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.

10. Chapter 10

Aldon stared at the great horned owl: grey, ruffled, with great yellow eyes and large tufts of feathers over ears. It was huge, looking odd balanced precariously as it was on the thin, delicate railing of Christie's balcony, its talons making dents in her decorative trellis pattern. Aldon wondered, offhand, if he should repair the balcony railing for her – he probably should. She wouldn't say anything if he didn't, but a Reparo was so easy to cast, and he did want to be a good houseguest.

She would tell him that he wasn't a houseguest, that this was his home, as long as he needed it to be, but Aldon had never felt comfortable in her space. They didn't work the same hours, exactly – since Aldon had to work with Francesca, five hours behind him in America, he tended to go in around noon and stay until dinner, to compensate for his late-night meetings. They didn't eat dinner together, usually, though Christie always made sure something was still left in the refrigerator for Aldon when he came back. She could often be found reading a novel or watching television in the living room, and on occasion he would join her, eating in awkward silence while listening to the mystery shows that she apparently loved. Sometimes, they talked – odd, stilted conversations where Aldon never really knew what to say.

His day had been fine. Yes, he was enjoying his work. He loved working on the ACD. The penthouse was comfortable, and no, he didn't mind that it was much smaller than Rosier Place. Even at Rosier Place, it wasn't as if he had used their dozens of rooms, and his bedroom was fine. No, he didn't need to redecorate, it was perfectly fine. He didn't mind that Christie couldn't cook, he couldn't cook either, and no, he didn't feel the lack of a home-cooked meal. Ordering takeaway was fine, when his former nurse-elf, Ummi, couldn't come by with a meal. He hadn't tried most of the food she had ordered before, but he was making an effort to be open-minded. He didn't know what to think of Indian food, which would always come with connotations of being possessed for him, but he liked a lot of Chinese food. He hated sushi – he hated the feeling of raw fish in his mouth, and he would happily spend the rest of his life avoiding it.

The owl sitting on the railing stared at him balefully, blinking, shoving its leg forward at him insistently. Aldon sighed. He was just avoiding the inevitable, because he knew that owl. It was Ed's owl, and the letter attached to it, sealed with the Selwyn crest, was from his oldest and closest friend. And Aldon didn't want to know what it said. He didn't want to know. He would be content never knowing, because if it was rejection, he would rather keep the memories he had, the good ones, pure and unspoilt.

But the owl was here, and it was Ed's owl, and it had carried him a letter, and it wouldn't go until Aldon took it. And, knowing Ed, Ed had probably instructed it to peck him until he read it, or some such. Ed knew him too well.

Aldon reached out with hesitant fingers, untying the scarlet ribbon that held the tiny scroll of parchment. It was short, but Ed's missives had never been long. Between the two of them, Aldon had generally been the talkative one, the one who had written scrolls of letters – Ed's replies had always been simple, to the point, sharing little about himself. Ed was his best friend, and Ed let him hang around him for five years before starting at Hogwarts, let him hover around him their entire years at Hogwarts, but on some level, Aldon had always worried. Ed was his best friend, but there was so little showing him that he was Ed's best friend. Only the fact that Ed had made him best man at his wedding, really, and some days, Aldon would even wonder about that. Aldon was noble, and Ed had not been noble, and maybe Aldon was just a convenient noble friend that Ed didn't mind having around.

Friendships were easier as Aldon Blake. Aldon didn't worry that people looked at him and only saw the Rosier Heir, a source of power and connections, not the person lying beneath it. He knew that Queenscove genuinely liked him, even if they still called each other by their last names only and pretended like they didn't like each other at all. He knew that his co-workers genuinely liked him, a very belated eighteenth birthday cake appearing on his desk not too long ago at work, with no warning whatsoever. He even guessed that Francesca liked him, as a friend, because she wouldn't tell him things about herself the way she did unless she trusted him. She had a thirty percent sole interest in the ACD project, while Aldon shared his seventy percent with the entirety of Blake & Associates, so there was no reason for her to talk to him about anything except the ACD unless she saw him as a friend.

He looked at the owl, which was impatiently ruffling its feathers, an unspoken command for him to open the letter and read it, already.

"What would you do if I just walked inside, right now?" Aldon asked it, staring down at the giant bird. A Great Horned Owl was big, and as light as its bones were, Aldon wasn't sure if he would win a tussle with it. It had a sharp beak and sharper talons. And he liked this waistcoat. It was a dark burgundy, with a smooth satin feeling, and he would hate to have it savaged.

It hooted at him and flapped its wings. It would come after him, Aldon thought that meant. It had its instructions, and Ed had always been good with creatures.

Hell. "Fine," Aldon muttered, then he cracked open the seal. The red Selwyn seal – perhaps, a not-so-subtle reminder from his oldest friend that the tides had turned, and now Ed was the one who was noble, and Aldon was not?

The letter was short, even by Ed's standards.

Aldon,

Leaky Cauldron. Noon. Tuesday.

Edmund Rookwood.

Osti de criss, Aldon found himself thinking. Queenscove had taught him the basics of Quebecois profanity, in a lengthy lecture that Aldon was convinced he been given largely to avoid the lesson of the day, which had been on formal dinner etiquette. Not that Queenscove had been invited to any formal dinner parties yet, nor had he hosted a formal dinner party, but it was something he needed to know. Aldon had listened for half an hour, because it was rather interesting, before forcing Queenscove to focus and study the set dinner table in front of him. Then, to make up for the half hour's diversion on the intricacies of swearing, he had quizzed Queenscove at length about seating charts, much to Lady Queenscove's amusement.

He ran through his schedule in his mind – Tuesday at noon, that was fine, they didn't have a group meeting scheduled with Francesca that day. Group meetings were normally at noon, or seven in the morning her time, though he would probably be talking to Francesca on Monday night until at least midnight, if not a little later. He usually slept around one, these days, waking up around nine. He supposed he could wake up a little earlier, head into work at maybe nine-thirty or ten before going to meet Ed. It was doable.

He looked up, ready to tell the owl that it could go, but it had already disappeared. No return message needed or expected, apparently. Aldon frowned a little – well, Ed wouldn't know that Aldon didn't have his own owl, but Aldon could have been busy, and he didn't like treading into Diagon Alley, these days. It was risky, wizarding areas, with the Marriage Law, Christie had taken to ensuring that only Muggleborns were sent to pick up the post from their Diagon Alley office.

But the Leaky Cauldron was on the edge of the two worlds, and Aldon couldn't think of anywhere better, not that Ed would be able to get to easily. He thought there was a coffee shop close to the Leaky Cauldron, but Ed would probably stand out too much, if he was even willing to step into the Muggle world to get there. He shook his head – what a difference even a few months had made. Aldon would never be quite as natural, or as comfortable, as Archie, or John, or Queenscove in the Muggle world, but he was fine. He knew how to dress appropriately, he understood how to get around, how to order food and generally blend in. But Ed likely didn't, so the Leaky Cauldron it would have to be. Aldon supposed that he could always Silencio anyone who attempted to get a formal proposal of marriage to him, or Incendio the papers before they could be handed to him, before making a run for it. Thank god he was a legal adult and any formal proposals of marriage would need to be made directly to him.

He would have to do something about the Marriage Law, sooner rather than later – avoiding the public wizarding areas was becoming a nuisance. Overthrowing the law was his eventual plan, of course, but until then he would need some other method of preventing proposals. There had to be some way to make himself such an inappropriate marriage partner that no one would dare propose to him. A reputation for ruthlessness or cruelty, maybe? No one would want to engage their children to someone with a reputation for cruelty. Or maybe he should break several more etiquette rules somehow, somewhere. He'd have think on it later.

He mentioned the meeting to Francesca, Monday night, after they had finished working on the ACD. Francesca had set his ACD to flash the proto-runic sequence for his three-spell ward with half a second per rune, but they were trying to pare down the time. She had managed to talk Aldon through cracking open his own device – Aldon was extremely careful about his ACD and refused to do anything unless he understood her instructions exactly.

"Which screw am I looking at?" he asked, staring at the back of his ACD. There were eight tiny silver screws, from what he could see, and he had a tiny screwdriver in his right hand, which he felt very discomfited by. "Which one do I unscrew first?"

"It doesn't matter, just pick one."

"But what if I break it?"

"Then I'll fix it for you." Francesca's voice held a bit of a laugh. "Aldon, just crack it open! You need to get at the variable resistor to adjust the timing of the proto-runes."

"I wish you were here," he grumbled back at the communication orb, before he realized what he was saying and flushed, embarrassed. He hadn't meant it that way – or did he? He wanted her in Britain, certainly, and he even wanted her beside him, right now, helping him open his ACD to adjust the timing of the proto-rune sequence, but he didn't mean it… or, well, he did, but he hadn't meant it like that when he said it. He imagined, for the briefest of seconds, Francesca sitting here beside him, laughing at him while he struggled with his ACD. Her face would be bright, shining, in her amusement, and that smile…

"Well, I'm still in school," Francesca replied, with a bit of a sigh, and Aldon pushed the thought away, deciding to let his comment go rather than trying to take it back. She wasn't offended. Instead, he picked one of the tiny silver screws and started working on it – without magic. "You'll just have to manage. Do you have it open yet?"

It took him the rest of the hour to open the ACD, pull out the microcontroller, connect it to his new laptop and adjust the timing of the program that Francesca had sent to him yesterday from town. Aldon had an email account now, which was simultaneously frightening and fascinating at the same time.

Well, technically, he had two email accounts, one through Blake & Associates and the other for Bridge, but no one need know about the second one. He wasn't a writer for the paper, only one of the final reviewers, and it was his job, as hawk, to help ensure that they didn't cross so many lines as to be an easy target for sedition charges by the Ministry, were they ever caught, not that he thought that was likely. There were dozens of protections built into the paper: pseudonyms, secrecy of the individual writers and the paper's locations even from each other, the use of Muggle email entirely under their pseudonyms to ensure anonymity. Only when the paper was printed did the article become tangible, otherwise everything was done and saved electronically. Between code names, the intense secrecy, and the use of Muggle technology, he hoped it would be enough to keep any Ministry investigation stymied for a good, long while.

And Aldon had to admit that he liked email. Instantaneous communication was remarkably convenient. Francesca had just sent him this program for the ACD yesterday, and it had appeared in his email not even two minutes later. He could hardly help but be impressed.

Francesca's code was beautiful and elegant, not that Aldon had any experience with these things. But it had to be, because she was beautiful and elegant, and he couldn't imagine that anything she created would be any different. She had documented her code throughout to tell him what every line meant and did, for which Aldon was endlessly thankful as he scanned through the jumble of words, numbers, symbols, looking for the variable that would control the timing of the proto-rune flashes. They were looking for the point where the spell failed, where the proto-runes weren't visible enough for long enough for Aldon's magic to react. Half a second worked perfectly fine, and with the ward-spell that Aldon had chosen, that meant it was about a minute to respond; if they pared it down by a tenth of a second each, that would cut the timing down to about forty-eight seconds. At the end, after having changed one variable in the code, 0.4 instead of a 0.5, and putting the ACD back together, he sighed deeply in relief when he flicked the ACD on and it came to life, the lights shining through in a blur of symbols.

"It's still working. It's fine," he reported to Francesca, on the other end of the communication orb. He glanced at the clock, prominent on the wall in the area of Christie's penthouse he referred to as the dining area, since it wasn't really a room, it was just a space with a dining table. It was just past midnight, and he was surprised that no one had come to fetch Francesca yet.

She laughed, a soft, bubbly sort of noise. "Of course, it's still working. You weren't doing anything that would break it. I have a few minutes before dinner, since the Duelling Club is finishing later today; how are you, Aldon?"

Aldon paused, as he always did. He shouldn't.

But she was used to that. If there was nothing, if there was really, truly, nothing, then he always just said so. He had nothing to think about, then. "What is it, Aldon?"

