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.

9. Chapter 9

Francesca was running late. She didn't need to see the clock to know that she was late, but the fact that she could see the clock behind Michelle's head meant that she knew exactly how late she was. It was five-thirty-eight and sixteen seconds, and practice was supposed to end at five-thirty, and maybe it was only a six-minute dash across campus to her room, but she had planned for a shower before she got on the comm orb with Aldon at six. And instead, she had been called out by the dance captain, because Javier Esposito needed a dance partner for pairs, and he, apparently, wanted her.

"Michelle, I'm a soloist," she said slowly, her eyes glancing to the clock behind the captain's head. "I'm just – I've always been a soloist, I'm not really – I'm sorry, Javier, but I think it would be best if you went with someone else."

"You haven't always been a soloist," Michelle corrected, raising a finger, daring her to object. "You danced pairs in your second year, you remember?"

"Yes, and look how that turned out." Francesca scowled. It had been months of stress, wondering just how late Jeremy would be to practice that day, if he even showed up, and then he had fallen in competition. They had finished, not dead last, but close to. After that, she had sworn off pairs. It wasn't for her – she wanted to be in complete control of her performance, without relying on someone else.

"You also dance pairs with your other friends." Michelle stabbed her finger at her. "I've seen you on stage, when you get pulled for theatre troupe things, you and Archie Black can put together a hell of a performance. And at the Winter Formal and Spring Fling, I've seen you dance with John, and others."

"That's – that's different." Francesca crossed her arms over her chest. Now it was five-forty-one and fifty-one seconds, and she definitely wouldn't be able to get a shower in before her comm orb meeting. She would have to be satisfied with washing her face and leaving a full shower until later. Ugh. "I did well in last year's women's soloist competition, and I'm going to do better this year, and I – I don't – where is this coming from?"

"You placed third in last year's women's soloists, that's true," Michelle replied. "Javier and his partner placed second in pairs, and his partner graduated. He thinks you'd match well, and I agree. I want you to dance pairs with him this year, Francesca – you have the right body type for cabaret, and the skill to do it."

Francesca looked at Javier, a lean seventh year with dark brown hair and eyes, broad shoulders and, for dancers, a more obviously muscular form than most. He wore an easy, unoffended grin on his face, because he was the top male dancer in Dance Club, and he knew that he would get what he wanted. And what he wanted was her, partnering with him. Her scowl grew deeper and her eye flicked to the clock – five forty-three. And twenty seconds. "But I don't know how to do any of cabaret lifts, throws, spins, or anything. I'm a contemporary soloist, Captain."

"Francesca," Javier cut in, and his voice was kind, but there was something else behind it, something hard and determined. Francesca looked up at him again, and this time she recognized the look in his eyes. There was a hunger there that Francesca knew well. "I want to win this year. I asked for you because I saw you last year, crying when you accepted your third-place medal, and even if the judges didn't know, I knew you were crying because you didn't win. You should have won – you were unfairly hit in your artistic scores. Athletically, you're strong enough for cabaret – I can teach you the spins, lifts, and throws."

Francesca stared at him a moment, taken aback. She hadn't thought anyone had seen that. John knew, of course, because John knew everything, but Archie, Hermione, her own dance captain… she didn't think anyone had known that. She glanced at the clock, again. Five-forty-seven. If she didn't hurry it up, it wouldn't just be missing a shower, she would just be late.

She took a deep, shaky, breath, trying to think it through rationally. She did want to win, and she looked back at Javier – he was a regular, he was at practice as often and as long as she was, and she had seen him and his old partner, Marina Potechin, working on their routine outside of formal practice times too, sneaking gym time or practice space on the lawn. He wasn't like Jeremy, who was a casual at the best of times – Javier was in it to win, just like Francesca.

"Fine," she snapped. Five-fifty, and Javier grinned. "I'll – I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Bring your sparkly heels." Javier winked at her, while Michelle breathed a sigh of relief. Francesca uncrossed her arms, going to pick up her bag, which held her shoes.

"Thanks, Francesca," Michelle said with a grateful smile, her white teeth flashing against her dark skin. "I appreciate it, and I really do think that you and Javier will be great together."

"I've got a lot of moves to learn in the next few months, Michelle," Francesca muttered in reply, swinging her bag over her shoulder and pulling her hair out of the long ponytail that she kept it in for dance practice. She shook it out, letting it cascade down her back. Five-fifty-two. If she ran, she would make it on time. "I have to go – I'll see you tomorrow."

It was only because she was rushing from Seaton House that she didn't see them. Normally, she was more careful, more aware of her surroundings when she was alone on campus, and she always had an eye out for the telltale flash of wand magic. John had always hated that – he thought that she shouldn't need to fear anything at school, and he did his best to make that the case. But John was a bit of a moron if he truly thought that his measures, largely composed of a healthy reputation for retaliation in the event that anything happened to her, really meant she had nothing to fear. Even last year, in the midst of relative popularity due to the Triwizard Tournament, Francesca had had to be careful.

She missed it. She missed the tell-tale flicker of magic on the ground. Her feet tangled around the Trip-Jinx on the ground, and she went down, hard, her hands splayed on the ground to catch her fall on the pavement.

"So," she heard a voice say, and she immediately tried to banish it. She didn't want to see their faces, she didn't want to know who it was, she didn't want John to be able to pluck these moments out of her memories. What did she have with her? Her paper spells were tucked in her bag, which was stupid, she should have tucked them under her bra strap the way she always did, she had just forgotten because she was in a rush, she was an idiot. Her bag was crushed under her.

This was bad. This was really bad. She reached for her paper spells, scrabbling at the flap to her bag, only to be hit by a Stinging Hex to her hand. She tried with the other hand, but no luck – another Stinging Hex.

"Ah, ah, I don't think so," the girl said, crouching in front of her. Francesca wouldn't look at her – she couldn't give John that information. "No stupid paper spell for you. This is nice, isn't it? No handsome protectors around you, this time. Do you know how hard it is to find you alone and unprepared?"

Francesca did know. She knew about John's quiet rules among both Holmes Wing and the Duelling Club – Francesca was his little sister, and she didn't have a wand, and he would take it as a personal favour if they would keep an eye out for her. The first few years, there had even been a patrol, and that one she couldn't even pin on John, because that was Kel, after the first time she got beat up and Neal had to fix her up.

She was a fifth year, now. Why was this still happening to her? Why couldn't people just leave her alone?

"What – what do you want from me?" she asked, her hands burning and swelling. She would never be able to get the clasp of her bag open with her fingers the way they were, not without being too obvious about it. She could call her lightning, but that was dangerous, and she didn't want to hurt anyone. She didn't want to look at her attacker, and what if she hit the wrong thing, or the wrong person? "What – what have I ever done to you?"

"To me?" The girl had a bit of a hard laugh in her voice. "Oh, nothing much, personally. I just hate the way that all the guys at school look at you, like you're this wonderful person, the way they're always around you. You don't even belong here, and guys like John, or Faleron, or Merric or Esmond or Seaver, they don't even look at the rest of us."

Keep them talking, keep them talking, Francesca thought frantically. If they're talking, they can't be hitting you, or worse. "John is gay," she blurted out.

"As if," a new voice scoffed, and Francesca felt someone kick her in the stomach, hard. She gagged, but she hadn't eaten since lunch, and with a bit of effort, she didn't throw up. "John Kowalski, gay? He plays Quidditch and Quodpot and he duels, he's as manly as they come. How can he be gay?"

That was the stupidest reasoning Francesca had ever heard, even if she curled up protectively around her soft spots. That kick had hurt. "He is," she insisted, for all the good that it might do. "He's seeing someone from Germany!"

Another hard kick, this one in her spine. "Stop lying, slut. Even if he were, he's only one guy. You're probably sleeping around with the rest of the Duelling Club, too – I can't think of why else anyone would like you, you're a useless excuse for a mage."

A third voice. Francesca was in trouble, but John was coming, she could feel him coming. Thank the gods, thank all the gods – even if she might be embarrassed, she just wanted to get out of this, now, and she didn't want to call her lightning. It was too dangerous.

"Have you," Francesca panted, feeling another kick. "Have you tried talking to the rest of them? I'm not – I'm not seeing any of them. I swear, I'm not in the way of whatever you want, I just – I just want to go back to my room!"

"Yeah, well, we want to never see you ever again," the first girl said, something final in her voice. "We want you to leave school, and you haven't, and you just flaff around here doing whatever you want. It certainly isn't classes, like the rest of us, with how many accommodations you have. You don't belong here, and we're going to see to it that this time, you leave, and you don't come back. Incendio!"

Francesca shrieked, feeling the heat on her back, and she realized that they had set her hair on fire! Stop, drop and roll, she heard a primary school teacher's voice, coming out of nowhere, and she hastily tried to roll – she tried to roll, she tried to get one of her swollen, fat fingers to draw the rune for water, but it hurt, she hurt, and her bag was in the way. She hit one of the other girls' legs, and that girl kicked her again, harder, in the stomach, throwing another hex at her. Francesca didn't know what the hex was, but she threw up on the girl's shoes.

"What is going on here?"

It was John, his voice a cold wind. It was John it was John it was John, and Francesca nearly cried with relief when she felt cool water being poured over her from someone's wand. Her hair. She had grown it out so long, too, it had taken years. "Hey, it'll be fine," Faleron said quietly, his southern drawl rounding his vowels, and Francesca felt his arm, gentle, around her shoulder. She flinched, the weight rubbing against the hot burns on her skin, and Faleron dropped his arm quickly, coming around and leaning down to look her in the eye. "Let's get you out of here. John and Merric will handle it, let's get you to Daine, or one of your other friends. Archie or Hermione, right?"

Francesca sniffled, trying to wipe her eyes with one swollen, puffy hand. She hurt, and now she was soaking wet, but without the cooling water, she could feel that the burns went across her shoulders, all the way down her back. She didn't want to know how bad she looked, right now, and it hurt, and she felt sick.

"I don't feel so good," she murmured, dropping her eyes. "I don't – I'm late for a meeting."

"Whatever the meeting is, it'll keep," Faleron replied, his brown eyes serious. "Come on. Can you walk?"

"I—" Francesca's breath hitched a little, and she tried to wipe her eyes again. Faleron pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her, and when she stared at it stupidly for a minute, Faleron slowly leaned over and used it to wipe her face for her. Francesca could hear John saying something behind her to her attackers, and she could feel his pulsating rage. "But John – I don't want John to—"

"Merric will stop him from doing anything too stupid," Faleron said, frowning a little as he sent his cousin a look over her shoulder. "He won't get himself expelled or anything. Do you need help getting up?"

Francesca took a deep breath, focusing and considering the question. Faleron stood up, offering her a hand, but she moved until she was on all fours, the pain in her hands and knees telling her that she was injured, and pushed herself to her feet by herself. She was shaky, she stumbled a little, and Faleron caught her by the arm and steadied her. He took her bag from her – this was stupid, if she had just had access to her paper charms, she had three charged shield spells ready for situations exactly like this. She was just – she had just been too much in a rush to remember to move them under her bra strap. This was her fault, for not being careful enough. She could never let her guard down, when would she learn that basic lesson?

"Come on," Faleron murmured again, his voice kind but insistent as he slowly directed her towards Pettingill Hall. She didn't really want to go, but she hurt too much to fight him over it. "Don't worry about John, or Merric. Let's just get you taken care of."

Archie and Hermione were sitting in the Pettingill Hall common room, a huge room that had always felt too large, too sprawling for Francesca's tastes. They looked up as Faleron led her in, limping a little, and Archie stood up in alarm. "Chess! What happened to you?"

"Some girls set her on fire," Faleron said flatly, and Francesca realized how angry he must be, too. He had just set it aside to make sure that she was all right, first. "Would you take a look at her?"

"They set her on fire," Hermione repeated, flicking her wrist, her wand coming into hand, but Archie was already casting a diagnostic spell on her, his face growing grimmer by the second.

