising his pencil from the paper where he had been drafting his responses to the questions. "At the Quidditch World Cup last year, after the attacks. How long were you held for questioning?"

Dad stared at him, taken aback for an instant. "After the attacks? Not long – I helped James with the chaos in the aftermath, but I wasn't formally questioned."

"How long was Harry held for questioning, or Aunt Lily?"

"They weren't," Dad replied, drawing the last word out slowly. "James filed their statements for them, they weren't asked to stay."

"Saiorse's dad was held for three days." Archie looked down at his interview paper, skimming through the questions again. They were quite standard – they wanted his reaction to the trial, his next steps, things like that. That was easy enough, though wording everything perfectly would be tough. He reread his first answer, crossed out half of it, and set it aside to focus on Dad. "Because when things like that happen, nobles go first. Nobles and purebloods always go first. Sean was lucky, because since he and his mum are undocumented, they ran when the pamphlets started coming down and managed to Apparate out before the questions happened. Change of topic – when was the last time St. Mungo's hired a mage trained outside Britain? Or took on, for an internship, someone educated outside Britain?"

Dad thought about it for a minute. "I'm not sure, Arch," he said finally, "but I'm not really on the hiring committee, you know."

"I have a friend, Ranjan Agarwal. He's British, Muggleborn. He was a class monitor for the Healing track at AIM, he just graduated a year ago. He won the first-place prize for the Healing track in his year, his specialty is spell damage. He works out of the Boston Magical Alliance Hospital now, it's very prestigious." Archie paused for a minute, looking up. Hermione had told him the story, and while Archie thought she ought to have been angry, she wasn't – instead, her voice was merely resigned. This was life, for Muggleborns and halfbloods. "But he wanted to come home. He wanted to live and practice in Wizarding Britain, close to his family. He applied to St. Mungo's internship program four summers in a row – he applied for a job as a Junior Healer, even though magical hospitals around the world were knocking down his door with job offers. Brilliant guy. St. Mungo's turned him down."

"Well, I don't what their circumstances were, but maybe they just didn't have an opening—"

"St. Mungo's has openings for twelve internships each year. On average, eight of them aren't filled. The hospital itself is perpetually short-staffed, because even if they aren't covered by the restrictions, they informally follow them because they're worried that the old families, the ones in the SOW Party, will cut their donations if they don't." Archie shrugged, setting his pen down. "Moving on. You remember when I was in the holding cell, right? They put me in with Geoff Baker, this guy that you said has a record the length of my arm?"

Dad scowled, his heavy brows coming together sharply. "I do remember. His record is longer than your arm, he has documented anger management issues. Did he hurt you, Archie?"

"God, no." Archie laughed at the very thought, remembering the man in his holding cell, with the blackened eye, sprained or broken ankle, broken nose that he had had to correct by hand. Geoff had yowled through the pain of that, but never thrashed out at Archie. "Geoff was in because his brother-in-law beat his sister and the Aurors and the legal system wouldn't, or maybe they couldn't, do anything about it. He and his sister can't prove their blood-status, and her husband is a legal pureblood. Domestic violence… well, it always ends up being her word against his, even she spoke up about it, and her word is only worth three-quarters of his. They have kids. As a legal halfblood, there's not a lot she can do."

"I'm sorry for her situation, but Archie, there are shelters—"

"But are there?" Archie smiled, a little sad. "Dad, you know that most people in the Alleys can't access St. Mungo's, right? It's too far away, and the resources at the hospital are focused first towards nobles and purebloods, to the people who can pay for it. There's a small clinic in the Lower Alleys, but it's underfunded and understaffed. St. Mungo's funds it so that people like us don't have to be confronted with the wrong kind of people when we go there. Dad, for all the inequalities that we see, for all the ones that affect us, you have to remember that we're protected by our status. We're noble. We're purebloods. We don't know what they deal with every day. I'm happy that you'll be pushing the issue in the Wizengamot, Dad, you and Lord Dumbledore and everyone, but that just isn't enough."

"Archie…" Dad sighed heavily, loud enough to go over the scratch of Archie's pencil. "I don't – I didn't want this for you. I wanted you to go to Hogwarts, to make friends and have a good time being a kid. I don't want you to be fifteen years old, thinking about things like this. You should be having fun, playing pranks, enjoying yourself. Watching the movies that you love so much, reading all your books, listening to your music. Acting."

Archie studied his dad closely. Dad had a worried, sad expression on his face, but Archie knew that he understood. He was saying what had to be said, to try to make Archie change his mind, but he had never had any real hope that Archie would. He just didn't want Archie to be hurt. "Thank you, Dad," he said, and he meant it. "For caring about me. But you know I could never live with myself if I turned my back on the people who supported me and cared for me so much, or on these problems that I never knew existed, if I went back to just having fun. I would hate myself if I did. So, yes, I have to do this. I'll be careful – as careful as I can be, I promise."

He watched his Dad for a moment, and when Dad leaned back, thinking about it, Archie reached for his interview. He went back to writing his answers to the questions, finding his words easier than he did before, though they would still need quite a bit of wordsmithing before he sent it back to his interviewer. Someone who had chosen the pseudonym Chimaera. Archie's pseudonym, for his planned column on No-Maj culture, was Simba.

Dad sighed again, and Archie heard the shifting of a chair and felt a clasp on his shoulder. "I know, Archie. I'm just worried about you, but despite all that – I'm proud of you. Not for running away to AIM, not for trading places with Harry, but for the person you've become while you were there."

Archie paused, and he put down his pencil and looked up at his Dad. Dad still looked worried, terribly so, even if he was understanding. He reached over and wrapped him in a warm, tight, hug. "Thank you, Dad. I love you."

"I love you too, little pup."

XXX

ANs: French translations this time are pretty straightforward. Neal says "Like always," Aldon says "Thank you," and Neal says "It's nothing." Then, later, "Shut up." This was the chapter where I learned that any time you put Neal and Aldon in a conversation together, magic would happen because they just play off each other so well! I also had an interesting time with Bridge, because I really didn't know what they were going to do until I got them into the room - how do you raise awareness of something when you have little to no political power? Thanks as always to meek_bookworm, tireless beta-reader (she may contest the "tireless" part) and to the occasionally consulted Subject Matter Experts. Please leave a review and let me know what you think!

Next Chapter: We were told, just to sit tight / 'Cause somebody will soon arrive / Help is on the way / They never came / They never came (Help is on the Way, by Rise Against)