Aldon sighed, making a small noise of disagreement, then clearing his throat. He was an absolute disgrace. "Ed reached out to me."

"That's good, isn't it?" A pause. He had told her about Ed before – more than he had really said about Ed to anyone. She knew that he was Aldon's oldest friend, his best friend, and that he had been on his honeymoon abroad for months. She knew that Aldon had been the best man at his wedding. She knew that Aldon hadn't told Ed anything about what he was planning on doing, when he reached out to Archie. She knew that Ed had been away, the entire time when Aldon's life had turned upside down, when Aldon had been disowned by his family. She knew that Aldon worried about his friend's reaction when he returned. "Reaching out means that he still wants to have a… connection with you, right?"

Aldon thought about it, a few minutes, before replying. Francesca would be there, waiting for him to gather his thoughts. He liked that, about her – he liked the comfort of her silence. It wasn't like with Ed, where he had often felt the need to fill the air with something, with meaningless conversation. He didn't need to chatter at Francesca.

He packed up his ACD in the meantime, closing the lid of his laptop and putting away his other tools in a case for them, putting them in a neat pile for him to take to work tomorrow. Only when that was done did he reply.

"His letter was short," he said slowly, finally, picking up his communication orb to take to his room. "It said, and I quote: Aldon. Leaky Cauldron. Noon. Tuesday. Then his owl took off, so I couldn't even respond."

Aldon swore that he could hear her frown, as he padded through the common area of Christie's penthouse, turning off the lights as he went – mostly American-style light crystals, for these ones. Francesca's voice, when she spoke, was soft, a little concerned. "That seems a little… rude?"

"Ed was never much with words," Aldon admitted, turning into his bedroom and dropping onto his bed. "But – it was short, even for him. I think he's angry."

Francesca didn't reply, but Aldon didn't worry about that. His orb wasn't quite silent, because if he listened very carefully, he could hear her breathing, the sound of her just being there with him, accepting whatever he wanted to tell her. She would listen until he was finished, without interrupting, just being present. He liked that. He liked her, possibly more that he had ever liked anyone, and he was a complete and utter disgrace. He had nothing to offer her, he reminded himself, as he often did. She deserved better. But he found himself talking anyway.

"I don't want to meet him, but I do, at the same time. I don't – I've never been good with Ed, when he's been angry with me. There was a reason why I – why I made sure he was out of the country before I started ruining my life," Aldon continued, lying back on his bed and setting the communication orb beside him. There was a little depression in his pillow where he usually left the orb, because Aldon was a humiliating embarrassment to himself. "But I – I have to see him. Because it would be rude if I didn't, and I just – I can't say no. Not to Ed. I—"

He fell silent for another minute, his voice going even quieter. He had never admitted this to anyone, not even himself, not so bluntly. It had always been there, but he had never really said so, not out loud. He didn't know why he was telling this to her, of all people. Or maybe he did, and it was because she listened, because whatever he would say, she would simply accept it without any hint of judgement. "I – I think I loved him. As more than a friend, I mean."

There was silence from the orb, then a small sigh. "You know, I – John." She paused, and Aldon thought she was looking for words, but she didn't really need to say it. Aldon could already guess. "There's no one like John in the world, so – so one reason I never really dated anyone is that there's no one like him. I – I don't – he's gay, so it's not like it would have gone anywhere even if it had been anything, and I like Gerry, too. Gerry is good for him, it's just—" She fell silent, and Aldon wondered if she might be blushing.

"Ed married our friend Alice in June." Aldon sighed, a long and heavy breath. "They had been together for years before that. But even before that, it isn't that I ever expected anything – it's unfashionable in Wizarding Britain, but since we were old enough to know such things, Ed has always been very openly and exclusively heterosexual, so I knew my feelings would never come to anything. But I can't say no to him, Francesca."

Francesca laughed a little, a sad sort of sound. "And all the men I like are gay, so I understand. I really – I really have to stop doing that, falling for gay ones, I mean." Aldon heard a shout from her end of the communication orb, a male voice – this one he didn't recognize very well, but it wasn't John and it wasn't Faleron, either, who had a distinctive accent. She blew out a breath, one that Aldon imagined he could feel on his cheek. "I – I have to go. You know how they get, when I argue with them. Tell me how it goes, Aldon. Have a good night."

Aldon wished her a good night in reply, before falling back in his bed, leaving the orb in the small dip in his pillow beside him, where he could hear her voice almost whispering in his ear sometimes, when he was especially shameful. Which seemed to be always, now, because it seemed that he had no ability to resist his own impulses, not when it came to Francesca. And now it half past midnight, and he should be up no later than eight, to get in to work for nine, and then he'd have to run out no later than eleven-thirty to face Ed. He needed to change into his sleeping clothes, then sleep what few hours he could, first.

He couldn't sleep. Or, rather, he felt like he hadn't slept all night, even though he had to have slept at least a few hours. He remembered, that night, was lying awake, the ever-present light pollution of London bleeding into his room until he got too annoyed and threw a blackout spell at his curtains. Then he remembered lying awake, comfortable and warm in his bed, but somehow still unable to fall asleep. His mind was too busy, even in the darkness, even in the comfort and warmth. He remembered rolling over, changing positions, none of them truly better than the last. By the time his wand buzzed, at eight in the morning, it felt like an inevitability. He was already awake, and the buzzing of his wand was only telling him that he needed to rise. Rise, go to his wardrobe, and pick out his clothes for the day.

Black, today, he thought grimly. But not entirely black – he would go with his brilliant, royal blue waistcoat, which contrasted quite nicely with his black shirt and trousers. He fixed his hair quickly (a good thing about his new hairstyle was that it didn't take anywhere near as long to arrange), heading out of his bedroom.

"You're up early," Christie said, with a tentative smile, looking up from her book, her plate of toast, her mug. "You, er, you should have said something. I would have made more coffee."

"It's fine, Christie, please," Aldon replied, with a small, somewhat awkward smile of his own. "I can – I know how to work the coffee machine, now. I just have a meeting at lunch today, with a friend, so I have to leave around eleven-thirty so – I'll be back in the office by two, I imagine."

Christie nodded, a small frown marring her face. "You don't have to justify yourself to me, Aldon – you work hard, and I know you were up late again on the ACD project. You could have taken the morning off, just come in after your lunch meeting."

"But there are the other projects to look at too." Aldon looked away, sliding two slices of home-baked bread, made by his nurse-elf, into the Muggle toaster. Ummi had always made the best bread. "I can't let the other projects slide, even if the ACD is my favourite one. I want to have the analysis on the proposed runic amendments on Ryu's new broomstick project to him today."

"All right." Christie bit her lip, thinking. Aldon did that too – Alice used to make fun of him for it, all through studying for his OWLs. "Don't overwork yourself, sweetheart."

It was actually a little past eleven-thirty that Aldon ran out of the office – he had gotten caught up in broomwork diagrams, which were always a headache. The Firebolt Broom Company, one of Blake & Associates' most lucrative clients, wanted to increase their broom acceleration speeds, which Aldon privately thought was a little needless. There was only so much jerk a human body could take – at some point they would need to bring a Healer in to figure out the safest speed they could accelerate a human body from stationary, beyond which more improvement was pointless.

Speaking of which, hadn't Hermione or Archie mentioned someone? A British Muggleborn a few years ahead of them, now working in Boston – the top Spell Damage student at AIM a few years ago, who had wanted to come home to Britain but been unable to find a job at St. Mungo's? He'd have to think about it – perhaps whoever it was would be interested in a consulting job.

He ran for the Underground – he would have to hurry, and he fished around in his pocket for one of the finicky little tokens as he ran. He would have to get more of those soon, he was always running out of them. From where he was, Bank Station, he could transfer at Tottenham Court Road for Leicester Square Station, the closest station to the Leaky Cauldron, but balancing the time of the transfer as compared to just bolting the slightly longer distance from Tottenham Court Road directly to the Leaky Cauldron, it would probably be faster if he just got off at Tottenham Court. Even if it was raining. It always rained, in London.

He was only a few minutes late, running one hand through his hair to shake out the excess water – at least his coat, even if it looked like wool, had some sort of protective coating on top that slicked away water. It wasn't magic, but sometimes it felt like it. What was it that Archie would quote sometimes, here and there? Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Whoever said it, he was more right than he knew.

Ed was already there, sitting in a booth, and Aldon spotted him immediately. There would always be some part of Aldon that had a sensor for Ed – his shape, his form, his face was burned into Aldon's memories. He wasn't alone – Alice was there, too. Alice was always there, wasn't she? She was always there, and Aldon was left on the outside. He shouldn't have been surprised, and yet he was. He had thought that this would be a private discussion, between him and his oldest friend.

He studied Ed for a moment – his friend was well dressed, in green robes, fitted well to highlight his broad shoulders, which Aldon had always loved. Alice, too, was as beautiful as ever, her eyeliner thick around stunning blue eyes, her robes a dark red, trimmed in gold. They looked handsome, magical – the perfect picture of a wizarding noble couple.

Aldon didn't look like that anymore. He didn't wear robes, anymore – after Justice was through with him, and after months of wearing Muggle clothing, putting on robes only reminded him of being possessed, of draining people of their magic, of ripping out souls and tearing lives apart. Justice always thought they deserved it, but Aldon, being very much a criminal by the standards of the society in which he lived, was less sure. He preferred to avoid remembering, if he could, and when did he have time to wear robes anyway, living as he did primarily in the Muggle world? And Francesca didn't like robes. They swallowed anyone built on a smaller frame, she said, herself and Aldon included. Clothes should fit – clothes should highlight people's best features, not just be a statement in and of themselves.

Aldon took a deep breath, reminded himself that he looked good, and slid into the booth across from them. They stared at him – the visual change was, just as he had planned so many months ago, enormous. His hair was damp, from the rain, a lot shorter than it used to be, and he was in Muggle dress. He took off his coat, sending it floating with a quickly drawn wind rune to the closest free hook, and tugged his waistcoat down to sit properly on his body.

"Edmund. Alice. How was your honeymoon?" he asked, his voice an effort at levity as he caught the eye of their waitress, a slight, blonde, waif-like teenager. Not long out of Hogwarts, if she had even gone to Hogwarts. He didn't think she had – he would have recognized her, otherwise. "The shepherd's pie, please. Oh, I forgot, do you take pounds? I'm sorry, I forgot to bring any Galleons this morning, and I only have pounds. I haven't had the chance to change monies in some time, anyway."

"Pounds will be fine, Mr. Blake," the girl said, the light of recognition in her blue eyes as she came to their table. "If you would like, we can exchange some funds for you? I can send one of the boys to Gringotts."

"No, no," Aldon replied, smiling gratefully at her. "I don't get into wizarding areas much anymore. But if you could warn me about any, er, potential, er…"

"I'll see to it that you're not disturbed." The girl nodded briskly. "The shepherd's pie for you, then. Sir, madam?"

There was a short pause. "The shepherd's pie will be fine," Ed said finally, his gravelly voice low. "Thank you."

The waitress nodded and walked away, heading to the kitchen to call out their orders. Aldon sighed, turning back to his friends. His once friends, maybe? Or would they still be his friends now?

"You're late," Alice said, her voice blunt.

"My apologies." Aldon inclined his head slightly, painstakingly polite. "I was a little tardy coming from the office, and the Underground was not cooperative."

"Why didn't you just Apparate?" Alice frowned in reply. "Whatever your blood, you are a wizard."

Aldon raised an eyebrow, both at her tone and at her mention of his blood-status. Was it really necessary to remind him of it? He set it aside, for the moment, keeping both his face and his tone impassive. "Have you tried to find a clear space to Apparate from the City? It's impossible at this hour. A million Muggles work in the City, it would be breaking the Statute of Secrecy to even try, and of course our offices are well warded against Apparition. The Underground serves well enough."