"Chair," Archie said, and one look and tilt of his head banished the group of third years that were occupying the closest study table. "Scrapes on hands and knees, probably from a fall, still bleeding, two stinging hexes, something that looks like the whip curse, a few bruises, and second-degree burns down her back, a few third-degree burns. She's going to need a burn cream, too. Hermione, do we have a camera?"

"No!" Francesca cried, feeling tears well up, again. "I don't want pictures of this, Archie! I'll just – can't you just – take care of the worst of it? I don't – I just want to go back to my room and I'm late for my meeting with Aldon, I don't – I don't want this to be a big deal, or anything."

She started crying, her fat hands still too useless for her to do anything to wipe her eyes properly. Her breath was hitching, and she couldn't breathe properly. Archie let out a worried sigh, exchanging a look with Hermione, who came in front of her.

"Francesca," her friend said seriously. "Honey, this was a really violent assault, these are awful injuries – this should never have happened to you. We're going to have to report this to the faculty, one way or another, and having pictures of your injuries will help make sure that whoever it was doesn't hurt anyone else, and it'll make you safer for the future."

Francesca glared at her, taking the handkerchief that Faleron offered to her again with numb fingers. She patted at her face with it, not that it really did anything. Francesca didn't want to tell anyone, she wasn't a snitch, and it was only because she wasn't careful enough that John and the others even got involved. "No. I don't want pictures, I won't let you take pictures. Tell the profs whatever you want, I don't care, I don't want to be involved. I just want to go back to my room. Can't you just – just take care of the worst of it?"

Archie and Hermione exchanged another look, but Archie nodded, making the decision for both of them. He motioned for her to turn around, so that he could work on her back, while Hermione conjured a privacy curtain for them. "No pictures. Fine, Chess. But Hermione and I are going to have to report this, and Faleron will too, I imagine, as a witness. This isn't supposed to happen at AIM."

Francesca turned around, sniffling, her back one huge wall of pain. Her hair – how bad was it? How short would she have to cut it? She had spent forever growing it out. And she was late – she was so late for her meeting with Aldon. "Do whatever you want, as long as there are no pictures. We did worse to each other in the Trials last year."

"The Trials had some of the best Healers at school on-site, though," Archie retorted, but Francesca could hear the smile in his voice as he started working on her back. The Healing magic was a balm, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Faleron had pulled out a chair from a nearby table, his face worried as he looked down at her. Archie's magic tickled a little, along her back. "They were an exception. This might sting, Chess, I'm sorry for that."

"Mm." Francesca winced. It didn't hurt as much as Archie said it would – getting the burns had hurt far more. Hermione was at her other side, dealing with another one of her injuries, and Francesca felt a sting in her hands and knees. Faleron grimaced, seeing her wince, reaching out one hand to her, but Francesca looked away. "How is – how is my hair?"

"Umm." Archie hesitated, and Francesca almost started crying, again. "Umm, it's not great, but I think it'll still come past your shoulders, Chess, and it'll grow back. Thea's good with hair – Faleron, would you mind going to get her? She lives in Oliver, in the Addison Wing."

Faleron hesitated, dropping his hand to his side. "I'd rather not leave Francesca right now, and I'm sure John wouldn't like me to, either," he said slowly. Francesca wouldn't look him in the eye – she knew perfectly well that Faleron King had been crushing on her since something like her third year. She had just never felt the same way, so she had been dodging his subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to get a date with her for about the same length of time. She felt bad about it, turning down his invitations to the Winter Ball, the Spring Fling, only to go alone, but it wouldn't be fair to get his hopes up. She had learned her lesson with Emile Shirazi, on that point.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Hermione snapped, glaring at him. "Archie and I are here, and no one's going to attack her in the middle of the Pettingill Hall common room. Go get Thea!"

"Fine, fine," Faleron said hastily, getting up and throwing another worried look at Francesca. "Francesca, is this what you want? I can take you to town tomorrow afternoon, if there's anything you want – new clothes, a new bag. Anything."

"I – I'm fine, Faleron," Francesca stuttered, sighing a little with relief as Hermione dealt with a line of fire across her lower back that she hadn't even realized was there until it was gone. "Thank you. For everything."

"Don't worry about it, Francesca." Faleron sighed. "It shouldn't have happened. I'll go get Thea."

Her burns took the longest to Heal, with Archie working solely on them for almost a half hour while Hermione dealt with her other injuries, before turning to help him. When Thea showed up, looking a little confused but carrying the pair of scissors that she used for hair, she sucked in a breath seeing the disaster that was Francesca's hair.

"Archie said it wasn't that bad," Francesca mumbled, turning red. Hermione had lent her a sweatshirt, a too-big lumpy one that didn't fit Francesca at all, but her shirt was only fit for the garbage bin, now. It was a good thing that she was only wearing a practice dance outfit, just a plain black shirt, which she had covered with a blue cardigan, which she would have to replace, too. They were thin, so the burns were probably worse than they might have been otherwise. "I mean…"

"It's not," Thea replied hastily, putting on a bright grin. "I mean, it's not going to be what it was, because you had it nearly waist-length from what I remember, but you know what, change is good! I'll keep it as long as I can, it'll still come past your shoulders, and I'll put in some layers, too. You'll look bomb, I promise!"

Thea didn't ask any questions about what had happened, instead getting busy with Francesca's hair, chattering on at her some nonsense or other about a date that she had gone on with one of the Quodpot players, a sixth year that Francesca didn't know. Whoever it was had decided to take her to a horror movie, on the theory that Thea would be appropriately terrified and would cling to him, except that he turned out to be more afraid of the movie than Thea herself was, and it was generally an embarrassing scene all around.

"I mean, I don't even know how he found it scary – it might be the acting experience, but I could see the jump scares coming from a mile away, like, oh, here we go, here's another one! And the actress they picked to scream was terrible, no one actually screams like that," Thea finished, leaning back to admire her work. She pulled two strands of Francesca's hair to the front, tugging them to check that the length was even. It was shoulder length, as Archie had predicted, much shorter than it was before. "It was kind of a stupid movie, don't see it. There, you look great! All good!"

Francesca giggled softly. She was really tired, and she could feel that John was coming in her direction, now. He would be even more exhausting, she was sure, so she appreciated Thea trying to cheer her up with some normalcy. "Are you, um, going to see him again?"

"Oh, hell no," the blonde said, waving a hand airily. "After hearing him squeak like that, I don't care how manly he is on the Quodpot pitch, I'm just not that into him."

"This about your date with Greg Hawkins?" John said, voice amused as he joined them. "The horror movie date? We all told him that he should have chosen a romcom, but he was all on about this horror movie theory. Thanks for doing this, Thea. I really appreciate it."

"Y'all, it was my pleasure." Thea laughed, tucking her pair of scissors away. "I like doing hair. Let me know if there's anything else I can do!"

"Thank you, Thea," Francesca echoed, with a weak sort of smile, avoiding looking at John. She didn't want to have the full force of his thoughts, his feelings, his anger right now. She just wanted to go home, go back to her room – she had missed her meeting with Aldon by some two hours, now, but she should try to get on the comm orb, see if he was still awake so that she could at least apologize. They did need to talk about the ACD, but it was well past midnight in Britain.

Thea's bright blue eyes softened, a little. "It really was no problem, Francesca. Let me know if you want to go shopping, sometime – we'll make Faleron drive us in and carry all our stuff, and we'll get milkshakes, too!"

She headed out of Pettingill Hall, blonde curls swinging, and Francesca looked down, tucked her hands in the giant front pocket of Hermione's sweatshirt. It was a plain one, in blue, and Francesca didn't really like it. John sighed.

"I'm not mad, monster," he started, and Francesca snorted. "Okay, well, I'm not mad at you. I'm pretty pissed at those girls."

There was a pause, and Francesca glanced up, a little worried about what she would see in his eyes. He was angry, she knew that instantly, but he was mostly worried about her, right now. He was tired, too, and frustrated. Archie and Hermione had long since disappeared, and she knew through her connection with John that they were talking to the profs about her injuries. That was where John had been, too, with Merric, and Faleron had also gone in report it. "Did you do anything to them?"

"Depends what you mean by do," John replied, tilting his head. He hadn't beaten them up, as he had done others – Merric had stopped him from that, and he hadn't thought this was something with little enough evidence that he had to settle it with his wand or his fists under the table. "I had some words with them, and their Occlumency shields are shit, so I heard their thoughts, too. I know what happened, Chess."

"Fine." Francesca looked away. "Why are we talking, then? You know what happened. Can't I just go, now? I want to shower, and change, and then I need to go work on the ACD. I'm busy, and I don't want to talk about it."

John sighed. "Come on, monster. Don't be like this. You should come report it, too. They're considering expulsion. That was what I suggested, and with Merric and Faleron backing me up on what we saw, as well as Archie and Hermione reporting in on your injuries, it's a textbook assault case. If you go in and talk to the profs too, it's a done deal. You should do it, Chess. Please."

"I don't want to." Francesca stood up, tucking her chair in. "Involving the professors – it just makes them think they're being unfairly persecuted, and they'll hit back harder, when you can't see, when no one's around. Those three are just – they aren't the only ones. I don't want to make this into big deal, it's embarrassing enough, and it'll just make it worse because now everyone will think I'm a snitch, they'll say I got three people expelled. I don't – I need to go back to my room, work on the ACD. I missed my meeting with Aldon, I need to apologize."

"Chess…" John swallowed, taking a deep breath. He wasn't looking at her, instead looking down at the table, carefully not engaging his gift. "I could take the memory from you, you know."

Francesca glared at him. "Is that a threat?" He never would. John was too good a person for that, and Francesca knew it. Francesca knew John better than anyone else in the world, and John was extremely ethical about how he used his gift. He would never forcibly take a memory. Not from her, not from anyone.

"No, but…" His mouth firmed. "I hate it that you don't fight back, Chess! I hate it. I hate it that you just let it go, throwing yourself into your ACD as a way of running away instead of dealing with it. You have a chance right now to have three people who attacked you kicked out of school, and you're just going to run away and hide, again. How often does this have to happen, Chess? How often?"

"My ACD has nothing to do with this, John," Francesca retorted, picking up her bag and checking inside for her paper spells. There were eight of them – three charged shield spells, a slowing spell, a strong wind spell to push people back. Two spells like Finite Incantatem, which would end a jinx or hex if she was hit with one. A speed spell, for herself so she could run faster. She just hadn't had them in hand at the time, and she shifted them, with trembling fingers, under her bra strap, where they could actually be of help to her. She also knew a bunch of attack runes, if things got more violent, she just hadn't been able to form them in her mind or draw them with her fingers after she had been hit with the stinging hexes. And she had her lightning, but it could kill people, and she hadn't wanted to resort to that, today. "I'm going back to my room."

John sighed, closing his eyes. "I knew this would happen," he muttered, then he stood up. "Come on. I'll walk you back. Your hair looks good."

XXX

Francesca didn't call, that night. She was always prompt, calling him at exactly at eleven his time, and Aldon glanced at his pale green orb, worried. She never missed a planned call – it wasn't as if they spoke every night, but he had to admit that they did speak most nights. He tried to keep it to the ACD, since it was what they had to talk about, and it was already vaguely improper enough that he was speaking to her so late at night. No, she wasn't there with him, but the temptation was always there – to cross boundaries, to talk about the things that they weren't really supposed to talk about together, at least not without her parents' permission.

He wanted to know more about her. Not just the ACD, which was wonderful enough, but he wanted to know more about her. He wanted to ask what classes she took at AIM. He wanted to know why she used paper spells instead of a wand. He wanted to know what she did, other than classes and working on the ACD. He wanted to ask about dance. He wanted to know what else was in that mind of hers, aside from the ACD.