Ed and Alice exchanged glances, one that Aldon didn't need to think to comprehend. Aldon was not the person they remembered – Aldon was no longer a Rosier, and he was no longer noble. He was no longer a pureblood, or rather he had never been, but no one save Ed had known. That was as much as they could have known, coming into the meeting.

And here Aldon sat, across from them, his hair short and damp, wearing Muggle clothes. Here Aldon was, asking questions about whether he could pay for his lunch in Muggle money instead of Galleons, talking about taking the London Underground. The changes weren't just surface deep, and his friends didn't know how to deal with it.

Aldon didn't know how to deal with it either – how to deal with them, now that they sat together on the other side of the table, a yawning expanse that somehow felt much larger than two or three feet of wood. The waitress returned with water, setting three glasses down on the table.

"Nothing stronger, Aldon?" Ed asked, expressionless, but with a hint of concern in his eyes. The silence was awkward.

"Didn't you threaten to put me in St. Mungo's yourself if you caught me with a drink?" Aldon replied, a little teasing, reaching for his glass of water.

"I did, but with the past few months…" Ed's eyes dropped down to Aldon's clothes, again. At one time, Aldon would have delighted in that look, even if it didn't mean anything. But now, that look only made him cringe, a little – it was a look of concern, and Aldon didn't know how to take that.

Aldon had changed over the past few months. He had started changing before that, not that Ed had known, because Aldon had actively hidden his thoughts from his best friend. And even if Aldon's choices over the past few months had led to the loss of his status, his prestige, and his place in society, he had also gained something. He hadn't lied, months ago, when Queenscove had asked – before, he had always been afraid of what would happen if anyone found out, he had lived in a state of paralyzing fear and dread. Now that it had come out, though, he felt as though he had been set free. The worst had already happened, so what need did he have of fear?

And there were good things, in his new world. Even if he didn't know how to talk to Christie, not really, he had no doubt that, for whatever reason, she loved him and cared about him in a way that his own parents had never loved or cared for him. She tried, and even if it didn't feel natural to him, he tried too. He didn't understand television very well, nor the television shows that she loved, but he liked watching the news. He liked trying to figure out how his new world worked. There was his laptop, his email, and the Internet, which let him communicate with both Bridge correspondents and Francesca in a handful of minutes instead of waiting hours or days for Owl Post. There was the ACD, which had the potential to completely revolutionize spellcasting.

There was Archie, whom Aldon knew had greatly smoothed his transition into living in the Muggle world, all under the guise of getting him ready for a birthday party. There was John, who had mailed him a stack of Occlumency textbooks from America with a note to work on his shields, and there was Queenscove, who paid him a staggering amount of money every month for what was really not an onerous task and taught him how to swear like the Quebecois. And there was Francesca, determined Francesca, passionate Muggleborn Francesca who, just like Aldon, wanted to destroy the world as they knew it.

"The past few months," Aldon said agreeably, his voice non-committal, raising his glass of water to his lips again. He wasn't sure what else to say. "They happened."

"Aldon, what have you done with yourself?" Alice hissed, leaning forward towards him in their booth, keeping her voice down. "We were gone for five months. Only five months! And we come back, and you've destroyed your life! What's wrong with you? Even if you knew you were a halfblood, why put yourself in this position? Why do this to yourself? If you'd just kept your head down, no one would have ever known, no one would have noticed. And instead, you go and stick your neck out on the line for someone who has nothing to do with us and look at what happened!"

Aldon took a breath and blinked, tilting his head to consider her. Her tone was harsh, but that was only her shock speaking. She had always reacted to the unknown and to surprises with harsh words, he reminded himself, words that she didn't always mean, and he tried to keep that in mind as he struggled to formulate a response.

He supposed that, from her perspective, it might look like he had done something entirely nonsensical. He glanced at Ed, whose face only showed concern, no anger or annoyance. Ed knew him better – Ed had known he was a halfblood for years, Ed had followed him into the Tournament. Ed knew he was changing, even if he hadn't known where it led.

And where it led was here, a crack in the road between them that could turn into an impasse, or not. He took a deep breath, picking his words carefully. "Alice, I am grateful that you don't consider me to be lesser because of my blood-status, but I did it because the laws themselves are wrong," he replied coolly. "I don't accept that I should be valued any less highly because of what I was born – and I don't accept that I ought to hide my blood-status in order to engage in society on the same basis as everyone else. It was a risk."

"A risk that didn't pay off." Alice blew out an angry breath, rolling her eyes. "Well, at least with the Marriage Law, this is easily fixed. It shouldn't be too hard to find someone with status to marry you, and then Edmund and I can work on getting you reinstated as the Rosier Heir. You won't have to hide your blood-status then."

Aldon froze, a few seconds before he reminded himself that Alice had been, until his blood status came out, a second cousin, that Ed was his oldest friend, and they had not lived these past few months with him. And that he needed to breathe. "Thank you for the thought, Alice, but no, thank you. I will be fine."

"Aldon, the new law works in your favour," Ed cut in, his words slow even if he seemed as much taken aback as anything else. "You've… you've never been romantic, Aldon, you've always been pragmatic. I know it's not ideal, but it is a simple solution. And if you're open to it, it's less likely that you'll be trapped into a marriage anyway by the no-refusals clause."

"One assumes it is a solution that I want," Aldon snapped, before he could stop himself. "It isn't. Believe it or not, I have considered it, and there is a reason I have been avoiding wizarding areas of late."

Ed and Alice exchanged another look, and Aldon took the time to wrestle himself under control. He shouldn't have said that. He should have found other ways to politely decline. He took another deep breath, flashing a quick smile at their waitress as she came back with three plates of shepherd's pie.

"My apologies. Why don't we talk about something else?" He suggested, pulling out his cutlery to dig into the mix of mashed potatoes, lamb and vegetables. Queenscove said that, in Quebec, shepherd's pie was called pâtés chinoises, which Aldon thought was rather subtly racist. Somehow. "Tell me about your grand tour around the world. Did you see all the creatures you wanted to see?"

"I'd rather not," Alice replied, her brilliant blue eyes narrowed in a sharp frown. "We're not leaving this be, Aldon, not when you're acting so completely unlike yourself, when you're acting against your own best interests. Have you gone insane? If not marriage, what will you do?"

Aldon took a bite of his shepherd's pie, as much for something to do as anything else. The shepherd's pie was good, and he was paying for it, so he might as well eat it. And it provided a welcome distraction, something that he could look at other than his disapproving friends. "I have a job, Alice. You had one too, I recall, at least until you married. I work quite a lot. I have something like friends, and I am learning to live in the Muggle world, which has its points of interest. Life has been interesting, even if it hasn't been easy."

Alice opened her mouth, then closed it. By her expression, the way Ed looked at her, and the fact that Aldon couldn't see Ed's left hand under the table, he guessed that there had been some signal for Alice to stop, to let Ed deal with him. Aldon would have much preferred this conversation to remain a quiet one between himself and Ed alone, without Alice there.

"You cannot tell me that you are satisfied with that, Aldon," Ed replied, in his low mountain's voice. "I know you. You would never be satisfied to sit on the loss of your status."

"I never said I was," Aldon replied easily, looking his old friend in the eye. "But I find that I am… uninterested in an easy solution, one that works for me and few others. The world is a bigger place than I knew, Edmund, and I cannot help but want more – more than a marriage of convenience, more than swallowing the looks that that people will inevitably give me because I am not pure, regardless of whether I will be considered a legal pureblood by reason of marriage or not. I want more, and I am unwilling to settle, to play by the rules that have I been given."

Another silence, another concerned stare, before Alice spoke up again, her harsh words underlaid with worry. "You sound like that paper. The new one."

That was probably true, Aldon acknowledged. As one of the final editors, he really did have a hand in how many of the articles ultimately sounded. But he also couldn't admit, not even to his oldest friends, that he had anything to do with it. Of anyone in the correspondent network, Aldon had the most likely guesses for the identities of the others.

He was hawk, while either Derrick or Isran was chimaera. Simba was obviously Archie, while otter was his loud, outspoken girlfriend, Hermione Granger. Kelpie stood in for Cameron's network of clan kin at Hogwarts, the Ministry, and elsewhere – he didn't know names, but guessed it included well over a dozen people. And dachshund had to be either Percy Weasley or Susan Bones – both had the legal background for it. If anyone had to remain under the radar, it was Aldon.

Fortunately, he had an answer. "It's a good paper, isn't it?" he replied idly, spooning some of the mashed potatoes. "I read it every week – it's easier for me to get than the Daily Prophet. I quite like it. The analysis, especially of current events, is excellent."

Ed shot him a disbelieving look. Aldon hadn't really expected Ed to believe that he would sit on the sidelines after throwing himself into the Triwizard Tournament, but Ed had nothing he could drag him before the Ministry for – if the Ministry even dared. One advantage of being Justice's Chosen was that Aldon thought the Ministry was afraid of what might happen if they tried to charge him. He would encourage that impression, as much as he could.

Alice opened her mouth, and closed it again when Ed shot her a look.

"What now, then, Aldon, if not marriage?" His oldest friend kept his voice even, non-judgemental – if Alice wasn't there beside him, her face an open book of horror as Aldon kept talking, he might even have believed it. "What are you planning?"

Aldon shrugged, turning back to his shepherd's pie. "I plan to keep working," he said calmly, diffidently. "I plan on supporting any efforts for widespread emancipation and the complete and total repeal of all the blood discrimination laws. I plan on falling in love on my terms, marrying on my terms. I plan on living, Edmund. It's better to live on your feet than it is to die on your knees – or, perhaps, it is better to die on your feet than it is to live on your knees."

"You're mad," Alice said, her voice trembling. "You're utterly mad, and we should drag you into St. Mungo's right now to get your head checked out. I don't understand what's gotten into you – this is a problem with a straightforward solution, and you're not taking it. You'll be in a better position to advocate for the things you do care about if you have your status back. We care about you, Aldon, even if you're a halfblood."

Aldon paused, a forkful of shepherd's pie halfway to his mouth. He glanced at Ed, looking to see if his oldest friend agreed with his wife. Ed wasn't looking at him, instead focused on his plate, and his expression was wooden. In his eyes, though, Aldon thought he saw confusion, concern, consternation, a million things – but none of them were understanding. None of them were quiet support for him, for Aldon, for his oldest friend.

He had seen this ending from the minute he had stepped in, hadn't he? Ed would never be swayed from Alice – Ed was a newly-minted noble, and he had actively played by the rules of the game to join the system that Aldon now wanted to destroy. Aldon had never been able to come between Ed and Alice before, so why would now be any different?

"Well," Aldon said, his voice clipped even to his own ears, feeling the impasse growing between them. He set his fork back down on his plate. "I find I am no longer hungry, and I really must get back to work, it's a half-hour's commute back to the City. My apologies for cutting this short. I'll see you later."

He threw the last sentence out there without any real hope or expectation at all – it was a polite ending, but he would not be reaching out to them, nor did he expect that they would be reaching out to him again. He summoned his coat, went to the bar and paid for the meal, for all their meals just because it would be an insult to the wizarding nobility to have a halfblood non-noble paying for them as if they couldn't afford it themselves, in Muggle money to boot, and had the rest of his plate packed in a takeaway container. The food was good, and if he took this with him, he wouldn't have to run out for dinner later that night. He waited by the counter, ignoring the looks that his oldest friends were throwing at him, accepted the paper container holding his leftovers, and disappeared back onto the streets of Muggle London.

They cared about him, even if he was a halfblood.

Aldon walked briskly back to the Underground station at Tottenham Court Road, dodging Muggles as they passed by him on the street, trying to keep under the awnings lying over shops, over stalls. The rain was cold, unpleasant, but somehow fitting, and he was warm in his Muggle coat that slicked water away, though he had no idea how or why. Maybe it was fleece, that material that Archie sometimes went on about, and not pure wool. It seemed to be warm enough, even without the integrated warming charm Archie thought fleece needed.

They still cared about him, even if he was a halfblood. As if caring for him despite his blood status was a gift, a personal favour to him, as if the past decade or more had meant little in light of the overwhelming fact of his blood-status, his disownment, his new social status. He had always wondered, hadn't he? How much of his friendships were real, when everything else was stripped away? And now he knew.

He polished off his analysis of the runes in Ryu's new racing broom project within a couple hours, noting that the runic sequence would probably work but recommending they bring in a Healer to consult, then he threw himself into the ACD for the rest of the day. He checked with Albert, on the tests the Charms researcher was developing to fix on magical frequency, then he ran through a series of experiments on the timing for his ward. It still worked – a fifth of their time shaved off, and the spell still worked. He took his ACD apart again, carefully checking and cross-checking against Francesca's drawn diagram, then he reprogrammed it to shave off another tenth of a second per rune. A thirty-six second cast ward, if it worked. All of it was enough, keeping him busy, keeping him from thinking too much about his lunchtime meeting or the people he had once called his friends, at least until he called Francesca late that night.

"It – it didn't go well," he told her, lying in bed, her ACD on his arm, one hand casually holding his communication orb on his chest. He stared up at the ceiling, examining the yellow-grey light that always flickered in from the outside. "Ed brought his wife. And they…"

She didn't speak. She just listened, waiting for Aldon to find his words. It wasn't that they were angry, not really. Well, Alice was angry, but Alice reacted to most things out of her control with anger. Ed wasn't angry, but he was worried, and he didn't understand the choices that Aldon was making. Aldon didn't even think he could understand, not really – not Ed who played by the rules, Ed the social climber, Ed who had married into the nobility.

"Well, I suppose things have changed," he said finally, rolling over slightly to face the pale green orb more comfortably. Their magic did combine to make such a pretty colour – Aldon's a pale blue, and Francesca's cherry-blossom pink, and together they made a faded, delicate green, the colour of dried lemongrass. "They didn't understand. They wanted me to marry up, to take advantage of the Marriage Law. A halfblood married to a pureblood gains the rights of a legal pureblood, and in their view, that solves everything."

"Oh, Aldon." Francesca's sigh said so much more, and he laughed a little. Even after sneaking glances at her books and checking out the same titles to read in deserted corners of the library, Francesca's romantic streak continually surprised him. He didn't understand it, but he found it rather cute, so he didn't try.

"It's not so bad as that," he replied with a smile, even if he knew she couldn't see it. "I mean – arranged marriages are usual, in Wizarding Britain. I expected one too, before – well, before. Someone tolerable, I hoped. Ed and Alice were lucky enough to care for each other before they became engaged, with their families' approval, but – well, Ed wasn't noble, and Alice's family needed money. It was a good political match, and they were lucky. Most of us aren't so lucky. Love comes later, they say."

A silence, for a minute, but it was a different kind of silence. Aldon didn't know how he knew that, but this wasn't Francesca's waiting silence, but her thinking silence – there had to be something in her breathing, in the pattern, that changed, or maybe she changed how she sat, when she was thinking.

"I think I can kind of understand," she said slowly, her words shy and hesitant. "In my culture – I mean, I suppose my parents' culture – that's a little more common. It's not the norm, but my mother – well, when she wasn't married at twenty-seven, my grandparents were really freaked out, and they tried to introduce her to people. When I go back, too, it's, well, it's different. Once, I went to a wedding..."

Her voice trailed off, and Aldon curled up on the bed, tugging one of his oversized pillows farther down, almost to hug it instead of resting on it. She was still holding onto her connection, the tenuous connection that stretched across the Atlantic, because Aldon could hear her soft breathing. "And?"

Aldon was not as patient as Francesca was, when they told each other stories about themselves. Francesca waited – Francesca was happy waiting for Aldon to organize his thoughts and hand them to her, polished and perfect on a platter, while Aldon wanted her stories raw, unpolished, full of her stutters and flaws. It wasn't that she stuttered, exactly – it was that she cut herself off, she stopped and she started and Aldon thought that every broken piece of thought was precious.

"The wedding was at home, in California, actually," she said, though Aldon wasn't sure how that was relevant. "We were invited because the groom's mother – she babysat me until I was four, and I guess – I guess she wanted to see me. It was a little weird, everyone kept talking about how much I had grown, how much bigger I was, but – but I was fourteen, by then, it had been a decade, so of course I had grown?"

Aldon laughed, a soft chuckle that didn't really sound like him – but then, he didn't often laugh because he found things funny. When he laughed, it was often sharp, mocking, a little cruel, but he didn't want to be cruel to her. "And then?"

"It was, um, the usual Chinese wedding. Red and gold everywhere, ten-course Cantonese meal with all the rice and noodles at the end so no one can finish it. I didn't know anyone except my parents and my mother was doing that thing, you know—"

"What thing?" Aldon had his guesses, but there were so many things that Francesca's mother did that he wasn't sure which one she had meant.

"The look at how perfect my daughter is thing, so I'm wearing this little black dress and bra that adds two cup sizes while she talks about how great I am in that backhanded way, like oh, you're so lucky that your son is at home to help you, Francesca is away at that boarding school all year when she knows perfectly well that the guy failed out of San Jose State and – well, anyway." Francesca paused, taking a breath. "That's not important. The weird part came during the speeches, at the end, when the sister of the groom starts telling us all this story and I realize – the bride is a mail order bride."

"A… what, sorry?" Aldon asked, a little confused. The words made sense, but how on earth did one order a bride by mail?

"Oh, it's a thing, where if you can't find a wife you can sort of, um, import one? From a poorer country?" Francesca's voice was hesitant, but a little scornful. "It's really – I don't like it. It – it feels like profiting off the desperate. But I shouldn't – I shouldn't really have said that she was one, she really wasn't. But it was like – the groom's sister said that this wedding could have happened five years ago, if only the groom had gone to Vietnam when they told him to – to go meet her. They were both in their late twenties, early thirties, at the time. And then, I guess because he didn't go, she came to California, and then I guess – I don't know. Six months later, they're getting married. I suppose it's not – it's not quite an arranged marriage, but it's close?"

"That sounds very arranged to me, if somewhat informal." Aldon laughed again, rolling back onto his back, careful to keep one hand on the communication link. "They specifically said he should meet her, then they arranged the meeting, and then they got married."

There was a pause from Francesca's end, and he glanced over at his orb. That was her thinking silence, not her waiting silence. "Francesca?"

"I wouldn't do it," she said, unusually clear and blunt. "I wouldn't want anyone to make that choice for me. I would rather be alone with my ACD and my romance novels forever than have someone else make such a fundamental choice for me."

Aldon smiled, looking back up at his ceiling. "Now – I wouldn't either. I would like to think that I can do better than settling for someone who is just tolerable. You're a bad influence, Francesca – you and Archie both."

She giggled, and the sound felt nice, in his ear.

XXX

Archie stared at the letter, which enclosed an invitation. It was a different sort of invitation than he was used to seeing. He had not really expected an invitation to the SOW Party Gala this year – he wasn't Harry, bosom friends with Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, Heirs to prominent SOW Party families both. He wasn't Harry, brilliant, magically powerful, likely Neutral. He was Archie Black, Healer-in-Training at the American Institute of Magic, openly fighting against pureblood supremacy, recently stripped of his Family's gift, as Light as they came. Dad, too, had rejoined Light politics, throwing both the Black and Potter votes against the Marriage Law, not that it mattered when five Light faction seats, including the Longbottoms, had turned. Archie hadn't been able to believe it, when he saw the voting lists published in Bridge.

I know what you're thinking, Archie, but it isn't the first time the Longbottoms have voted against the Light, Dad had written, in one of his letters. They're impoverished and struggling, and Lady Augusta Longbottom is most interested in ensuring that their noble line continues, preferably with an injection of money. They aren't for pureblood supremacy, but they also don't have any halfbloods among their number – we've always counted on Lily to bring a human face to the issue for them, and to give them just enough hope not to turn on us as they did in 1981. If you're in contact with Harry, Arch, tell her the Longbottoms offered – I declined it on the basis of your supposed engagement, but that will only go so far with them. Tell her if she returns, she should avoid Lady Longbottom at all costs – and Neville, just to be sure. I also managed to turn down about eight other offers for her, but I had to spin a bit of a story saying that I was waiting for you to come to your senses – sorry about that.

Archie didn't care. Dad could say whatever he needed to turn down Harry's marriage offers that she couldn't turn down herself. As long as he wouldn't actually be forced to marry Harry, and as long as he could terminate the fake betrothal quickly and easily when he was ready to propose to Hermione in a few years, Archie was fine with it. Hermione was less than happy about Archie's on-paper betrothal, but she had accepted it – begrudgingly, unwillingly, but she had. There were lines she wouldn't cross while the betrothal existed, being anything beyond kissing, but so long as she was there, beside him, Archie could live with the boundaries she set.

The invitation, though. He turned it over in his fingers. It was purple, embossed in gold, from the Ministry of Magic itself. The backing of the envelope had an elegant cut-out pattern, lace in paper form, and Archie was careful as he pulled it open.

The words on the page, black, sparkled with glitter charms. Arcturus Rigel Black, cordially invited to the Unity Ball hosted by the Ministry of Magic… demonstration of the unity of Wizarding Britain… proceeds to be donated to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies.

Archie raised an eyebrow at the price. Fifty Galleons per person? That was a lot – Harry had paid around that much each month for her rent in the Lower Alleys, though Archie guessed that her apartment had not been very expensive, as things went. But the proceeds would go to St. Mungo's, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. It was different, and through experience, he was wary of anything the Ministry did that was different.

He glanced down at his letter from Dad, but Dad only said that he had received an invitation too, and that they should talk. Archie stared at the line for a minute, frowning, before he realized what it meant. There were things Dad didn't say, and perhaps his owls were still being monitored. But they needed to talk, and Archie knew how they could do it. Chess had a communication link with Aldon, something about her ACD project, and as long as they had the two of them there, they could talk, without the risk of their plans being heard by the Ministry.

Even with that in mind, he nearly missed her as she prepared to leave from dance practice.

"Sorry!" he called over his shoulder at Evin, whom he was rehearsing with for the moment, hopping off the stage and making a mad dash for his friend. "I'll be right back – Chess! No, Chess, I need to talk to you!"

She turned around, swinging a black leather messenger bag over her shoulder, pulling a wad of paper spells from the zippered pocket on the top flap. "What is it, Archie? I'm running a bit late for my meeting with Aldon…"

"Aldon will wait for you." Archie smiled, a little amused – Francesca talked about Aldon every now and then, the slightest spark in her eyes as she did, and Archie thought she might have a bit of a crush on the older boy. But there had also been a hint of something else in the past week or so, something almost like resignation, disappointment, a bit of sadness, and he wondered. "I just wanted to say, I need to talk to Dad. And maybe Al, too, but we need to use your comm link. Could you mention it to him, organize something for, I don't know, this weekend?"

Francesca nodded, though she had a bit of a frown. She tugged at the collar of her shirt, sliding her paper spells inside. "What for, if you don't mind me asking? If he asks?"

"Ministry Unity Ball," Archie replied, shaking his head. "I don't know what to make of the invitation, and I need to talk to Dad about it."

"Oh, that – Aldon got one too, a few days ago," Francesca replied, her expression clearing, tilting her head in consideration. "He's convinced the invitation is a ploy to trap him with the Marriage Law. I'll talk to him and we'll organise something. Saturday?"

"Yeah, Saturday works. In the morning? I have to file some reports for Bridge." Archie glanced back at his troupe-mates, spotting Evin tapping a foot, arms crossed in exaggerated annoyance. "I have to get back to rehearsal – thanks!"