But he didn't think these were things that he should talk with her about, not without her parents' explicit approval. It was difficult, applying the etiquette rules he had learned as a child to the modern era, especially when clearly no one else in his new world seemed to care, but he was pretty sure that the only reason that his talks with Francesca, by communication orb late at night, alone and unsupervised, were acceptable was because they were talking about the ACD. Some of their other interactions had crossed lines too, but those were slightly better, he thought; the closed door at the library had been in a public library, and all their time at Queenscove or Grimmauld Place had been with open doors, with a resident Lord whom, Aldon assumed, would play the role of her guardian at the time. Queenscove even set rules for him – no funny business, he had said.

Communication orb calls were different. Only Aldon would be protecting that boundary, and he tried to be meticulous about it. What would her parents think, otherwise? What about her future betrothed?

He steadfastly ignored the pang of annoyance that the last question always gave him.

Eleven at night came, and it went. It was five after, then ten. Fifteen minutes late, then it was half-twelve. It wasn't like her to be late at all, and Aldon bit his lip, thinking about it, before trying to call her. The connection went both ways, after all, and just because Francesca didn't call him didn't mean that he couldn't try calling her. He reached over to the pale green orb, which glowed at little a night, and triggered it on.

"Francesca?" he asked, a small frown on his face.

There was no response.

Aldon sighed, letting go of the orb and setting it beside his bed. There was little he could do now, if she wasn't there. Instead, he turned in to bed, figuring they would just reschedule until tomorrow. He was disappointed, though – he had made some breakthroughs on the ideal arrangement of the proto-runes, and they had managed to come down on him being the new test subject for a new ACD. He had to tell her the pattern layout, as well as his magical frequency, so she could make the test device and ship it over to him. But it could wait – one day wouldn't make a difference, in the long run. It just wasn't like her, to miss a meeting.

When he woke up, his communication orb buzzing beside him on his bed, it was dark, as dark as it ever really got in London. It was still, quiet, the very early hours in the morning. He reached blindly for the pale green orb, sitting upright.

"Aldon?" Francesca's voice was shy, hesitant, coming out of the orb. "Are you, um, awake?"

"I am now," Aldon couldn't help replying, also reaching for his wand and casting a wordless Tempus charm. After midnight, just past one in the morning. He tried to clear the grogginess out of his voice. "Why, what's wrong?"

"Oh, um," Francesca replied, and Aldon could picture her, almost, looking down at her perfect, pink, pretty nails. It would be near eight at night, for her, and he wondered vaguely what she was wearing. Were her sleeping clothes as casual and relaxed as John's t-shirt and pyjama bottoms that he occasionally saw the boy lounging in over the summer, or did she maybe wear sleeping robes, or even nightgowns—

No, he told himself sternly. He was not imagining that.

"I just wanted to, um, apologize for missing our meeting tonight," Francesca said, her voice soft and embarrassed. "I, um, something came up. I'm sorry, and it won't happen again, Aldon. I'm sorry about waking you up, too, I didn't mean to, I just – um, I wanted to check to see if you were still awake so I could apologize."

"No need," Aldon replied, even as he adjusted himself on his bed so that he was leaning against the headboard. Something was wrong – she had never been late to their meetings before. She had never shown any sign of flippancy or anything of the sort, and there was a plaintive sort of note to her voice that worried him. He shouldn't ask – he should just tell her it was fine, that they would talk tomorrow, but something about that felt equally wrong. If they were in the Slytherin Common Room, for example, he would have felt no compunction about asking. It was just the privacy, the intimacy of this moment that made him hesitate.

Just this once, he told himself. "Er, Francesca, if you don't mind me asking, are you all right?"

A pause, which was more worrying than anything else. "I'm fine," she replied finally, and Aldon didn't need his gift to know that she was lying. Not that his gift was triggering, right now – oh, so it didn't work over communication orb. Since it was a very specific variant of Natural Legilimency, he wasn't surprised. Like John, he probably needed to be around the person, able to see them, to be able to use it fully.

"I…" Aldon paused. Just once. "I don't think you are, Francesca. Would you like to talk about it?"

"No, I—" Francesca laughed a little, but it sounded high-pitched, hysterical. "It's stupid, Aldon, really. I just – I was running late out of my dance practice, so I wasn't as careful as I normally would be."

"What do you mean by that?" Aldon frowned. From what he knew of AIM from Archie, it was an eminently safe place, nothing like the Hogwarts that he had gone to for the past seven years. Even before the Sleeping Sickness, the basilisk, the Tournament, there had been the years of the Cursed Vaults.

Francesca laughed again, a sad sort of sound. "I mean – haven't you wondered? About – about why I don't use a wand? Why I came up with the ACD, why I did research into wandlore and developed the idea of magical frequencies?"

Aldon had wondered, of course. He had never asked, partly because it never seemed appropriate to, and John had explicitly told him that it was none of his business. He paused, thinking over his answer, and decided denying it would be unbelievable. "I have wondered, yes," he replied slowly.

"It's because I don't match with a wand, Aldon." Francesca sighed, heavy, and Aldon could practically feel her breath against his cheek. "I mean – there is a theoretical wand that I should match with, cherry wood and kraken's blood, but…"

"But no one has seen a kraken in hundreds of years," Aldon finished for her, sympathetic. What must that be like, to know that there was a wand that you could match with, but not be able to have it? It probably happened a lot in Wizarding Britain, too, if only because some people couldn't afford the wands they matched with, now – the trade restrictions meant that most of the wandmakers were highly restricted in the kinds of materials they could use, and the rarer the ingredient, the more expensive the wand became. Aldon had been fortunate in his own wand combination – pine and phoenix feather. Wand-quality pine was prevalent in Britain, and phoenix feathers hadn't been affected as strongly by the trade sanctions, since about half the nations in Wizarding Africa didn't recognize the ICW.

He wondered if he should apologize – not for anything he had done, but merely the magical world's failure to provide a wand for her. He didn't think so, because there was nothing wrong with any of the other channelling methods, and he didn't want her to think he felt sorry for her. Thousands of witches and wizards worldwide used paper spells, and the only reason that she felt odd about it was that she happened not to live where most of the rest of them did.

"Yes," Francesca agreed, and there was a moment of silence, before she continued. "With decreasing natural habitats for magical creatures and so on, I won't be the only one – there will come a time, I think, when many creatures we now use for wand cores will be extinct. New methods need to be developed, as flexible and agile as wands. So – I made the ACD. Something as individualized as a wand, that will do all the same things as a wand, quickly and efficiently. So, if – if someone doesn't match with a wand, in the future, it won't be like it was for me."

She was lying, and Aldon knew it. It wasn't only that – that was just what she told people, because the truth wasn't anywhere near so altruistic. The ACD wasn't just an amazing invention and work of love – it was a work of sheer obsession. What fueled obsession? Love worked, but for Francesca, Aldon didn't think that was it.

The ACD was Francesca's revenge on the world, the physical embodiment of her rage and desire and hunger to prove herself to the world that had given her magic, and then deprived her of the tools she needed to harness it the way that everyone around her did. The ACD was how Francesca planned, intentionally or not, on destroying the world and remaking it in her own image, turning it into one that she could fully participate in it, so that she could be everything in it that she wanted to be.

Aldon understood.

"All right," he said, bringing it back to the original question. "You weren't as careful as you normally are. What happened?"

Another pause, another long sigh. "I got attacked," she mumbled, so softly that Aldon barely heard it. "I – normally, I keep my paper spells in a place I can get at them fast, but I was running late from dance practice, so I forgot to take them out of my bag. Some girls got me. They were mad because – because – I don't know. Something about how they like some of the boys in Duelling Club, who pay too much attention to me, I think, and with the paper spells, I don't belong at AIM, they say. They – they kind of – maybe – set me on fire."

Aldon choked, letting go of his communication orb so that she couldn't hear his reaction. They set her on fire? He supposed that fire spells were fairly standard in duelling, he had cast his fair share of them, but it was different casting an Incendio spell at someone who could easily put themselves out with their own wands compared to casting it to someone who didn't have easy means of defending herself. If something like this had happened at Hogwarts, if he had known her then, he would have gone very far out of his way to make her attacker's lives very unpleasant.

"John came, with Faleron and Merric, so they rescued me, and Archie and Hermione patched me up," Francesca was saying, sounding a little embarrassed, though Aldon didn't think she should. He hoped that John was making good on the threats that he had always issued with ease and was wrecking someone's life for this. Several someones. He was sure John wouldn't do it as thoroughly as Aldon might, because John had a deluded sense of fair play and that generally didn't lead to the level of viciousness that Aldon thought her attackers deserved. "Anyway – it's probably getting around school, now, that these girls are probably getting kicked out because of me, and John and Faleron and Kel are probably setting up a guard schedule, and it's – it's really stupid. I'm sorry – I shouldn't have told you all this, it's not your problem. I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry about missing our meeting today."

Aldon swallowed, reaching for his orb. If he was there, he would have volunteered to guard her, too. He wondered who Faleron and Kel were – he had heard the names before, from Archie and Neal, hadn't he? He searched his memories, but he couldn't come up with it. "It's fine, Francesca. I'm – I'm glad you told me. We can talk tomorrow night?"

"I can't, Aldon, I'm sorry," she replied, and her voice broke a little. "I – Faleron said he would drive me to town to get some new clothes, because I had to throw out the clothes I was wearing today, and I need new dance clothes. Because of the burns, and all."

"It's fine," Aldon said quickly, grimacing. "The night after, then."

"Yes, the night after. Sorry, again. And, um, for waking you up with my problems, too. Um, have a good night."

"It's nothing, Francesca. Don't worry about it. Sleep well."

It wasn't nothing. It wasn't nothing, and Aldon was a liar, because with that conversation, the boundary line blurred, and then it was gone.

They talked mostly about the ACD, but they talked about other things, too. She spoke, from time to time, about school – she was in a heavily modified program that focused on magical theory, runic magic, and non-wand methods of channeling magic. She could song-cast, but in terms of magical power, she was weak, below average, so she couldn't do very much with it outside of a group cast. Aldon was impressed that an American school would accommodate her so thoroughly, and with the sheer variety of classes that they had available – there were many more courses than at Hogwarts, the magical theory classes were heavily fought over, and other magical channelling methods were actively taught. It was fascinating.

She talked about dance, sometimes – it was, apparently, a huge part of her life. Magical dance was its own niche competitive form of its own, nowhere near as big as Quodpot or Quidditch or Duelling, but it had its own dedicated followers. She competed, every year, and last year she had picked up a third-place ribbon for her routine to a piece that Aldon had never heard of, called Ride of the Valkyries. She was dancing in the pairs category this year instead, which she didn't sound overly enthusiastic about, but neither did she sound upset about it.

When they talked about the ACD, specifically Aldon's new ACD, she mentioned that she had gotten some very experimental materials from her father. He asked, a little curiously, about her family – her father was a professor at a famous Muggle school called Stanford, while her mother worked in Muggle technology. From what Aldon understood, Francesca's mother occupied a role in her company very much like his own father, the Lord Rosier, with the Rosier Investment Trust. Her mother was the headstrong one of the family – whenever Francesca spoke about her, it was with a mix of admiration, love, and a hint of dread. It was complicated, she said.

She groused about the fact that John had, in fact, set up a guard schedule for her, and there was always someone ready to walk her to breakfast or dinner, to her classes, to and from dance practice. The girls were not expelled, much to Francesca's relief but much to Aldon's consternation, and after that, more often than not, their conversations would be interrupted by someone banging on her door, yelling at her that it was time to go to dinner. Almost always male, Aldon was annoyed to note – there was John, but there was also Merric, and Esmond, and Seaver, and Owen, and Faleron.

Aldon remembered who Faleron was now, not that it was of any use. From what Archie had said, he was one of Francesca's most persistent suitors, and despite being an ocean away, Aldon wondered about him. What was he like? What was his family background like? What resources did he have, what could he offer her?