Francesca nodded again, waving awkwardly at him and skipping out of the auditorium.

Archie waited impatiently until Saturday, which was a whole three days away – it had been months since he had heard Dad's voice, and even if he knew that he had gone longer without seeing Dad, without hearing from him, without the ruse in place he missed Dad more than he ever had before. They wrote often, as often as Archie had always written to Aunt Lily and Uncle James, but it just wasn't the same as hearing his voice, being able to talk without the Ministry possibly reading all their mail. Archie's letters were reserved for the things that were light, the sort of thing that any kid wrote home about, like the food, the town nearby, Archie's role in the school play. They couldn't write about the Marriage Law, not really, nor most political things, if only because Archie was pretty sure his thoughts on most of it would get him arrested. Again.

Fortunately, Francesca had talked Aldon into having the meeting at nine in the morning their time, or two in the afternoon in Britain. He was excited all through breakfast, polishing off his eggs and bacon and toast in record time, then bouncing into the meeting room that Hermione had booked for them a full fifteen minutes early. The last fifteen minutes positively crawled by, with Archie shifting position in his chair every thirty seconds or so, waiting. It was fourteen minutes to go, then thirteen minutes until he could hear Dad's voice, then twelve…

Francesca and John showed up exactly on time, John levitating a tray of tea.

"So?" Archie said, perking up, eager as Francesca rolled her eyes. She reached into her messenger bag, pulling out a pale green orb, which glowed softly. "Dad! Dad, are you there?"

"And there's Archie," he heard Aldon's voice grumble from the orb. "I also have Neal, here. This is a good time for us to discuss the situation more generally; a good deal has happened on our end, over the past few months. You've been following along in Bridge, no doubt, but there's more – quite a lot more."

"That you haven't mentioned to us, Aldon?" Dad said, his voice a mix of annoyance and amusement. Archie could almost picture Dad's face when he said it, too.

"I wasn't sure of the need, Lord Black," Aldon replied bluntly. "And when would I have done so?"

"You could have come over anytime, Aldon," Dad replied, with a bit of a sigh. "And it's Sirius, how many times do I have to tell you?"

"Sirius, if there's one thing I have figured out about Aldon in the past few months, it's that you need to threaten him into telling you anything." That was Neal, and Archie couldn't help but grin – it had been so long since he had heard from Neal, too! "Or bribe him. Both work, but the bribing gets hard on your pocketbook after awhile."

"How's the nobility treating you, Neal?" John asked, with a wide grin of his own, leaning forward to talk into the orb. "How's the Wizengamot?"

"Câlissez the Wizengamot," Neal replied, his voice resigned. "I want to die every time I walk in there. Better yet, I want to stab seventy-five percent of the people in the room. I bet if I had my cousin with me, she would help. Fei is into that kind of thing, her room at Queenscove is stocked with weapons, and she would love the chance to use them. How's Duelling Club, John? Kel's going to win the tournament again, but any rising up and comers?"

"Owen's getting pretty good," John reported with a bit of a grin. "He'll break top sixteen this year, maybe even top eight. Fal's aiming for a podium finish this year, though Kel still demolishes him, but he might make it."

"A top three AIM finish would be great, though," Neal mused, his voice thoughtful from the other end. "We haven't managed that since the Alanna days. Mom yelled at Graeme for weeks about not making a podium finish in his sixth year. It was awesome."

"Can we get to the purpose of this conversation?" Aldon's voice cut in, some mix of annoyed and bored. "I do have better things than to sit here and enable a conversation about duelling, namely, teaching Queenscove how to write proper formal correspondence so I don't have to dictate his letters for him."

Archie heard Neal groaning and swearing in the background, but Aldon plowed on as if Neal had said nothing. "Francesca, who do you have on your end, other than Archie and John?"

Aldon's voice was subtly softer when he addressed Chess, and Archie's eyebrows went up. He glanced at John, who had a slight frown on his face, and shook his head very slightly. Chess herself had a tiny smile as she held up the pale green communication orb.

"Only Hermione," she reported. "So, it's Archie, John, Hermione and I here, and you, Sirius, and Neal there. Is that right?"

"That's right," Aldon said, and there was a pause, the sound of some shuffling on the other end of the connection, as if someone was shifting some papers around. "So, Bridge. I am unsure of what you've heard about the public reception?"

"Not much at all." Hermione scowled as she leaned forwards towards the communication link. "Because you haven't been telling us anything."

"You certainly haven't asked, either," Aldon replied, and Archie could almost picture him smirking. "Not as yourself, not even as otter. When would I have the chance?"

"You could have made time," Hermione snapped.

"I'll book it in between my two income-earning jobs, along with reviewing Bridge before it is printed so that, in the unlikely event that any of you are arrested, they have a much harder time convicting you of anything, and networking on your behalf, then." Aldon's voice was bored, even a little contemptuous, as if Hermione's response had been completely unreasonable. Hermione glared at the orb, pressing her lips together tightly, and Archie reached out to pat her on the shoulder.

She glanced at Archie, scowling. An upper-class, patronizing asshat, she mouthed to him, and Archie hid a laugh, shaking his head, while John snorted.

He's kind of funny, though, Archie mouthed back, with a slight grin. Take it on the chin, 'Mione.

Hermione rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.

"In any case, Bridge is making a huge impact, in the right corners," Aldon was saying, having dropped the contempt from his voice. "We have support from at least four of the Scottish clans at the moment, as well as a promise of support from Wales, assuming my contact there pulls through – and you can thank me later for recruiting kelpie. We've also been banned at Hogwarts."

"Banned at Hogwarts?" Archie repeated, leaning forwards, looking down at the orb and frowning. "Aldon, aren't you supposed to keep things like this from happening? We need to be getting into Hogwarts, building support for the cause—"

There was a sharp bark of laughter from the other end, and even Hermione seemed to be smiling as she poked him to stop him talking. "No, that's excellent, Archie," she breathed, turning to him. "That means people who weren't reading it before will be reading it now, and people who were reading it before are more committed. Banning something will just make people more curious, especially in the atmosphere that kelpie reports, when it sounds like more than half the school is already up in arms!"

"Hermione is right," Aldon said, and he didn't even sound begrudging about it, only amused. "Speaking of which, Archie, I wonder if you might reach out to Riordan, at Ilvermorny? I'm not sure how much you know about her…"

"Saoirse?" Archie blinked, surprised. "Uh, Hermione knows her better, through the British Students Association?"

"She's a traditional caster out of Ireland," Hermione said, her expression turning thoughtful as she looked at the little orb Francesca held in her hands. "She's connected with the traditional community there, that's all I know. She sometimes writes articles for the Gaelic paper, the Nuachtlitir Draoi."

"My contact in Wales says she's one of the most powerful traditional casters in Ireland right now, and that she's part of a group called the Tuatha Dé. The Irish… apparently still rebel against Wizarding British rule, every few decades." There was a pause, through which Archie thought he heard Dad suck in a breath, but Aldon continued. "My contact referred to her as one of their high priestesses and says they probably number in the hundreds. I have no personal connection with her, so if one of you could reach out, see what it takes to get the Tuatha Dé's support, that would be very helpful."

"Wait a minute, Aldon." Dad's voice was sharp, almost shocked, and Archie could just imagine him leaning forward, wherever they were, scowling at Aldon. "You are not – this isn't a war, Aldon. You're seeking allies, you're thinking about making treaties as if it is a war, but it isn't one."

Another pause, and Aldon's reply was slow, contemplative. "But isn't there a war, Lord Black? Did you not read the analysis we published after the fire at the Bulstrode mansion?"

A pause, and Archie felt his heart sinking, just a little. Hadn't Dad been reading Bridge? Archie just assumed that he was, but in his letters, he had never asked. He just assumed that Dad would, because Archie was writing for it, no matter how secret that fact was supposed to be. And Archie's interview had been in it, and so many other great articles!

"I – I have," Dad replied finally, the slight stutter telling Archie more than anything else. "I might have missed that particular piece, though."

Aldon snorted, and Archie couldn't help but feel disappointed. He didn't need Aldon to tell him that Dad was lying, at least partially – maybe Dad was reading Archie's articles, as simba, but he wasn't doing anything more than skimming the rest, if even that. The analysis of the Bulstrode fire in connection with the other three attacks had been their front page, two weeks ago.

"The long and the short of it, Lord Black, is that we have a terrorist in Wizarding Britain, one who was resurrected in the Triwizard Tournament final last year by Harriett Potter's blood," Aldon said, his voice carrying just a hint of derision. "He – or rather, his followers – were behind the attack on the Quidditch World Cup, then I imagine he went underground to recruit through much of last year until the Tournament. Then, this year, he was undoubtedly behind the Hogwarts train attack and the arson at the Bulstrode residence. The skull-and-serpent symbol is quite distinctive, and it must just be galling him that his mark is not being recognized."

"The Daily Prophet called them copy-cat incidents, though, and the fire was a tragedy and a prank," Dad pointed out, but his voice was hesitant, and Archie knew that he didn't believe the Daily Prophet either. Dad just wanted things to be safe for Archie, he thought. A war was not safe – a terrorist on the loose was not safe, especially when Archie had made a target of himself over the summer. A war was the farthest thing from safe that Dad could imagine, and even if Dad wouldn't put his head in the sand, he would maybe test unwelcome theories a little more soundly, and accept welcome theories a little more easily than he would otherwise. "Apparently, the symbol isn't difficult to mimic – just a runic illusion charm."

Archie glanced at Chess, but he could tell in an instant from the expression on her face, the slight curl of her lip, that that wasn't true, and who knew better than a runic paper witch? She didn't answer, though, her dark eyes focused on her orb as she heard Aldon begin his reply.

"The Daily Prophet is lying. I have a NEWT in runes, and I'm sure that Francesca would agree with me, but although something like this is possible with runic illusion charms, that isn't how they're doing it. The symbol is staying far longer than it should. If it were a runic illusion charm, it would fade quickly and disappear once the caster has left, whereas this symbol lingers for hours afterwards. You could convince me that the caster stayed at the Quidditch World Cup and maybe at the Bulstrode fire, but not at the Hogwarts Express attack."

"Aldon is right," Chess said, her soft voice unusually firm. She glanced over at John, who poured her a mug of tea, adding sugar to it for her. "Also, I would add that, um, this is a complex illusion. Things like glitter spells, fog, sparks, those sorts of things are easy, but I think something like this would take, umm… a hundred runes to describe, in the Western system? In the Chinese system, I think I could base the design off a mental image, but – but if they were doing that then, I think, it would be different each time. The colour would be off, or the shape, or the length of the serpent. And the image would waver, because the caster needs to focus on his image to keep it steady."

"Few people in Wizarding Britain would know how to do it runically anyway – it would likely need a Runes Master or Runes Mistress." Aldon's voice was final. "Runes are not typically taught as a full spellcasting system, here. It's probably a charm that our new resident terrorist has developed himself, for his movement."

"But what reason would the Daily Prophet have to lie about this?" Dad asked. It wasn't that Dad didn't believe them, Archie thought, but a genuine question. "I'm not doubting that the Daily Prophet would lie, but they don't do it without a reason. Why this? The Ministry and the SOW Party can't have anything to do with it – the last two strikes were clearly aimed at the SOW Party, really. An attack on the Hogwarts Express, right after Lord Riddle has promised safety to Hogwarts? Then, an attack on the Bulstrodes, one of the top Ministry and SOW Party families?"

Aldon laughed again, this time with something almost like dark amusement. "Because they're already at war, Lord Black, just not openly. Both the Hogwarts train attack and the Bulstrode fire were strikes by the terrorist against the SOW Party and the Ministry. I imagine that the Ministry has struck back, and that they've been raiding the more suspect areas of Wizarding Britain for some time, but it hasn't been reported and Bridge has no correspondents who would be in the know. We ought to fix that – we would need someone right in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, if we can. War doesn't need to happen on a battlefield, with flags."

"With the Statute of Secrecy, it wouldn't be anyway." Neal's voice was calm, thoughtful. "My swordplay tutor used to tell me that most wizarding wars were fought as secretly as possible, so as not to disturb No-Majs."

"But that doesn't explain why the Daily Prophet is covering it up," Dad said, his tone more puzzled than anything else. Archie frowned, worried – Dad would always support him, he knew, and he wasn't worried that Dad would betray him or anything, but he had hoped for more. The summer, Archie thought, could be explained by shock – it had taken Archie months to come to terms with fact that Mum had died of a treatable condition, and then for him to decide to take a stand. But Dad just wasn't there yet, with him, and he wasn't sure how he could bring Dad there. He reached for the teapot, pouring himself a mug, just to give himself something to do.

"The Daily Prophet is being propped up by the Ministry and by the SOW Party – if they're at war and being attacked, I would imagine they would want to sway the public to their side, to push everyone against the terrorist," Dad continued, his voice gaining strength as he made his point. "Instead, by hiding it, all they've done is make it easier for them to recruit and hit targets."

"That is true," Aldon conceded, though from his tone, Aldon didn't think that it was an insurmountable obstacle. "There are a number of potential explanations."

Something jogged at Archie's memory, and he frowned, taking a sip from his mug of tea. "Here's a thought. Harry said that the terrorist is like Lord Riddle, but more extreme. Maybe they're connected, and it's a somehow embarrassing connection that Lord Riddle himself can't stand to have out?"

A pause. "I had considered something like that," Aldon admitted, considering. "But Harriett has actually spoken to him, and if she herself has drawn the connection, I think that it is a likely answer. I did note that our new resident terrorist looks much like a younger Lord Riddle. And, in that case, Lord Riddle is trying to put the threat down quietly while attempting to maintain normalcy, to save himself from embarrassment, which also works with the fact that the Ministry has been almost suspiciously silent in many other areas – particularly, us. Aside from the Marriage Law, there seems to have been little in the way of activity in recent months from the SOW Party."

"It would even kind of make sense with the Ministry Unity Ball," Neal added, his tone vaguely disgusted. "I mean, not that I know anything other than what you've told me, Blake, but you said this Unity Ball is different from years past. They're charging a hefty ticket fee – whatever they've said about donating the proceeds to St. Mungo's, seen in the light of a war, it's a move. They want to show the terrorist that Wizarding Britain is a united front, but it's also a taunt. The terrorist attacked a train full of children because Lord Riddle said that they would be safe. He's not going to ignore a huge gala event where Lord Riddle is showing that Wizarding Britain stands united. Osti, we're bait."

"Proceeds going to St. Mungo's is therefore an enticement for us to come," Hermione said, pursing her lips a little in thought. "It's telling us that it's for a good cause, and the ticket price will go to good use – but with those prices, I expect that they've conjured extensive fees to hold the event itself, and therefore St. Mungo's won't see much out of it. It's funding for the Ministry, if they are quietly at war."

"So, we don't go," Archie concluded, taking another sip of his tea, thinking it over. "It's dangerous, and while I don't mind a spot of danger, I don't want to play into Lord Riddle's plans. We don't stand united with him, and I don't want to be bait."

"I wouldn't make that decision so quickly, Archie," Aldon interrupted, considering. "The Unity Ball is unlike anything we've ever seen before. It's not the SOW Party fundraiser, where one may only attend with a specific invitation, even if Lord Riddle seems to be trying to make this an equivalent event more palatable to Light families. One can purchase tickets to the Unity Ball, we don't need a specific invitation, though they have gone out of their way to invite anyone they would particularly like to attend. Lord Riddle has tried to price the event beyond the means of the rabble, but low enough that all of his own people, including the impoverished nobility, can afford to buy tickets for themselves and their families; but that means it's open to a lot of people who wouldn't otherwise attend the SOW Party Gala."

"Get to the point, Aldon," Hermione snapped, though she didn't really sound angry about it. "What does that mean, both for the Ball and for us? Why should we be attending?"

Aldon sighed heavily, exasperated. "As should be patently obvious, Hermione, the people who will be at the Unity Ball are going to be quite different than from something like the SOW Party Gala. There will be Light families, Neutrals, Guild members, both noble and non-noble. This is an opportunity for us to get our views out there, for us to promote our message to people there who aren't readers of Bridge. We can steal some part of the limelight for our cause, if we play it right."

"Um, but, Aldon," Francesca protested, her face was openly worried, a small furrow in her brow as she looked down at her orb. "You said that your invitation was a trap to get you into the wizarding world so someone could trap you with the Marriage Law."

There was a pause from the orb. "Oh, it is a trap for me. When I said we, I didn't mean I, specifically—"

"Oh, no," Neal's voice came over the orb, and there was a sound like an oof, of someone being pushed or shoved suddenly. "No, absolutely not. If you're going to tell the rest of us to go and put on a good face for widespread emancipation and blood equality, you're coming too. Câlisse, I am not doing a British formal event without you by my side. I refuse."

"Would you like to make me a formal offer then, Queenscove?" Aldon drawled, his voice hiding a laugh. "We haven't covered formal proposals of marriage yet, but I can make an exception. If you and I are betrothed, then I will be under your protection, and I could attend with no fear whatsoever. Won't that be nice?"

"Tabernak." John started laughing, and Archie couldn't help smiling – Neal sounded horrified. Clearly, he and Aldon were getting along.

"I didn't think so. But I do think it would be a good idea for you to attend, in force – get tickets for the whole extended family, and then some. This is a good opportunity for House Queenscove – up until now, the wizarding nobility has only seen you alone, or you and your mother. Bring your brothers, your closest friends – anyone you think would come to your assistance if you called. Bring that girl you keep mooning about. You can afford it. The same goes for you, Lord Black, Archie."

There was a pause as Archie thought it over, but Hermione leaned forward, reaching for the teapot herself. "You're not wrong, but if there are hundreds of people there, I don't see that this will really make much of a difference. We would be less than twenty people, especially if you don't attend – not exactly an impressive showing. How can we possibly make a memorable impact?"

Another pause. "We do something – not anything threatening or dangerous, but something impressive, something people will talk about afterwards. I – hmm – Francesca."

"Yes?" Chess looked up from the mug of tea that she had been drinking, peering into her orb.

"Would you go? And dance there?" Aldon's voice really was different when he spoke to her directly – it lost much of its sharpness, its sarcasm, its mocking overtones. He glanced at John, who had the frown on his face again, which was as good as confirmation. There was something going on there, and John wasn't entirely sure he liked it. Aldon's voice was inquiring, a little hopeful. "I only saw your dance once, but it was beautiful, impressive – I do not think that it is something that most people in Wizarding Britain would have seen before."

"I—" Francesca hesitated. "You said most dancing in your world is pairs – I don't really – well, I can – but, um – all the people there, I don't…"

She threw John a look of desperation, and John cut in. "It wouldn't really make sense, to have Chess go up and do a performance out of nowhere, Aldon, especially if dance is nearly exclusively done in pairs in Wizarding Britain. Chess would need a partner who could do magical dance, and she would need a story – something with a true construct, something that makes sense and that others would believe. Archie knows enough to dance with her—"

"Not me," Archie interjected, shaking his head quickly. "If I go, it's with Hermione. Hermione's been by my side this entire time, she's in the pictures beside me when I got arrested at the airport, she's in the pictures from the trial with me – it doesn't make any sense for me to now be attending the Unity Ball with Chess, or to do that kind of performance. I should say that my magical dance skills aren't that good, anyway – basically, all I do is the noble dancing we're taught, but in the air."

"I could do a performance, but I suspect that you would want me to bring Gerry, if I can." John tilted his head, thinking, and Archie couldn't help but be surprised. He always was – John played at being an athletic idiot, a jock, and he was very good at it. His marks in Healing were in the middle of the pack, passing but not standing out, unlike Archie and Hermione who were the top of their respective programs or, in Archie's case, both of his respective programs. It was so easy to forget that John was actually very smart, he just focused his time and energy elsewhere. "Gerry and I can represent the promise of international trade and alliances if things go right. Both of us are from prominent, international families, strongly anti-pureblood supremacy. And Gerry was the driving force behind Germany's new blood refugee program, which just got instituted by the Wizarding Nordic Union as well. I think you want us there talking to people about that."

"That would… be good," Aldon admitted, a little begrudging. "Queenscove, you can't dance at all, but is there any chance that anyone in your extended families or friends who could come can do magical dance?"

"No, sorry," Neal said, with a slight clicking noise and a sigh. "None of my family members or friends got into it, we're mostly duellers. And, like John and Gerry, you probably want us as who we are – Queenscove is well-connected. I can bring, let's see… My parents will come, my brothers Graeme and Will, and Will will of course bring Tina, and my sister Jessa. My cousins Fei and Dom might be able to make it, too. And I'll invite Yuki and Kel – Kel is good because her family is also in international affairs, and I know Kel would drop everything in an instant to help me out, no questions asked. Again, we're all better being there to represent globalism, the promise of what might be if certain things about Wizarding Britain changed."

"And Archie, Hermione, Lord Black and Mr. Lupin are best there as a balance for the lot of you, calming fears that we somehow lose our culture or our status by becoming open to a new world. It's best if you are all very proper and professional, standing somewhere between Lord Dumbledore's Light faction and Queenscove and his international allies." Aldon sighed, a sound of frustration.

Archie exchanged a look with everyone on his side of the connection, thinking it over. Aldon was right that Chess' dance would make a big splash – it was magical, but it was also beautiful, the exact kind of show that the nobility loved, and they knew nothing about it. John was frowning, a slight scowl on his face as if he could see where this was going and didn't like it one bit, while Francesca was impassive, focused on her mug of tea. Hermione was frowning too, but Archie thought she was only thinking, rather than annoyed – or, rather not any more annoyed than she usually was, when it came to Aldon.

"Is… magical dance very difficult?" Aldon's voice, coming across the comm link, was different, hesitant.

Archie glanced at Chess, who seemed somewhat flummoxed. She shrugged helplessly, glancing down at the orb, and Archie took that as his permission to reply. "Er – I didn't find it to be that bad? Coming from a noble background, though, I already knew how to dance, I just needed to learn the air-hardening runes and get comfortable using them. It took me… a month or so? I don't remember anymore. But you're also already more comfortable with runes, so I think you'd pick it up faster."

There was another pause, and when Aldon spoke again, he almost seemed to be embarrassed. "I have an idea. It's believable, and we could show a different facet, making an impact on everyone there. I–"

He cut himself off, and that was so unlike him that Archie just stared at the pale green orb for a second.

"What are you thinking, Aldon?" Neal's voice came through, sounding a little amused, as if he was stifling a laugh. "Just say it, whatever it is."

"Well, with you and John, and Archie there representing more staid political interests, magical dance is something that shows something else – new magical developments that can occur with inspiration from the Muggle world, or if we can work in something with the ACD, new technological developments in spell-casting as well," Aldon said, all hint of embarrassment gone for the moment, though Archie could see clearly where this was going and covered his mouth to smother his snicker. John already had his head in his hands, and Hermione was rolling her eyes, while Chess was looking away, lips pressed tightly together.

"Blake, stop justifying yourself with academic drivel," Neal ordered, the hint of a laugh behind his stern tone, and there was a hard bang as if the older boy had slapped the table. "I'll cut your bonus, see if I don't."

Aldon sighed, and there was another moment of silence. "If I could learn the basics of magical dance before the Unity Ball, I could bring Francesca. We could – well, I'm already persona non grata in wizarding Society. They want me to come crawling back, looking to fit in, but I've essentially been rejected. We can – there's a story we could tell, that would make sense, that would let us show off magical dance and make an impact."