How did Aldon measure up?

Francesca even talked about Faleron, every so often. Faleron had a car, or rather it was Queenscove's very beat up car which he had signed over to him. He drove her to town to buy things every now and then. In town, he had taken her for burgers and milkshakes. He was in the Duelling Club and had a good track record on the duelling circuit. He had tried out for the Triwizard Tournament last year, making to the top eight of the AIM Trials. He had given her his rice pudding dessert. Aldon could do … well, none of those things.

He shoved that aside. That didn't really matter, did it? He didn't know, so instead he listened to whatever she wanted to talk about. Most of their conversations were still about the ACD, about her hopes and dreams for it, but when the conversation changed, Aldon didn't stop it, anymore.

In return, he told her about Hogwarts, about being a halfblood at Hogwarts, about finding out with his gift when it came alive on his thirteenth birthday. He told her about being noble, what it was like growing up as the Rosier Heir, and then about how life had changed as his blood-status became known, when he was disowned. No one had come around to prosecute him for blood identity theft, though they very well could, but Aldon suspected that was because, as one of Justice's Chosen, the Ministry was worried about what might happen if they did. He talked about his parents, emotionally distant, primarily concerned with the family business, and about how he still, months later, wasn't sure how to relate to Christie, his biological mother. He told her about his best friend, Ed, who would be returning next month from his long honeymoon abroad. Aldon had no idea how his oldest friend would react to Aldon's drastic change in circumstances, and on some level, he didn't want to know. If it was to be outright rejection, he would rather never open that Pandora's Box and find out.

He wasn't supposed to be talking about these things with her. Not just the propriety of talking about these topics, which were growing farther and farther away from the ACD, but – Aldon hadn't talked about some of these things with anyone. Not even Ed, who often knew without Aldon having to say anything, but he didn't talk about these things, and he didn't know what made him talk about these with her. Maybe it was that he saw a bit of himself in her – even if they were very different people, there were certain things that he saw in her that he hadn't seen in anyone, not even in Harriett Potter.

Harriett Potter had hungered for recognition too, but she hadn't raged for it the way that he and Francesca raged. Harriett Potter would break rules to achieve her goals, but she didn't want to break the world, not in the complete and total way that Aldon and Francesca did. Aldon, when he got down to it, wasn't Archie, wasn't Hermione, wasn't Dumbledore. He didn't want to fix Wizarding Britain. He wanted to burn it to the ground, and only when it was ashes did he even want to think about remaking it. Just like Francesca wanted her ACD to take over the world, rewriting the rules of magic as they knew them. One day, in her vision, everyone would have an ACD, and the wand would be only an afterthought, treated just like her paper spells, a source of infinite ridicule.

And the fact that the ACD was something that he was personally fascinated with, as a magical theorist, and that she was the inventor of it, well. Could he be blamed for having more than a purely professional interest?

He blamed himself a little anyway. He was a noble, even if it was only a blood noble. He was supposed to have the self-control to handle this, to keep from breaking these boundaries, but he didn't. He didn't have it, and every time he promised himself that this was the last time, he would be stricter about keeping to the limits of what they should discuss, she would mention something about John, or Faleron, or magical dance or anything, and the promise would be broken, gone, because apparently he had no self-control at all. He was a disgrace.

At least there were other things to keep the extent of his disgrace off his mind, including a certain meeting with a certain Welsh wizard that he hadn't seen since their graduation from Hogwarts. Diggory had set the meeting towards the end of October, and Aldon guessed from the length of time between his letter and the planned meeting that Diggory was setting up some precautions. In turn, Aldon considered what precautions he should take – he was not a dueller, but he took his ritual knife with him anyway. He didn't know much blood magic, but he had read enough that in an emergency, he hoped that maybe something might work. He made a couple paper spells, out of a runes book, pre-charged, and tucked them in the pocket of his waistcoat. That was about the best he could do, so with that, he stepped out of Christie's penthouse apartment, into the emergency stairwell, and Apparated away.

It wasn't that he thought Diggory would attack him. The main concern, truth be told, was that Aldon could never be sure whether Diggory's owl had been tracked and read. He hoped that, if there was an ambush, at least Diggory would be at his side. Diggory was a good dueller.

He appeared in a small copse of trees and glanced around warily. He had never been much for Herbology, so he couldn't identify the trees – they were leafy trees, that much he knew. The leaves were gold and yellow, some of them blanketing the ground, and they reflected the late afternoon sunlight. He took a few steps forward, his wand close to hand, though he hadn't drawn it yet. He didn't want Diggory to think he was there to attack him, but at the same time, he didn't want to be caught flatfooted, either.

There was a whisper of a spell, and Aldon almost smiled, leaning against the nearest tree, letting the wind blow around him. It was a Welsh spell, so it had to be either Diggory, or an ally of Diggory's, which in this circumstance was more likely to be an ally rather than an enemy. It was a second later that Diggory melted out of the trees.

"Good to see you, Diggory," Aldon greeted him, smirking, crossing his arms over his chest. "And how is the Improper Use of Magic Office? How many charges against your countrymen have you made disappear, since you started?"

"None," Diggory replied, visibly relaxing, and motioning for Aldon to follow him. "None at all, because at the time I get to the reports, there haven't been any charges yet. And I'm still a pureblood, so if you report this, my word is legally worth more than yours in a court of law."

Aldon shrugged, following his former classmate deeper into the woods, keeping one eye on the surroundings. They seemed to be alone. "I wasn't planning on it."

"I couldn't be sure." Diggory's voice was cautious, a little curious. "How have you been, Blake?"

"As well as can be expected," Aldon replied, still looking around. Deeper in the woods, the sunlight trickled down less, and it was damper, mossier. It was a little chilly, and he wished he had brought the coat that he had bought, the other day, in the City before work. It had a nice double row of buttons on the front, and he quite liked the look. "I'm working with my biological mother, as well as living with her, and have a number of projects on the go."

Diggory stopped, in a small clearing with a few large, mossy stones, obviously laid there many years ago. He gestured for Aldon to sit down, which Aldon did after only a momentary hesitation. He didn't want the back of his trousers to get dirty, and the stone looked both cold and wet, but when he sat down, he was pleasantly surprised by the heat seeping through the rock.

"This is one of my protected places," Diggory advised, looking around with something like a sigh of relief. "One of my wellsprings of power. It's where I come to commune with the elements, which I have to do on a regular basis to keep accessing Welsh traditional magic."

"I see," Aldon replied, with another look around. There was a little more light in the clearing, and it felt peaceful, still.

"You know, I'm a little surprised at you." Diggory tilted his head, light blue eyes considering. "You're – you were – Aldon Rosier. Dark, SOW Party, noble. Generally, a rich, snobby git who mainly hung out with Edmund Rookwood and Alesana Selwyn, with close connections with other Dark, SOW Party nobles. I don't know what to make of you."

Aldon shrugged, half-smiling. "I'm not sure what to tell you, Diggory. I was all those things – but I was also a halfblood at Hogwarts. I'm also a bastard. I'm also a Truth-Speaker."

"It would make sense if you were a Ministry spy, or a SOW Party infiltrator," Diggory suggested lightly, his voice thoughtful even as his gaze was sharp, considering. He leaned forward, his elbows perched on his knees. "It would be a good move, for you to save your status. You come out as a halfblood, get yourself disowned. That gives you the credibility to approach people like me, undercover. You hand in a few people to the Ministry's justice, and with the Marriage Law passed, you get yourself a good proposal. You marry, and you're legally pureblood again, and probably the Rosier Heir again too. Am I wrong?"

Aldon tilted his head, considering the theory. It was a good one, if it wasn't for a few other minor details. "An interesting hypothesis. Except that I was revealed by summoning Justice for the Arcturus Rigel Black trial, which certainly did not go the way that either the Ministry or the SOW Party wanted. And I knew who Harriett Potter was, long before everyone else. I even swore a blood oath to keep her secrets, in the Triwizard Tournament. How do you explain that?"

Diggory sat up, relaxing, a bright grin spreading across his face. "I don't need to – that's why I brought you here, to one of my wellsprings of power. I have sharper abilities, here. It's not your Truth-Speaking talent, but I can tell that you're relaxed, that you aren't stressed by my questions, which means you're probably not lying. And just as you've pointed out, there have been enough inconsistencies about you over the years, that would make me question your allegiance to the SOW Party anyway. I'll still Obliviate you if you show any sign of being an undercover Ministry agent, mind."

"As you should," Aldon replied agreeably, leaning forward to better look at Diggory. "I would have made me swear. Or take Veritaserum. But you know your magic best. In any case – what can you tell me about Saoirse Riordan?"

"Not that fast, Blake," Diggory replied, a little amused. "First, why do you want to know?"

Aldon paused, looking Diggory over, evaluating the risk quickly. He didn't foresee much risk here – Diggory and his father both worked for the Ministry, but they were in low- and mid-level positions, and he knew well that Diggory engaged in what the Ministry still called dangerous illegal magical practices. That was why he was here, to ask about another group that practiced very similar, if not the same, dangerous illegal magical practices. "Saiorse Riordan is one of Archie's allies," he said slowly, cautiously. "They're, as a group, behind Bridge. As am I, in a roundabout sort of way – I edit, but I am not a regular contributor. And if this makes its way to the Ministry's ears, Diggory, there are spells much worse than Obliviate."

Diggory chuckled. "Empty threat. You're in one of my wellsprings of power, so you couldn't, not here at least. Fortunately for you, I like Bridge, and I'm not about to turn you in."

"It was a risk." Aldon shrugged diffidently. "A calculated one. In any case – Saoirse Riordan? Do you know her?"

"Depends what you mean by know." Diggory shifted his head one way, then the other, in thought. "I've heard of her. I think I have to go back to the beginning to explain things though, do you mind?"

"Not at all." Aldon shook his head. "The more information I have, the better. I'm a greedy bastard, Diggory, haven't you noticed?"

Diggory laughed. "Fine. Then – a history lesson. You know, History of Magic at school was really such a useless class, focusing on things like the goblin rebellions, or the Giant Wars, or the foundation of the International Confederation of Wizards. Not saying that those aren't important areas of study, but they're so specific and niche – they really should be left to later years, to people who are truly interested in the topic. What they should be teaching is the formulation of Wizarding Britain as we know it, with the Conquests, the passage of the Statute of Secrecy, how the Wizengamot works, the things that have a direct impact on us today."

"In my opinion," Aldon replied, resting his chin on one had, elbow propped on his crossed legs, "there is no incentive for anyone in a position of power to ensure that the populace is educated on those very topics. Most noble children are taught the processes of the Wizengamot and its history at home – obviously, it's a bit of a skewed version of our own successes, but what history is not?"

"Well, let me tell you, then, of a history that hasn't been a success." Diggory sighed, looking away. "The Conquest. William the Conqueror brought his men, Muggles and wizards alike, over the English Channel in 1066, and he burned and conquered his way through England. We say it like it's that simple, like it was just that one year, but even in England, it wasn't. Pockets of resistance held out straight through 1070 – Peverell, the bastion of the West, didn't fall until 1068. Ollivander went down that same year, and Queenscove, the last of them, surrendered at the end of 1069. But three places currently part of Wizarding Britain didn't fall, then: Wales, Scotland and Ireland."

Aldon nodded. He knew a bit about that, because Diggory had told them about the Welsh, in the Triwizard Tournament. He didn't know anything about the other two.

"Three Celtic wizarding nations on the Isles." Diggory paused, looking around his grove of trees. "You know, I think a big part of the reason why this history gets suppressed at Hogwarts, is that so much of it is intertwined with Muggle history. Wizards, we like to pretend like we're separate, like we're apart from Muggles, like we always have been. They focus on the parts of history that are obviously magical, like the goblin rebellions and Giant Wars, or they talk about how we were treated by the Muggles around us, like the witch-burnings, because it suits them and it's comforting to think that we're different, that we're better. But really, until the passage of the Statute of Secrecy in 1689, we were just a part of the wider world. Muggle history is very much our history, too."