"A story," Neal drawled from the other side, sounding deeply skeptical. He was a good actor, Archie had to admit – he had no idea how Neal was deadpanning this, because it was hysterical. "Tell me this story, Blake. I'm afraid I don't know it."

"Must I?" Aldon sighed heavily, and Archie could hear Dad starting to chuckle on the other side. "Very well, but only because you are all clearly too dense to see it otherwise. The story goes like this: A certain halfblood bastard, revealed after a certain trial, meets one of Archie Black's Muggleborn friends. He falls in love. He rejects whatever opportunities arise to rejoin Society because he can't bring her with him, and he would rather reject everything he has ever known for a chance to be with her. That's the basics of it. How is that, for a true construct? Believable?"

"Sounds like more acting than you're capable of, frankly," Neal said, before bursting into loud peals of laughter. Archie could hear Dad, too, absolutely losing it on the other end, the cacophony of sound echoing out of their comm link. Archie put his head in his hands, even if he couldn't help his own laughter from coming out. Aldon's expression must have been priceless – he wished Neal or Dad had a camera to take a picture of it for him.

"But—" Francesca hesitated, ignoring the laughter, stubbornly refusing to react even of her cheeks were painted a pink with embarrassment. "How would that keep it from being a trap for you, Aldon? Um, won't people still be able to give you formal proposals of marriage if you appear in wizarding society?"

Aldon coughed, clearly still humiliated. "Er, well, with you on my arm, I don't think anyone would dare. I would, er, be destroying what reputation I have left. Most of my attractiveness as a marriage partner relates to how I was raised, the skills I have, the connections I have – until now, while Society has rejected me on the basis of my blood status and my background, I have not been publicly seen to reject it. This would, er, put an end to that, so to speak. No one of status would want to marry their children to me."

"You mean," Archie prodded, sprinkling his words with false innocence, "you're a bad boy rebel now, are you, Aldon?"

"I could lend you my leather jacket and motorcycle," Dad choked out. "No, wait, I could buy you your own leather jacket and motorcycle! Do you know how to drive?"

There was a cool silence, and Archie could imagine the glares that Aldon must have been shooting at Neal and Dad from across the Atlantic. "I mean, that there is a risk, but I think that… it may be attenuated enough that I could attend."

"This all still requires Chess to agree," John snapped, cutting through the laughter like a blunt hammer, a heavy scowl on his face. "You've laid out why it's a good idea, you've set out the story you would tell, but you haven't asked Chess if she'll do it. And we're all speaking in hypotheticals, anyway. Are we doing this, or not?"

There was a long pause, the laughter dying out, before Neal spoke, sighing. "Well, it's what would be expected of a noble lord, and Queenscove itself seems to like the idea. My mother would approve, too. And if I go, then hell if you're not coming, Blake. You and my entire extended family. I'll have Kel or Dom look after you if I have to, or you can have a fake relationship with Fei or something, I don't know. Mind, Fei could eat you for breakfast and want seconds, so that doesn't really make any sense."

"I don't know any of those people, Queenscove," Aldon retorted. "It wouldn't be believable. Lord Black? Archie? I will leave the decision in your hands."

Archie took a deep breath, trying to think it through. On one hand, Aldon was right – Bridge was making waves, but not everyone read Bridge. It wasn't something that was likely to penetrate the highest echelons of society, not if even Dad wasn't reading it in its entirety. From what Aldon had said, it was getting notice largely among non-nobles or people who already had a reason to mistrust the Daily Prophet. This was an opportunity for them push their message into broader Wizarding Britain, into the hands of people who might have more power to do something. He had no doubt that he and Hermione, Dad and Uncle Remus, could put forward a good picture of balance, showing that change wouldn't destroy everything as they knew it. He trusted that John and Gerry, and Neal and his family, would do a great job showing how interconnected the world was, representing many of the international governments that disapproved of Wizarding Britain. He even thought that Aldon and Chess would, if they did pull off the dance, manage to show the cultural and technological side of what could be gained by becoming more open to the No Maj world.

But it would also be dangerous. If Aldon was right about the terrorist and the war happening beneath their notice, and for the moment Archie would assume that he was, then the Ball would be a target. People had died, in the Bulstrode fire. But on the other hand, an opportunity like this didn't come easily, and Archie didn't know when something like this would come up again.

"I think we have to go," Archie said finally. "It's just too good of an opportunity for us, but we'll have to go prepared. Dad?"

A pause, then a sigh. "If you're committed to going, Archie, then so am I. At least Remus will be able to come this year, too. But we stick together, and we leave early – we'll make our points, and we'll get out, as soon as we can. And we'll have to be ready for anything, so I'll arrange for portable Portkeys for everyone, too. They might not work within the Ministry itself, but as long as we can get clear of the building, we can Portkey or Apparate back. It's the best we can do."

Archie nodded, reaching for his long-since cold mug of tea. "That works for me."

"Very well." Aldon sighed heavily. "If that's the plan, then, Francesca, would you kindly do me the honour of allowing me to escort you to the Ministry Unity Ball, that you may watch me completely destroy what is left of my reputation in Society?"

"I – um." Francesca's cheeks were pink, but she was looking away, her expression somehow sad. "Yes, I suppose you can."

XXX

He's gay, she told herself sternly. He's gay, he doesn't mean anything by it, and you really need to stop falling for the gay ones.

It didn't really help, because feelings were like that. Aldon was special, and she wasn't really sure when that happened. Maybe it was when he took the math test that she threw at him and worked through it, not a hint of a complaint over more than an hour. Maybe it was watching him work out the fundamental theory of calculus for the first time, the light of triumph that had lit his face. Maybe it was when she took him to a university bookstore, dropped textbooks of math and physics in his arms, and he looked more excited than he did terrified. Maybe it was the way he chewed on his lower lip as he worked through some of the textbooks, with that stubborn expression that no, he wouldn't ask, he would work it out himself that he would wear when he got stuck, for hours. Maybe it was the fact that he was in many ways as awkward as Francesca herself was, covering it up with a veneer of sarcasm and mockery – but not with her. Never with her.

Maybe it was the fact that, unlike pretty much every other mage Francesca had ever met, Aldon took the fact that she didn't have a wand in stride. He had been curious, but he hadn't asked, and he never made Francesca feel like she was weird, somehow different, for not having one. John and everyone in Duelling, they all reacted with some measure of protectiveness: Francesca didn't have a wand and she couldn't protect herself, so they went out of their way to defend her, like a small, helpless kitten that had been declawed. Archie reacted with a bit of sorrow, like Francesca was somehow missing something, like something had been cut off from her that could never be replaced, and Francesca had never really forgotten the prank he had played on her in first year. And Hermione, well, Hermione was just confused. Hermione didn't know how to handle her, and she never had, and even though she understood the explanation of why Francesca could never have a wand, there was always going to be a part of her that didn't understand, the part that went but why can't you just – oh, right. Aldon, for the most part, just ignored the fact that Francesca was Wandless, treated her just the same and assumed that she could do everything he could unless she said otherwise.

Or maybe it was the ACD. Aldon was perfect with the ACD – he understood her, he understood what she wanted with it. The ACD wasn't just a cool toy or an interesting accessory to her. The ACD was the future of spellcasting itself, and when it was ready to be released, she wanted it to take the world by storm. She wanted it to be unthinkable not to have an ACD, she wanted every mage everywhere to have one, more than they relied on wands, more than they relied on heirlooms and paper spells and runes. Aldon understood that, she thought, and not even John understood that.

Francesca had lied, a little bit, when she told Aldon that she had loved John. It wasn't a huge lie – in some ways it was very true. Words didn't really express how she felt about John. Love was just the closest she could get to it.

John was the one who had intimate access to her mind, as she did to him. In many ways, that made them closer than lovers, closer than siblings, something else entirely. John was her other half, and there was a part of her that continually compared anyone she ever met to John. At some points, long in the past, she had wondered if he might become her romantic partner too, but that had been squashed before it had really become anything when John had come out as gay. It wasn't entirely a lie, but it wasn't completely true either, and it was the closest that she could come to connecting with Aldon in that instant.

But the truth was, how she felt about Aldon was completely different than how she felt about John. John was John – John was her best friend, brother, and parasitic mind raider all in one. She loved him always, but she wasn't fascinated by him, she didn't find every single one of John's words worth waiting for or hanging onto, the way he formed his vowels and consonants enchanting. She didn't treasure John's laughter.

Aldon is gay, she repeated to herself, striding back towards her dorm. And the better you get that through your head, the better off you will be. Even this Ball thing – there's nothing behind it. It'll be a performance, just like working with Javier is a performance.

She wished she believed herself.

"Chess!" she heard John calling after her, and she waited for him to catch up with her, loping across the campus green. It was still early, around ten in the morning, so while people would be waking up, most would still be groggy, still rolling out of bed.

She looked up at him, and he had a furrow between his dark eyes, concerned. Are you really okay with this? He asked, mind to mind. I mean – I'm worried about you.

I thought you liked Aldon, Francesca replied mildly, leading the way back into Oliver Hall and heading upstairs to Holmes Wing, to her room. She wasn't looking at him, so John couldn't reply mentally.

"I do, but…" John hesitated, then he sighed when they entered her room and flopped down on her bed. She poked him until he moved over, then curled up on the corner that he abandoned for her. Twin beds were really getting to be too small for the two of them, now.

"But what?"

He looked her in the eyes, opening their mental connection and letting thoughts, feelings cascade over her. He was worried for her – he was worried about this whole Unity Ball thing, though of course he would go. He wanted Gerry to come with him, and he and Gerry were both good with their wands, and he thought he could count on Hermione in a pinch, too. He was worried about Archie, and about her, neither of whom had strong duelling capabilities, and he didn't think Aldon could duel worth beans either. Tina, he would trust to Will and the Queenscoves, all of whom were known to be powerful and strong duellers, but if this went forward, he was worried about her and Aldon being separated from the rest of them, left vulnerable.

And Aldon. It wasn't that he disliked Aldon. Rather, he understood Aldon, which was perhaps better and worse at the same time. Aldon was the product of his upbringing – he had been raised as a noble, a Dark noble, and he had been raised to accept, if not promote, pureblood supremacy. His views on women, on relationships, were antiquated, and by the ways that they would term things, John thought that Aldon was a political conservative. Aldon was also volatile, a volcano primed to erupt, as anyone would be after their dirty laundry was aired to their entire country on the front page of the national daily, as anyone would be after being disowned by his family.

John worried about her, and about her budding feelings for the man.

Francesca sighed, turning away to put her head in her arms, propped up on her knees. "It's not going to turn into anything, John," she muttered. "I'll do the Ball. It's not a big deal. We'll pretend for the night, and then it'll be back to business, to what we have now."

"And what do you have now, Chess?" John sat up, slinging one arm around her and pulling her closer to his shoulder. "The ACD, but you talk about more than that, with him."

"Not that much more." Francesca shrugged slightly, feeling the welcome weight of John's arm as she lied through her teeth. "Not as much as you'd think. Usually we spend an hour talking about the ACD, then maybe ten, fifteen minutes about other things."

John was silent, and Francesca wasn't sure if he believed her. Sometimes John would know better, but he wouldn't mention it. "I just worry about you, monster. I don't want you to get hurt, that's all."

"I understand," Francesca said, even if she privately thought it was a little too late, on that front. Still, John seemed to accept it, nodding and giving her a warm hug before he ran off to Quodpot. With him gone, she let out another deep, heavy, sigh, and pulled open the drawer to her desk, where she was keeping her latest project.