"You may not be wrong, there," Aldon conceded, tilting his head a little in acknowledgement. "I wouldn't know. You're telling me about Muggle history as well as Wizarding history then, I take it."

"That's right." Diggory looked back at him and sighed, a somewhat sorrowful look on his face. "I told you about Wales. Edward the First of England, also Edward Longshanks, the Hammer of the Scots, defeated Llywelyn ap Gruffudd in 1283, leading to the conquest of Wales. My people – we rebelled, over and over again, through the fifteenth century. As part of their campaigns, they forced us to stop speaking our language, to stop communing with the elements – all of this was intended to strip us of our traditional magical powers, of our birthright. They forced us to go to Hogwarts, where we would adapt to wand use, where we would assimilate, and in Wales, Blake, let me tell you: they succeeded."

Aldon blinked. "But you..."

"I'm one of a very few left." Cedric shrugged. "In Wales, we're counted in dozens, shrinking more every generation, and we're weak. I'm not powerful, as traditional wizards go; none of us are. I'm much better at wand magic, at school magic, than I am at the traditional methods, and it's weaker the farther I get from Wales. I trip over the language, and while the elements listen to me, they laugh at me, they kind of listen to me in a joking sort of way. I don't commune enough with them, so I can't make them do anything specific, they just... well, you saw in the Tournament. They'll help me, but they mostly do what they want."

He held up three fingers, a wry sort of smile on his face as he folded one finger down to two. "And then there were two great Celtic wizarding nations left: Scotland, and Ireland. The Scots – the Scots fought hard. Edward Longshanks became known as the Hammer of the Scots because of his campaigns in Scotland, but the key difference between Wales and Scotland was that the Scots won. They bloody won, and for many years Scottish witches and wizards were allowed to go to Hogwarts as day students, did you know? They would Portkey or fly in every morning and head home every afternoon after classes, blending in wand use with their traditional magic. The Scots... well, they fell for other reasons, political ones, mainly. The Muggle English Queen died in 1603 without heirs, and her closest relation was the King of Scotland, so Muggle England and Scotland became a lot more intertwined. It was only a matter of time before the Wizarding world followed suit. Non-traditional, wand-using mages started moving north, driving traditional Scottish witches and wizards farther into the Highlands. The Scots lost their right to attend Hogwarts as day students, since there wasn't any principled reason for the difference anymore, and over time, they just started assimilating. I can't really tell you much more – the Scots have always been a little apart from us in Wales, with their clans and clan politics and the like."

"Clans?" Aldon frowned, leaning forward in question. He hadn't heard the term. "Er - what clans?"

Diggory grimaced. Something that Diggory wasn't supposed to tell him, or was it something else? Aldon mentally made a note of it. He would need to find out more about the clans, if Diggory didn't tell him.

"The clans…" Diggory shook his head. "Well, they were the traditional rulers of the Scottish witches and wizards. I don't know how big they still are, or how organized, or even how many there still are – a few of the bigger ones were granted nobility and have seats in the Wizengamot, but not all of them. You'll know the MacMillans, the MacLaggens and MacLeods – they're Clan Lairds as well as Lords of the Wizengamot, but they aren't the only ones. You'd have to find a sworn Clan kin to talk to you, Blake – I can't tell you more than that."

"Can't, or won't?" Aldon asked. His gift hadn't triggered, but all that told him was that Diggory believed he couldn't tell him more.

Diggory shot him a wry look. "Can't. I know they exist, but as I said – the clans have little to do with the Welsh. Try Ernest MacMillan, he's a bit pompous, but he's Clan MacMillan."

"He's the undeclared MacMillan Heir," Aldon replied slowly, trying to place the face. Hufflepuff, he remembered. Aldon had never spoken to him.

Diggory shook his head, again. "Clan Lairds," he said, as if that explained everything, and maybe it did. The MacMillans traditionally did not declare their Heirs, and neither did either of other two named families. Indeed, more than once over the last century, the Lordship of those families had passed to people that no one in the nobility expected: cousins, adoptive sons or daughters, nieces and nephews. Even the current Lord MacMillan was apparently only adopted into the family. Aldon would have to think about it more – maybe this wasn't just an odd Scottish tic, maybe there was something else behind it. Diggory sighed, holding up a hand with two fingers, and folding another finger down. "So that's Scotland, and we're down to one – Ireland."

Aldon took a deep breath, putting the matter of Scotland aside for the moment. He would try to write to MacMillan, maybe, but he didn't see any reason why MacMillan would reply. He would think on it further, later. "Ireland. When did Ireland fall, then?"

"The Siege of Kinsale in 1601." Diggory looked away, his face turning up to the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees. "They had been fighting invasions from the English, from the Normans, for a few hundred years before then, but always managed to drive them off. Irish witches and wizards didn't come to Hogwarts until after Kinsale – they were trained at home, with Muggleborns being fostered with wizarding families. They are… to this day, the Irish still rebel regularly, at least once every few decades. The Ministry is harsh there, especially on the language laws. They think, in Wales, in Scotland, that we don't know the old ways anymore, that we're tamed, and maybe they're right. But in Ireland, the traditional ways are still alive, and they're still trying to stamp them out. Being caught speaking Gaelic in Wizarding Ireland, that's a hanging offense – not even the honour of a magical execution. But the Irish still fight, and they're organized, especially in an area they call the Gaeltacht. They call themselves the Tuatha Dé Danaan, or the folk of the goddess Danu. The Tuatha Dé, for short."

"The Tuatha Dé," Aldon repeated, mentally taking note. "And Saoirse Riordan – she's all of sixteen, maybe seventeen. She's one of them?"

Diggory shifted, thinking about it. "More than that, I think," he said finally. "So, about our magic – I've said that I'm a fairly weak traditional wizard, haven't I?"

"You did." Aldon nodded for him to go on. "You don't speak the language often enough and you don't commune with the elements enough?"

"Yes," Diggory confirmed. "Magical power – it's calculated differently, in the traditional ways. For our school magic, there are the colours, Lord-level, Mastery-level, and so on. There's a direct connection between how much magic you have in your core, and the amount of magic you can cast, and core size is at least somewhat genetic. Powerful witches and wizards produce powerful children. Traditional magic doesn't work that way."

Diggory turned, looking at Aldon as his pace picked up, his voice becoming more direct, instead of thoughtful, meandering. "The first thing to know about traditional magic is that there's no relationship between your core size and your power in traditional magic. If you have magic and speak Gaelic, you can start cultivating a relationship with the elements, you can find your own wellsprings of power, and you can start asking the elements to help you. It's not hereditary. The elements, though… it's a relationship, and they just like some people more than others."

"And Saiorse Riordan…?" Aldon prodded.

"Saiorse Riordan isn't very powerful by school magic standards, but she's very powerful by traditional measures," Diggory replied, voice quiet. "She can call on the elements as far away as America, I've heard – I don't think she's just one of the Tuatha Dé. I think she's one of their high priestesses."

Aldon paused, thinking it over slowly. That was useful to know. Saoirse Riordan, then, was someone that he absolutely wanted to keep on Archie's side. She had a position of power, and if the Irish were still rebelling, that meant there was enough of them to rebel. That was good. "How many people are in the Tuatha Dé, do you think?"

Diggory studied him carefully. "Interesting question, Blake. I'm not sure, but more than the Welsh. A few hundred, I would guess. That's all you're getting from me, though. Your turn, I think."

"My turn?" Aldon tilted his head, considering. He very consciously didn't reach for his wand or knife.

"You've joined with Archie, and from what I hear, the new Lord Queenscove, and you're, in a roundabout sort of way, behind Bridge." Diggory smiled slightly, a sharp look in his blue eyes. "Why? What's your end goal?"

Aldon paused, then he half-smiled. He couldn't say burning it all down, but he could come close, without saying so outright. "A complete revolution of Wizarding Britain, I think. Widespread enfranchisement, maybe even eliminating the nobility entirely. Repeal of the blood discrimination laws, every single one of them. Flipping the Ministry upside down. What do you want, Diggory?"

There was a long pause, as Diggory thought about it, and then he smiled. "I want the laws against traditional casting gone," he said. "I want my people to live, Blake. I don't want to watch this slow decline – I want to teach my children Welsh, I want to speak Welsh openly at home every day, I want to send my children to Welsh-language Muggle schools before they start at Hogwarts, and I want to do it without giving up my wizarding status. I want the Cymru to produce traditional witches and wizards as powerful as Saoirse Riordan."

Aldon nodded slowly, considering, then he smirked. "I can try to work that in."

"And if you do, I can try to speak to my countrymen – the ones I know of, anyway." Diggory nodded in reply, then he stood up, stretching. The sun was setting, and it was getting darker, but Diggory didn't seem bothered. "I'll walk you out. The elements might mislead you, otherwise."

"No names, Diggory," Aldon warned him quietly. "Plausible deniability. This conversation never happened. I don't want to know any names."

"Call me Cedric," Diggory replied, with a quick, relaxed smile over his shoulder. "Conspirators should be on first name terms, don't you think?"

If the problem of the Welsh nation were not interesting and intriguing enough, a great, spectral dog appeared in Aldon's office a few days later, when he was working late. His own ACD had just arrived from America, Francesca having asked Faleron to drive her into town so she could airmail it to him in London, and he was looking down at an absolutely beautiful device. He had never seen anything so beautiful – the panel on his ACD was bigger than the one he had seen on John's, covering nearly his entire forearm, but the plastic had been molded for comfort and the whole thing had a blue tint – probably because he had mentioned to Francesca that he liked blue, actually. It was so beautiful, and her letter, with its slanted script, included a diagram to show him where he would need to replace the batteries. She had integrated the microcontroller with his specially designed ward, a fairly simple one of only three woven defensive spells. He was so excited to try it and test how long the cast would hold.

He didn't even see the dog at first, reading and re-reading Francesca's letter, checking for all the smallest details. He had understood it the first time, but he wanted to be sure. And her handwriting was slanted, a different cursive than he had seen before, and there was something about the way she made her fs…

"Aldon." He heard the Lord Black's voice behind him, breaking into his thoughts, and he was up, wand out and turned around before he even realized what had spoken. A Patronus – the Lord Black's. "Er, would you come over to Grimmauld Place? Right now? There's something you ought to see, I think."

The Patronus sat there, waiting for a reply, its silver tongue lolling out of its mouth as it panted. Aldon stared at it. What an unusual request, and it wasn't like the Lord Black to be Patronus-calling him. He would consider himself to be on decent terms with the man, but they weren't close, despite the Lord Black writing to check in on him, every so often. Aldon wasn't sure what to make of these letters, but it would be rude to let them go unanswered, so he wrote back short notes, simply stating that he was fine. A Patronus-call, however, was different. The Lord Black wouldn't call him over for just anything, as oddly as he went about it. "Yes, I'm on my way."

The dog dipped its head, acknowledging the message, then it turned on its tail and disappeared.

Aldon sighed, putting his ACD away in the box that it had come in, with the letter. He could play with it tomorrow, and for now, this puzzle was more intriguing. He reached for his coat, pulling it on, making sure his keycard was in his pocket, and headed out the door.

The City was quiet enough, after working hours, that there were places where Apparition was possible. He did a wide tour of the lobby to his building, eventually choosing a blind spot in the fourth row of elevators. It was a terrible spot, normally, but it was late enough, almost eight at night, and the chances of anyone coming downstairs now was unlikely. He drew a rune for silence in the air, one of the convenient ones that he had used last year on his escapade to break Harriett Potter out of Hogwarts, then Apparated. If he did it quickly enough after the casting of the silence spell, it should, in theory, block the noise of Apparition from sounding. He wasn't sure and needed to test it further, but it was far faster to Apparate than to take the Underground.