It wasn't anything, really, though she had started working on it soon after telling her parents that the ACD project needed her in Britain over the holidays, an in-person meeting to check their progress. It was just a tiny gift of appreciation for her closest partner on the ACD project in Britain, for the friend who had brought her into his company and helped her push through some of the biggest ACD roadblocks she had over the past few months. It didn't have to reflect anything about her feelings, nothing at all.

She picked up her pair of pliers, examined the two Chinese runes that she was now attempting to replicate in silver wire, and started on her eighth attempt. She wasn't entirely sure if it could be done, making runes out of wire that could be charged like a paper charm, but if it worked, Aldon would have another, more useful, set of cufflinks, hiding both an attack and shield spell in plain sight.

XXX

Aldon stared into the jewellery shop window, at the delicate comb. It would look good against her dark hair, he thought, and he barely saw the price tag. The pearls, seven large white ones, lined the edge of the small, decorative comb, linked and held in place by silver wire. Pearls were the traditional Rosier gemstone, and there was some part of him that wanted to buy it for her because if she wore it, it would, in his old world, be a public symbol of his affection for her and of her acceptance of the same. He wasn't a Rosier anymore, but he still wanted it for her, just because it was beautiful.

He had enough for it, in the bank account Christie had helped him establish in the Muggle world, where his paycheque flowed in every other week. He didn't pay any living expenses, nor did Christie seem to expect him to, so his money largely just went and sat in the account, other than what he took out for takeaway, for coffees and teas from the corner coffee shop, and for Underground tokens. The comb would be a lot – not a whole month of pay from Blake & Associates, probably two weeks of pay, and he had to buy the tickets for Ministry Unity Ball, too.

Francesca had said she didn't mind going to the Ball with him, when they talked about it later. He had apologized for having to use her as a shield, but she had waved it off, saying that it would be worth it for Archie and for his cause, and besides, she liked dancing. It would be just like her dance competitions, a performance for them both. She would work on the choreography, and they would practice together every day when she returned to Britain. It would be fine, and she had always been curious about a high society gala event anyhow.

He could afford the comb. And he could call it a thank you gift, for coming to the Ball with him, and it would look good in her hair. She didn't need to know how much it had cost. He could simply wave his hand, tell her that it was nothing, he had just seen it in a shop and thought she would like it, and maybe she would give him that bright, beaming smile, the one that lit up her whole face. And if she did, then two weeks of pay was nothing.

He went in and bought it. And then, because he had bought the comb for Francesca, he thought that he would need something for everyone else, too, just to make sure that it didn't look out of place. Archie was easy – he poked around in a Muggle bookstore, found something that looked vaguely interesting in the science fiction section. Hermione, too, was easy – for her, he slipped into Diagon Alley one evening, wearing a hat and a scarf to hide his face, and bought her a copy of Etiquette for All Occasions. It was a dangerous risk, but the look on Hermione's face when she opened it would no doubt be worth it, especially when she read his planned, moderately rude note in the cover. Since he was there already, he picked up two books on defensive magic, for John and Queenscove, before slipping back out to the Muggle world for scarves for Christie and, with a note of hesitation, for the Lord Black. Surely the man deserved something for his silence.

It was the first year he hadn't bought anything for Ed or Alice, and the first he had bought something for someone that wasn't Ed or Alice.

Times had changed.

XXX

Her whiteboard was getting crowded, Lina thought, toying with her marker as she examined it. There were too many players, and she didn't understand nearly as much as she wanted about most of them. She had been out of Wizarding Britain, out of the centres of power, for too long.

There was Lord Riddle and the SOW Party, along with the Ministry of Magic. She had them labelled, in the top left corner of her whiteboard, two closely intertwined political bodies that had, in some form or another, controlled the entirety of Wizarding Britain for the last forty years. In some countries, that would be seen as tantamount to a one-party state, even if not a malevolent one. The SOW Party was something she understood, having been in it for many years. They were straightforward: they were for pureblood supremacy, anti-discrimination on the basis of magical affinity, among other things. Of all the players, she understood them the most.

Standing opposite Lord Riddle and SOW Party was Lord Dumbledore and the Light faction. Technically, their only link was that they were largely Light and largely pro-blood-equality, and not even all the later. There were many Light purebloods part of the SOW Party for their stance on pureblood supremacy, which many in the Light faction conveniently forgot when they disparaged the SOW Party. Lord Dumbledore was elderly, but still strong, and he had carried his faction, usually between thirty and forty percent of the Wizengamot, through rough seas. For every measure that Lord Riddle passed, there were three that Lord Dumbledore had quietly stymied, and the two groups had held the Wizengamot at loggerheads for decades.

But now, there were at least two other players on the board.

The first was a terrorist. Lina didn't know where he had come from, but there was a new Dark Lord on the field, and Lina tended not to care about the how or the why. The how and the why was for the historians to work out, not for Lina, who was usually (if paid well enough, if her personal duties didn't force her to act) most interested in figuring out how to end the threat. In this case, that was becoming a little more complicated – whoever this new Dark Lord was, he had followers, and that meant the list of people she had to kill got longer and more difficult. Lord Riddle, in this respect at least, was a fool – his cover-up of the ongoing war was just making it harder for himself and anyone else to deal with the threat later. If Riddle couldn't deal with it quickly, within the next six months, then Lina's professional opinion was that they would be at open war.

She sighed, frustrated, and turned to the last corner of the board, to the newest player who had just risen to the battlefield. It was just a paper – just a weekly paper, free for everyone, which didn't have a lick of magic on its pages. But Bridge was interesting, easily the most interesting of the players, though she doubted many in Wizarding Britain understood its importance. Too many people inside the country didn't understand the bubbling cauldron of resentment the whole system rested on. The only reason it hadn't boiled over was because each minor group – the Lower Alleys, the Scottish clans, the Irish and the Welsh, the shifter alliance, the dozen or so Guilds – had no reason or desire to work together. Until a certain paper appeared, throwing the bomb of widespread emancipation on the nation.

It wasn't that no one had ever had these ideas before. People had had these ideas; other countries had been founded on them. Analysts had been writing papers, theses, dissertations comparing other political systems with Wizarding Britain's open oligarchy for decades. But it was Bridge that popularized the idea, Bridge that broke through the wall of silence surrounding the people of Wizarding Britain from the international community, Bridge that openly called attention to the fact that, with widespread emancipation, each of these disparate groups would have a voice.

Bridge was a catalyst, and Lina even thought she could see the shadows of some of the people behind it.

Underneath the word Bridge on her whiteboard, she had written first Arcturus Rigel Black. Black was the first interview, and with the newly-minted Lord Queenscove, a fellow teammate on the Triwizard Tournament and schoolmate from the American Institute of Magic, as the next cover story, the paper clearly had its roots in American-trained witches and wizards. It was probably being funded by the British International Association, that powerful lobby group stretching around the world. Black was involved, somehow, and with him the connections he had developed abroad.

But there were other fingerprints. Some of the analysis of British Wizengamot events, a few turns of phrase here and there reflected another voice – a truly British voice. That person could only be glimpsed around the margins of some articles, and Lina thought he had to be a high-level editor in the paper. His voice, here and there, reflected a sound understanding of Wizarding British politics, but, more importantly, of Dark Wizarding British politics. He was noble, or he had been raised so, and he likely hadn't been far from the seats of power.

Lina wrote Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier on her whiteboard.

There were more voices, as she followed the paper. There was at least one correspondent writing directly from Hogwarts, as well as someone who was legally trained or close to the legal profession in Wizarding Britain. These, too, were British voices – Bridge had connected with at least one of the other groups, one of the non-noble groups less than satisfied with the current state of events. Lina would have thought the Welsh first, since Aldon had befriended Diggory in the Triwizard Tournament and Diggory had clearly used traditional magic, but from what she knew, the Welsh were small and fractured, rare. She didn't think they had the organization or manpower to manage a correspondent from Hogwarts or one from the courts. She also ruled out the Lower Alleys – their children, their people, largely could not prove their blood-status sufficiently to attend Hogwarts, thereby precluding them from entering the legal profession. She considered for a moment the Irish; the Irish were organized, but given the not infrequent rebellions, few Irish were given the privilege of attending Hogwarts, blood-status or not – only the ones, Lina thought, that had betrayed their people, thereby proving their loyalty to the Ministry of Magic.

The tattoos along her back crawled, and she shifted in discomfort. Lina hated traitors. Better to die than betray your countrymen, especially with the well-worn path between Ireland and Ilvermorny in America. Hogwarts was not so great as to be worth sacrificing the lives of your own people.

That left only two groups, and both, Lina thought, were strong possibilities for a connection, and she wrote them both down. The Scottish Clans were organized, they virtually always had clan kin at Hogwarts, and of course the Lady Ross was permanently stationed there as a teacher. As for the shifter alliance, one could always count on the Abbotts either having one of their own at the school, or one of their close allies. Damn rabbits were bloody everywhere. One or the other, if not both, had connected to Bridge.

Lina had a soft spot for the paper. She didn't like to think that she had soft spots generally, but how could she not? It was courageous, it was pushing for the kind of change that Lina thought was long overdue in her native land, and of course her personal connection to at least one of the probable players didn't help.

Wars were not always a bad thing. As much as wars could be awful, terrible in their effect, wars were also an opportunity. Lina Avery had been born on a battlefield, and war felt more natural to her than anything else. War was where Lina made her mark.

Bridge would never have made it so far if a terrorist hadn't been making people scared, making people question, and this was the kind of chance that had not existed in Wizarding Britain for many generations. A war could permanently break the loggerheads in the Wizengamot, a war could make the smaller voices heard. If there was any time for action, that time was coming.

She reached over and picked up a purple invitation, lying on her desk. It hadn't been addressed to her – these kinds of things never were. When she married, Lina Avery had ceased to be, and everything went to her husband, as little as she saw him. She preferred it that way – she preferred to be left alone with her business in France as much as humanly possible. He, similarly, had always preferred to be left alone in the company of his Muggleborn mistress.

She glanced over the invitation, thought she had read it over enough to remember what it said. Cordially invited, et cetera, et cetera. Unity Ball hosted by the Ministry of Magic, in a demonstration of the unity of Wizarding Britain. All proceeds to be donated to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies.

With the invitation was a note from her husband, ordering her to present herself to Wizarding Britain to attend with him. She snorted, folding it and tossing it in the closest wastebasket. As if he had any real authority over her – whatever the law said, Lina was her own person, and he knew that very well.

But the tattoos on her back itched, the promises she had made long ago prodded at the little that remained of her conscience. Duty, they echoed to her. She had made her vows, so back to Wizarding Britain it would be.

She stood up from where she had been leaning on her desk, more graceful than anyone would have thought a woman of her size could ever be, reaching for a piece of parchment. Newman would have to cover for her and run the firm through December, as soon as he could return from Hogwarts, then in January they would need to meet and discuss. Lina would soon be needed on a more permanent basis in Britain, she thought, and if Newman wanted to return to Hogwarts, they would need to shift the day-to-day responsibility for the firm to someone else.

That night, in her tiny, bare apartment in Toulouse, she sent a rude note back to her husband and started packing her bag.

XXX

AN: This chapter represents the first edition of "wow, kit hates writing teleconferences." Teleconferences are boring, everyone. If you ever find yourself writing a teleconference scene, stop. meek says long phone calls in fiction are only for phone sex, which... well, from Aldon's perspective, maybe his calls with Francesca are basically phone sex. *big shrugs* Also, this continues my "romance? What is romance?" saga. Thank you to meek_bookworm as always for the beta-reading and fact-checking, and to the various subject matter experts! Please let me know your thoughts, I love reading all your comments and reviews! Next chapter is in a week, because I could not resist posting a Midwinter Ball scene in the middle of winter break.

Next Chapter: I will give you everything if you would only have me / Tomorrow we will sweat and toil, / Our hands will quiver caked with soil, / Tomorrow we'll give it one last chance / But tonight we dance. (But Tonight We Dance, by Rise Against).