He appeared in the shadowed corner close to the gates of Grimmauld Place, and let himself in, ignoring the lime-green English garden snakes that slithered up to him as he always did. Even as a Slytherin, he found the Lord Black's choice of pets to be disconcerting, a little vulgar. He supposed the Lord Black didn't have the space for the more usual pets among the nobility, but English garden snakes, really?

He half-expected the Lord Black to open the door to Grimmauld Place before he even got to the top of the steps, but nothing. He hesitated, then reached to try the door. The Lord Black would have known that Aldon had gotten there when he crossed the wards, so he could consider it an open invitation, he thought.

"Lord Black?" he called out, in the front landing to the townhouse.

"In the kitchen, Aldon! And it's just Sirius, how many times do I have to tell you?"

Aldon heard the sound of laughter, the thud of a mug being set down on the table. Curious, he made his way to the kitchen.

Tobias MacLean, one of Archie's invited allies from the summer, was sitting there. Aldon had resolved, he remembered, to find out what exactly was on the man's arm – he had fidgeted too much at their summer meeting, planning Bridge, to remain inconspicuous. He was laughing, a mug of tea in hand, beside a Ravenclaw girl that he recognized from school.

She had been in his year, which was likely the only reason he remembered her name. He had never spoken to her.

"Cameron," he said, frowning as he pulled a seat out at the table and sat down. "What are you doing here?"

"Blake," she replied with an easy grin, though her voice was a little pointed. She was a redhead, though her hair was wild and frizzy, untamed. "I'm on the hunt for someone to talk to about some certain changes we'd like to see throughout Wizarding Britain. Toby, here, says that Archie Black would be the one to talk to, but given that he's in America and the Clans have sent us now, I am told that I will have to settle for you."

It was as if the world tilted forwards – Aldon went from polite puzzlement to sharp attention. He hadn't devised an appropriate trap for Tobias MacLean yet, or to get Ernest MacMillan to give him certain answers that he wanted. "The Clans, you say?" Aldon leaned forward, aiming to echo her tone – friendly, open, but a little mocking. Time to gamble. "Which ones? Just yours, or a consortium?"

"Ooh, you are good. Who did you get to talk?" Cameron leaned back, stretching her arms over her head, eyebrows raised. "None of mine, I assume. Clan Cameron trains its kin better than that. Bet it was MacLaggen, Cormac's always had a big mouth and no brain. Toby, thoughts?"

"Not my kin." Tobias yawned, seemingly bored. "I'm new to this thing though, Quinn, you know that. I only swore my fealty this summer, but my laird puts me through my paces."

"Winning a place as emissary within six months? That reeks of desperation. You tell the Laird Boyd that, now." Cameron smirked, tucking a frizzy red curl behind her ear. Aldon was tucking pieces of information away as quickly as they spoke. Cameron was emissary of Clan Cameron, while Tobias MacLean had joined, it sounded, Clan Boyd over the summer. And there was Clan MacMillan, Clan MacLaggen, and Clan MacLeod, the three clans whose Lairds also held Wizengamot seats. And the Clans weren't a cohesive whole – Cameron had insulted two already.

"To the contrary, Quinn, I was selected as emissary because I, unlike you, actually know the people in this little conspiracy. I'm better connected than you are, Hogwarts or not. Bet you never exchanged a word with Aldon before today." Tobias looked at Aldon, an invitation on his face to play along, then he blinked and grinned. "Look, Quinn, you gave him more than he knew to begin with. He didn't know about either of our clans before today. Whoever he got the introduction from, it wasn't a Scot."

Aldon scowled good-naturedly, thinking quickly. He wanted as much information out of these two as he could possibly get, without showing that he didn't know much. Three noble clans, and at least two more. Did they ever unite? He should have asked Cedric more. "Really, though. Is it just the two of you, Clans Cameron and Boyd, or are you speaking for a larger consortium, today?"

Did the clans even get along well enough to assign an emissary of one to speak for multiple clans? Cameron had come with Tobias, so as much as they might carp at each other, they had to have alliances at least sometimes. It was a guess.

"It's a good thing we got directions to tell him everything he needs to know, isn't it, Toby?" Cameron laughed, pushing her chair back and standing to give Aldon a very proper curtsey, in the appropriate noble wizarding style. Aldon immediately stood, returning with a bow – only thirty degrees, this time. He wouldn't give an inch today, not even in etiquette. She could remark on it, or not.

She didn't. "Introductions, then. My name is Quinn Cameron, and I am the official emissary of Clan Cameron. Today, I also speak for Clans MacAllister and Ross. And you're Aldon Blake, formerly Rosier, Truth-Speaker. And you know Tobias MacLean, official emissary of Clan Boyd, already. I apologize for him – he hasn't learned any of the formalities, yet."

"My laird finds the formalities to be a useless waste of time." Tobias sighed, fishing around in his pocket, pulling out a bottle of scotch – a good one, Aldon recognized – and setting it on the table. "But he did tell me to give you this, as a sign of our goodwill."

"Lowlanders." Cameron rolled her eyes, sitting back down at the kitchen table. "Not even standing. Rude, Toby."

"Fuck you, Quinn."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance." Aldon interrupted, a little taken aback – Cameron didn't seem to be insulted in the least, merely shrugging it off. "None of the Wizengamot Clan Lairds wished to join, then?"

He wasn't entirely sure what to call them, the three Clan Lairds who also had Wizengamot seats, but he affected their accent anyway. If his ignorance showed, it was a minor point.

Cameron frowned, a dark look coming across her face. "Them," she said, and her voice was cool, a little mocking. "They don't like to play, do they? The system works for them, so the rest of us, we're only so much chaff in the wind. Fortunately, we outnumber them."

"With only four Clans?" Aldon raised an eyebrow. It was a risk – maybe there were only seven clans, in which case his question would only show his ignorance. But if there were more than seven, then it was an inconspicuous and useful way of finding out if there were more. "Cutting it close, aren't we?"

"The McKinnons are thinking it over, still, but they'll come around." Cameron waved a hand casually. "They always do. They're just a little slow – methodical, they call it. Then it'll be us, the five non-noble Clans, against the three noble Clans, just like it always is. One of these days, the Clanmeet is just going to dissolve in flames."

Tobias started laughing, a genuine laugh of good humour. "And somehow, Quinn, you'll be in the middle of it, won't you? I'm just an emissary – I'll be hiding under the table."

Cameron looked at Aldon and the Lord Black, a delighted glint in her eye as she invited them to share in the joke. "Remember this moment for later: when the spells start flying, Clan Boyd is going to be hiding under the table."

The Lord Black burst into laughter, and even Aldon couldn't help a small smile. Toby merely rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't seem to be offended – perhaps he was used to this treatment. "We should get on with it, Quinn. Instead of just telling him things that he clearly already knows."

Cameron sighed, reaching for her mug of tea. "Ach, you're right there. So, Blake – to business! I am here on behalf of the four of the Clans, hopefully soon to be five. We like your ideas about widespread emancipation, and we want to help."

Aldon paused, his core triggering. She was lying, but not entirely. She had told it well enough that if it wasn't for his gift, he would have taken it at face value. "That's not all you want. Tell me the truth, Cameron."

Tobias laughed again. "He is a Truth-Speaker, Quinn."

Cameron, on the other hand, tilted her head and stared at Aldon for a minute or two. Despite the smile on her face, there was something serious in her gaze, an assessing look that Aldon found far more interesting that her thorny jokes. "Well," she said, and her voice was different, slower, more thoughtful as she drew the word out. "That's harder to say, isn't it? We certainly want widespread emancipation – it's a good start, for us. We want a bigger seat for Scotland at the table, and we want more attention paid to Scottish interests. But…"

"But?"

Cameron exchanged a look with Tobias, who nodded solemnly. "Really," she said quietly, "We don't want to be ruled by the Wizengamot at all. We don't want to be a part of Wizarding Britain – we're Scottish, we have always been Scottish, and we want our independence."

Aldon studied her for a minute in return, leaning back in his chair. "How can I possibly offer you that, Cameron, even assuming we achieve widespread emancipation? I don't know what you think we are, but right now, we're a newspaper. A free newspaper of little prestige."

"A free newspaper that's getting attention, in the right places." Cameron corrected, then she quirked a small smile. "Besides, Blake – Bridge is not where this is going to end, is it? You were Aldon Rosier, pureblood, noble. Your father, the Lord Rosier, is known for his ruthlessness in the business sphere, and you've shadowed him for what, two years? Bridge is just a step for you. Widespread emancipation, that's a step for us. Maybe that'll be enough – maybe when we have that, we'll be able to table an act for Scottish independence, and our people will have their say, and maybe that'll be enough."

"Or maybe there's a transition stage, where we're autonomous within the greater Wizarding Britain, almost like Muggle Scotland is now," Toby suggested thoughtfully. "Still part of the Union, but with our own Parliament, our own laws. To be honest, Aldon, we don't know what our independence looks like, yet."

"But we're here on the ground floor because Toby believes in Archie Black, and Archie Black, apparently, believes in you. We're here, offering our help, in the hope that when you achieve what you want, you'll remember and help us in turn." Quinn nodded, serious.

Aldon thought about it for a minute. It was a hard ask, but on the other hand, they weren't asking for a lot, right now. They were gambling, they and the four clans they represented, and he didn't know where things went from here. They had Bridge, but the time wasn't right for anything else. He had some ideas about how the ACD could be used to push things forward too, but for now, it was too early. People didn't care, yet. Archie needed to make people care, he needed to show a sheltered people what they were missing, and he needed to show that what they were missing was worth more than what they had. Bridge was making waves, but it was still too early.

But say he did succeed – say that they did turn the world upside down. He could already see some problems. "Is that what the MacLaggens, MacMillans and MacLeods will say? And what about Hogwarts?"

Cameron shrugged, a little annoyed, but Aldon didn't think it was at him, or anything he had said. "Leave the MacLaggens, the MacMillans and the MacLeods to the Clanmeet. We do outnumber them, and that's a clan matter. As for Hogwarts, you are aware that not every country has its own school, right? In Europe, it's mainly divided by language groups – the Wizarding Nordic Union, for example, send their children to Schwarzenstein in Germany for school. And it isn't as if Hogwarts hasn't existed in a world where students came from different countries before, either, because Hogwarts predates the union of Wizarding Britain. We can work out terms on Hogwarts."

Aldon nodded, letting it go. It was so far away, and if Cameron thought she could deal with the three Clans that also had Wizengamot seats as a clan matter, then he would leave it at that. "Very well," he replied slowly. "What, then, can you offer us?"

"Mainly?" Cameron tilted her head, with a secretive sort of smile. She put her arm on the table, then pulled up her sleeve. Her forearm had four scars, much like oath scars, but tinted a cool blue. Beside her, Tobias sighed, and pulled up his own sleeve – he had only one, but Aldon recognized it for what it was.

Fealty scars. Tobias had chosen his words for a reason, it wasn't simply an odd turn of phrase. No one in the Wizarding Britain did formal fealty oaths anymore, not since the end of the feudal era, not since the days before the Book of Copper, into the time of the Book of Silver – or, he hadn't thought anyone did. It was archaic, brutal, but he saw the utility immediately. It was a blood bind, tying the person to their sworn family, creating a blood link.

"Manpower," Cameron finished, rolling her sleeve back down to cover her scars. "People in the right places. Some of our kin have been passing Bridge on through Hogwarts, through the Ministry – they've also been passing information back to us. We'll provide those to you, too, sources for Bridge."

"They're bigger than you would expect, Aldon," Tobias volunteered, a little unexpectedly, throwing a small grin at Cameron. "Not just Scots. See, the British International Association was always puzzled by the fact that there were no Scottish halfbloods. It was a weird thing – there were Scottish Muggleborns, but no Scottish halfbloods. The answer is that, once blood fealty is sworn, it masks all the standard identification spells – a halfblood or Muggleborn is protected by the blood of their sworn family. I'd read as a Boyd, a pureblood, now."

"We take care of our own, and then some." Cameron sniffed a little, leaning forward a little. "No Scottish witch or wizard needs schooling abroad, not if I have anything to say about it. No British one either, if they can get in contact with us and are willing to swear their fealty, though few outside of Scotland know much about us to do that. But we actively reach out to Scottish-born halfbloods, to the extent we can – not Muggleborns, unfortunately, because even if the Lady Ross can get the names for us, it's a little much to approach Muggle parents and say, oh, but if your child swears fealty to the clan for the rest of their lives, they can go to Hogwarts. Sorry, Toby."

"Ilvermorny was a good school," Tobias shrugged. "No hard feelings, Quinn. So, Aldon – that's what we've been instructed to offer. What say you?"

Aldon thought about it for a few minutes, but there really was little to think about. They were making a gamble, and it sounded like they were taking care of some of the hardest tasks for themselves. There was only benefit for Bridge, for Archie's alliance, if he agreed. They were offering their support, and that was what was important. They could deal with the problem of Scottish independence when they got there. "I agree. I will reach out to Archie, and we'll go from there. In the meantime – tell me the news from Hogwarts and the Ministry. Is there anything important that we should be publishing?"

Quinn smiled, cat-like, blinking blue eyes slowly. "Many things," she said, with a hint of relish. "To begin, Prosecutor Umbridge has proven to be incredibly unpopular at Hogwarts. We'll put together an exposé to you next week – codename, hmm. How about kelpie, in honour of everyone's favourite Scottish kelpie, the Loch Ness monster?"

XXX

Hogwarts wasn't the same without her.

Rigel Black – no, Harry Potter – belonged at Hogwarts with him, beside him. It wasn't that she had ever spoken much, but it was shocking the impact that she had had, as part of their little group, with only her presence. He missed her soft, reserved laughter, he missed walking to classes, between classes, with her on one side and Pansy on the other. He and Pansy did most of the talking, had always done, but Harry had always been there, with them, listening, getting into trouble even as the two of them tried to watch over her. Without her, it was just him and Pansy, more often than not; without her, their group had shrunk, not just to five, but to four. Nott, now, was not welcome at any table that Draco sat at, and their dorm, just Draco and Blaise and Nott, was stone cold, awkward, unfriendly.

But it wasn't just that. It wasn't just that she was missing, the shrunk dorm room with only three beds and disappeared name off the name plate doing nothing to hide her absence; there was more to it than that, and the impact of what she had done, of how her cousin, Archie Black had handled the scandal, and the appearance of a free paper called Bridge spread cracks among their friends that Draco could never have expected.

Theo was no longer a part of their group, but Millicent and Blaise kept more to themselves or to their other friends, too. Millicent, somehow, had become an avid reader of Bridge, finding a source for the paper herself and spending at least one day a week reading it and corroborating it with the week's Daily Prophets. Draco tried to stop her – he tried pointing out all the ways that the new paper, with its strong focus on blood equality and widespread emancipation and promotion of Muggle culture, was ridiculous, obscene, only to be met with a cool, passive, resistance.

"I think it's interesting," she said, not meeting his eyes, when Draco mocked the column on Muggle culture. That day, it was a review of some movie called Babe, about a pig. A pig! Did Muggles really have nothing else to entertain them other than pigs? What was it about movies, which were just moving pictures, that was so interesting, anyway? The Wizarding world had had moving pictures for centuries! But Millicent simply buried her head in the paper, ignoring him.

"In my opinion, the economic analysis provided was very good," she replied calmly, when Draco tried to lampoon the report of how the new trade embargoes put on by Wizarding Canada and Wizarding Australia after the passage of the Marriage Law would affect Wizarding Britain. Canada and Australia were only two small countries – how could they have any impact? And certainly, if the embargoes were important, the Daily Prophet would have focused on them more instead of mentioning them only on page 7, an afterthought to the resounding success of the Marriage Law. Happy couples and announcements had littered the papers all week! But instead, here Millicent was, reading an article written by a nobody who couldn't even put their name on it, merely going by otter. "It isn't going to help the wand shortage – Wizarding Canada provides twenty-eight percent of the world's wandwood, and Billywigs are only found in Australia. I guess Professor Snape will need to find a replacement for Wit-Sharpening Potions in our curriculum this year, and you're going to have to head to France to get any Fizzing Whizzbees."

"Draco, why do you care what I read?" Millicent snapped finally, one day, a Muggle book called Northern Lights open in her hands. It had arrived in the owl post that day, shipped in a package from her uncle at the ICW, disguised as an international relations textbook. She wasn't supposed to have it – Professor Umbridge had banned all literature produced by Muggles or halfbreeds in an edict not even two weeks ago, and yet here Millicent was, running the risk. "I'm enjoying it – isn't that enough? Why do I have to like only the things you like? Why do I need to explain my choices to you?"

"Millie…" Draco tried, his voice almost a little pleading. "I'm just saying, it's banned, and surely there are more worthwhile things—"

"But it's my time I'm wasting, so why should you care?" Millicent blew out an annoyed breath. "I'm going to read in my room. I'll see you later, Draco."

He could have turned her in for it, but he didn't. Even if he was a prefect, and one of Professor Umbridge's favourite students, Millicent was his friend. He didn't know what she thought she was doing, and breaking rules was unlike her, but he wouldn't turn her in for it.

Blaise, too, was unusually crabby. This, Draco thought, had much to do with a certain blonde Hufflepuff, who, while certainly still dating him, wasn't sharing things with him anymore.

"She just… sometimes, she giggles, says she has to go do something, and runs off," Blaise confided, deeply upset, head in hands. "And when I try to go after her, she just… I get her scent, but she's gone. I tracked her to the front gates once, so I think she's sneaking out of school."

"Do you think she is maybe… seeing someone else?" Draco tried, a little hesitant. He didn't want to imagine how that would go – he had images of Vesuvius. Blaise was tetchy about Abbott.

Blaise's eyes flashed, but he stayed calm. "Don't think I haven't considered that, Draco, but no, I don't think that's it. Even if she didn't know what I am to her, which she does since she's from a shifter family, I haven't scented any other men on her. And, believe me, I have checked more than once. And gotten my scent all over her in the process, just in case."

"I didn't need to know that, Blaise, thank you," Draco replied, shaking his head, and Blaise smirked proudly.

Draco suspected that his friend and Abbott were sleeping together now, in contravention of about a dozen school rules and two separate Ministry edicts, put into force by Professor Umbridge. By turns, Blaise would be overjoyed, delighted, on top of the world, then depressed, desperate, yearning. Draco didn't mention it – just like Millicent, Blaise was his friend, and he just hoped that his friend knew what he was doing.

Pansy, too – of all his friends, it was Pansy who had changed the least, but there was still something just a little bit different about her. She kept more of her thoughts to herself now, and he suspected that she was borrowing Millicent's copy of Bridge to read sometimes, because he heard her comment on otter's economic analysis of the new trade sanctions. When Draco brought it up, she merely listened to him, nodded as if she agreed, and changed the subject. She was often worried, now, the feeling echoing off her in endless waves of uncertainty, and he thought she was worried about her marriage prospects. She was still declining marriage proposals, at least one every few weeks, but the pressure was on. She was sixteen, and many of her yearmates had already secured arrangements. Draco, as a boy, could stand to wait a few more years if he wanted, but Pansy could not, especially when her husband would be the next Lord Parkinson.

He knew by now that his father had put in an offer for her, but she was apparently sitting on it. Waiting for what, Draco didn't know. They didn't love each other, not in that sense, but neither of them had dreamed of a love marriage. They suited each other well, and the union would bring benefits for them both. Love could come later, and he was a little concerned that Pansy hadn't mentioned the Malfoy proposal on the table to him. She had to know about it, and it hadn't been declined, and yet she didn't say anything about it to him. And it was too awkward for him, the potential groom, to ask. It was a formal offer – she had to respond formally, and it was improper for him to try to sway her one way or the other at this point.

On top of everything else, there was Professor Umbridge – Prosecutor Umbridge, Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, who had tasked with uncovering the culprit of the Hogwarts Express attack and who seemed determined to pin it, somehow, on the Headmaster. Draco thought that Professor Umbridge was barking mad, but that was a very private view. Certainly, his father had told him not to interfere with Professor Umbridge's investigation, and most of the edicts she issued on a regular basis had nothing to do with him, anyway. Other than the fact that the list delivered to his rooms, for him to enforce as a prefect, grew longer and longer each week.

He glanced over his latest list, his eyes drawn, as usual, to the more ridiculous rules.

Edict No. 1: The Ministry of Magic may, in times of necessity, assign a High Inquisitor to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (hereinafter "Hogwarts"), for the purposes of investigating a crime.

Edict No. 4: Witches and wizards studying at Hogwarts shall not be within six inches of each other.

Edict No. 7: The High Inquisitor shall have the authority to review all extracurricular activities at Hogwarts.

Edict No. 12: The High Inquisitor shall have the authority to detain any students or staff for questioning regarding potential illicit activity, without a warrant.

Edict No. 13: All students and staff shall provide information to the High Inquisitor about suspected unlawful activity.

Edict No. 19: All joke and prank products, regardless of origin, are prohibited.

Edict No. 20: Witches and wizards studying at Hogwarts are not to be within eight inches of each other.

Edict No. 21: Items which are of no educational value are banned.

Edict No. 28: Wizards shall keep their hands outside their cloaks at all times.

Edict No. 31: Students shall maintain proper dress and decorum at all times.

Edict No. 33: Literature written by non-wizards or halfbreeds is prohibited.

Edict No. 38: Correspondence into Hogwarts shall be reviewed by the High Inquisitor prior to delivery for illegal activity and contraband.

Edict No. 39: The High Inquisitor shall have the authority to search the student dormitories for illegal activity and contraband.

For Draco, who rarely bothered to enforce these rules, most of these edicts were an annoyance and little else. He had been questioned once on the Hogwarts Express attack, but Professor Umbridge seemed to be satisfied with his answers and had left it at that. With a formal proposal issued to Pansy, it was only polite that he keep his distance from other witches and wizards, and with Rigel – Harry – gone, there wasn't anyone he wanted to invite closer anyway. He didn't play pranks, so the edict about joke and prank products was completely irrelevant, just as he didn't read any books by Muggles or halfbreeds. He didn't know anyone who did – other than, apparently, Millicent. Whatever the edict might say, Draco's correspondence arrived to him with the Malfoy seal intact and untouched, and his dorm hadn't been searched.

He knew that others hadn't been so lucky. The Weasleys, especially the Weasley Twins, had been hit multiple times, not that it seemed to make much of a difference to them. If anything, they had reacted to the pressure by throwing bigger and better pranks – one day, a portable swamp appeared in the Charms corridor, creating a huge inconvenience for everyone, and another, a series of fireworks, nearly alive, had been thrown throughout the Great Hall. They were clever enough not to be pinned on it, but they were dragged in for questioning by Professor Umbridge at least once a week.

The other Gryffindors fared little better. Ron Weasley had been pulled in for questioning no less than four times, his sister, Ginny, five. Even Longbottom had been questioned twice and had come out of the second time in tears, his hand bleeding. Their dorms were the first ones searched, when Edict No. 39 came into force. The Hufflepuffs, according to Blaise, had been hit too, and Abbott's dorm had been among those searched. Abbott had pulled one of her brief disappearing acts after that, but she had not, to Draco's knowledge, been questioned more than once.

For Draco, indeed, the most annoying part about Professor Umbridge and her Edicts was that his Duelling Club had been disbanded. And then he had been permitted to restart it, but only with conditions.

"Professor Umbridge," he tried, phrasing his argument carefully in his head. "You must understand, we call it the Duelling Club, but on some level, it is only a remedial study group for Defence Against the Dark Arts. We have had five different professors in this area over the past five years; Duelling Club provides us a place where we can practice spells that we need to pass our OWLs. And Defense is critically important, too, for many witches."

Professor Umbridge smiled at him, offering him a bowl of sweets, which Draco politely declined. Her voice was a girlish, condescending simper. "I understand, Mr. Malfoy, but you must understand that, over the past few years, you have committed a crime called unlawful drilling. It is defined as organizing a paramilitary group and engaging in unapproved, military-style training."

Draco's jaw didn't drop, but only because he was too well-bred for it. It wanted to drop. Did she just threaten him?

Professor Umbridge laughed, a high-pitched twitter. "Now, Mr. Malfoy, don't look so concerned! I am willing to overlook the past transgression, so long as you keep to the straight and narrow from now on. I understand the reasoning behind your club, and I agree that it serves a useful purpose, so I will allow you to continue, but I will want some restrictions, young man. I expect you to institute an application process for your club, and I will consider who will be permitted to join. Does that sound fair?"

She had phrased it as a question, but Draco knew perfectly well that it was an ultimatum. He tried protesting anyway.

"But Professor Umbridge, I worry that defeats the purpose of the club," he replied, aiming for a tone of respectful deference. "I would like to help all students who feel like they need help, and everyone should have these skills."

"It's the application process, or it's nothing, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Umbridge replied, with a patronizing sort of smile. "But I will let you formulate the application process."

Draco didn't have any choice but to accept it, so he tried to keep his form as simple as possible: name, House, year. He didn't want to give Professor Umbridge any reason to turn anyone away. If he added Defense grades or Duelling grades, he was worried she would cut off some students who were doing well, and if he added in any sort of free why do you want to join Duelling Club question, he was worried she would cut off students who didn't give the "right" answer.

But it seemed like all his efforts came to nothing. Pansy was permitted to join his club, but all the Weasleys and Longbottom had been rejected. Rookwood and Rosier – well, Blake, Draco supposed – had graduated, but about three-quarters of his beginners over the past few years had been disallowed. What he was left with was himself, Pansy, a few Slytherins in the lower years, a handful of Ravenclaws, and a couple Hufflepuffs. It was nothing like it was before, and Draco didn't enjoy it anywhere near as much. And Rigel – Harry – wasn't there, either.

He could feel the tension in the school increasing as Halloween approached. In his past four years at Hogwarts, Halloween had never passed without something happening, as steady and reliable as receiving a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor each year. He woke up, feeling as though there was a hourglass hanging over his head, and treaded his way almost nervously to the Great Hall.

He didn't have to wait long.

Something was wrong, from the moment he walked in. There was a feeling of harsh fury and pleasure reeking off the House tables – sharpest on the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff Houses, but it echoed off the Ravenclaw and Slytherin House tables too. Professor Umbridge's face, on the Head Table, was a dark thundercloud. If he focused on her, Draco could feel a calculating sort of rage, a cold hate, as she stared down at the students in front of her.

He grimaced, pushing the emotions away, and sat down in his usual spot at the Slytherin table beside Pansy. Pansy was giving off waves of catlike curiosity, while Blaise, across the table where he could keep an eye on Abbott, was worried. Millicent was nowhere to be seen.

"What's going on?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

Pansy blinked at him, giving a small, unusually bright, smile. "Nothing, Drake, nothing at all. Why do you ask? Happy Halloween."

Draco shot her an eminently disbelieving look, but she just glanced down at his empty plate. Eat. They would talk later. It couldn't be clearer if she had shouted it.

He set down to it, but it was difficult – almost as difficult as it had been when his gift had first awakened, when everything had been new, when everyone's emotions had cut like daggers. On the surface, it was the same – students still laughed, wished each other a happy Halloween, chatted about classes and crushes and candy. But underneath, the currents ran – hot, burning anger, roiling hate, vindictive, cruel, pleasure.

Millicent joined them at lunch, but said nothing, her face a cheerful smile as she wished them all a happy Halloween, even as she gave off a feeling of hard satisfaction. Draco threw her an inquiring look, but she ignored him. Blaise, too, was frustrated – Draco had seen Hannah leaving from the Hufflepuff table, laughing and waving Blaise off as he tried to go with her, then disappearing out the wide doors to the Great Hall.

It wasn't until after classes that they holed up in Draco's dorm, Millicent's doe-like brown eyes pausing on Draco for a moment before she pulled out a newspaper, grey-tinged, the title bold, black ink that Draco just knew would come off in his hands.

He scowled at it. "Again with Bridge, Millie?"

She ignored him, holding up the front page to show the headline. RAMPANT RIGHTS VIOLATIONS AT HOGWARTS.

"It's an exposé on Hogwarts – specifically, on Umbridge," Millicent said, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. "A complete list of all the edicts, followed by a written description of the enforcement, with statistics on who is getting stopped and questioned, who is getting searched, and on what basis. There's a legal analysis at the end about the ways that it infringes on our fundamental human rights, especially for the search and seizure edicts. It was printed the day before yesterday, but most of us only got our copies last night or this morning. It's mad – Howlers are probably going to start appearing tomorrow."

Draco stared at the offending paper. It wasn't that he had agreed with the edicts (he hadn't, not in the least), but he had never really thought of them as a violation, something wrong. He knew that the Gryffindors were getting hit hard, then the Hufflepuffs, but he had just accepted it at face value. If they had nothing to hide, what did it matter if they were searched? What did it matter that they were questioned? And anyway, the only people he knew for certain were getting hit hard were the Weasleys, but with all their pranks and with their reputation…

"Who wrote this?" He found himself asking, reaching almost hesitantly for the paper, then dropping his hand away. He didn't want to read it. He didn't want to know what lies (or were they lies?) they were telling. His father had told him to keep his head down, to let Professor Umbridge do her work. He wanted to know what the Daily Prophet was saying.

But the Daily Prophet had spent all summer lying too. About Harry.

"Two new contributors – kelpie and dachshund," Millicent said in reply, shrugging diffidently. "But they're definitely Hogwarts students. The level of detail they provide – someone kept track of who was questioned and where was searched, in detail. That was how they came up with the statistics – forty-six percent of the people questioned were Gryffindors, followed by twenty-nine percent Hufflepuffs. Ravenclaws make up the next seventeen percent, and only eight percent Slytherins. No Slytherin had more than one questioning. It's more damning when you cross-reference with nobility – most nobles skipped out with no questioning, and only Longbottom was questioned twice. Even if twenty percent of the school is noble, less than four percent of the questioning and searches hit nobles. It's a shoddy investigation – there's an argument that it's just a show."

"But that's – that's preposterous," Draco replied, shaking his head, feeling Pansy's cool consideration, Millicent's deep satisfaction, Blaise's gentle interest. "Of course, the investigation is legitimate, even if I think that Umbridge is on the wrong track. I don't know who – I'm not listening to this, Millie. Not even if they can't even put their names to it, you can't take seriously people who won't even put their names behind what they're willing to put in print. I'm not listening to this."

The tall, stocky girl studied at him for a moment, then her eyes narrowed. "The facts are still the facts, Draco, name or no name. I guess, then, that I'll see you later." Her voice was cool, and she folded up her paper, standing up in one smooth, even motion. She headed for the door, checking both ways before she left.

He didn't, actually, see her later. Millicent sat with her friends in Hufflepuff for the Halloween feast, laughing beside a girl that Draco vaguely recognized as Megan Jones in their year, and the minute that Abbott looked over at their table, smiling brightly at Blaise, he was gone. It was just him and Pansy, Pansy and him, and the empty spots beside them that should have held their friends.

The next morning was worse – he woke up, he went to breakfast, and Millicent was gone. Pansy's face was pale, her lower lip trembling.

"Professor Snape came and fetched her around three in the morning," she said, keeping her voice quiet. "Her uncle's house – there was a fire. It's been burned to the ground."

"That's awful, Pans," Draco replied, feeling her genuine shock over it, with an overlying tint of something else – worry, because that was ever-present with her now, but also something almost like a question. "What happened? How did it breach the wards, and what about the containment spells?"

Pansy only shook her head. "I don't know. No one knows, yet. But her aunt, her cousins …"

Draco sucked in a breath. "No."

"They didn't make it out."

The Daily Prophet called it an accident – a Potions accident, most likely. A potion had been left to simmer overnight and unexpectedly exploded, catching the rest of the house on fire. It had acted as an accelerant, and the usual containment spells preventing fire from spreading had failed. Perhaps it had been too long since those spells were renewed, or perhaps something in the potion interfered with the proper functioning of the spells. They weren't entirely sure, but it was awful, a terrible, unforeseen tragedy. Pansy took charge of organizing a gift of flowers and condolences for Millicent, who was away the next week with her family, for the funerals.

But the next week, Bridge published an investigative piece, co-written by otter, chimaera, and kelpie. They said it wasn't an accident. It wasn't just a tragedy – it was arson. Someone had disengaged the usual spells, both the spells to inhibit fire and the alarm spells that should have alerted Madam Bulstrode to the problem. Someone had spread an accelerant over the house; someone had set the fire and watched the house burn to the ground, killing everyone inside.

Someone had thrown an eerie, green, skull-and-serpent symbol into the sky, over the steaming ruins of the Bulstrode manor, over the bodies of Millicent's aunt and her cousins.

Bridge didn't stop there. Instead, they drew comparisons over four separate incidents: the strike on the Quidditch World Cup, the kidnappings in the final Triwizard game, the attack on the Hogwarts Express, and the Bulstrode Mansion fire. Three of the four incidents had the same symbol, the same green skull-and-serpent, flying high. The pamphlets thrown over the Quidditch World Cup and on the Hogwarts Express had some of the same turns of phrase, the same overall message. The people seen at the Hogwarts train attack wore the same masks as the people who had kidnapped Harry at the final Triwizard game. And the Bulstrodes – one of the themes hit hardest by the tract thrown on the train was Wizarding Britain's debasement before the ICW, and it was none other than Sir Philip Bulstrode, Wizarding Britain's Ambassador to the ICW, Millicent's uncle, who was responsible for it. And, with the recent trade embargoes, the recent condemnation statements, the timing made sense.

Despite his inclinations, Draco read the article. He went out of his way to do it, borrowing a copy from Blaise, which he had gotten from Abbott. And it was a good piece.

It was a good, convincing, piece, and Draco hated that it almost seemed to make more sense than the Daily Prophet's lines. But it didn't make more sense – there were differences, between all the attacks. The Quidditch World Cup had been so long ago, almost a full year before the Triwizard Tournament final, and the two events were so completely unlike each other in character. The train attack, obviously it was made to look like the first attack, but the differences in the tone and style in of the two pamphlets was palpable, and the time in between the incidents was so long, it was more likely to be a copycat incident. And there was no real evidence that the fire at the Bulstrode mansion had been anything except a horrible, horrifying accident. Nothing but a flaming symbol, one that anyone could draw in illusion magic, dangling over the ruins of the mansion, a huge, macabre joke of a sign. Draco, if he looked it up, could probably mimic that illusion spell too.

It didn't make more sense.

And that was exactly why Professor Umbridge passed Edict No. 46: Any student found in possession of the newspaper Bridge will be expelled.

XXX

AN: FYI if you are reading this within the first 3 hours of me posting, it is still my birthday! Hooray! Thank you everyone last time for the reviews, which have similarly been passed to meek_bookworm, who also celebrated a birthday this week! Moving on, after this chapter, every time Chess says "I can take care of myself" etc, I say "You let yourself get set on fire." And those of you who read the memorandum of law in Flashes now know what Penelope is hiding. Thanks as per usual to meek_bookworm and various subject matter experts! Please leave me a comment or review letting me know your thoughts!

Next chapter: Go on alone, 'cause I won't follow / This isn't giving up, no this is letting go / Out with the old dreams I've borrowed / The path I carve from here on out will be my own (This is Letting Go, by Rise Against)