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.

11. Chapter 11

The albatross stared at Archie, cocking its head at him curiously. Archie stared back, tilting his head the other way, wondering how on earth the gigantic bird had managed to squeeze through his window. He supposed if the bird pinned its wings to its sides, it could just fit, but it looked so improbable. Or maybe, all birds were somehow magical – owls certainly didn't seem to have any trouble getting wherever they needed to go, so why would any other bird? In any case, Archie was continually impressed by Harry's ability to convince birds to carry messages for her across the sea. Based on the bird species that he had seen, he thought she had been in South America, then the Galapagos Islands, and now she was probably somewhere in the South Pacific.

He grinned. At least he knew what to give her for Christmas, if she was somewhere in the South Pacific. Michener's Tales of the South Pacific, on which the musical South Pacific had been based, would be perfect! His own copy had unfortunately been lost in in the Ministry raid, but there was a bookstore in town, and it was Friday. He would swing through the bookstore tomorrow before this bird took off – they always needed to rest a day or so before flying back anyway.

The albatross squawked, leaning over to knock the package on Archie's desk, and Archie's face lit up. Presents, already?

He reached over and ripped open the package. It was from Harry, of course it was, and inside was a little leather case and two other small boxes, wrapped in plain brown canvas, with a folded letter on top. Archie grinned – the other letters he had gotten from her this term had been more in the form of short notes, the tiny finches she had sent being far too small to carry anything big. They were at least easy to feed, but didn't albatrosses eat seafood?

He shrugged, opening her letter. She always told him what they needed to carry a message back to her.

Archie, she had written. I'm glad to hear that things have been going well for you…

She wouldn't be able to come home for Christmas, unfortunately, and she was worried about the little news that she had been hearing coming out of Britain. Her sources weren't tied to noble wizarding society, so she would really appreciate it if Archie could carry some news to her about her friends, especially Draco and Pansy. She missed them. She had included presents for him, Sirius and Remus with her letter, and while she knew her parents and Addy weren't in Britain, she wanted him to pass on her love to them if he could. Her time abroad was still going well, she felt more at peace than she had in many years – she felt like, for the first time in years, she could breathe. She had never realized how much the last four years had dragged on her – at the time, she had been so caught up in coping, in simply dealing with things and moving forward, that she had never been able to just sit and breathe and process everything that had happened. She was sorry that it had had such a huge effect on Archie, sorry for everything that had happened, and she hoped they'd be able to talk in person soon. She loved him.

Archie shook his head with a wry smile, folding the letter and packing it away. He had no regrets about anything. Even the loss of his gift was fair price to pay, he thought, for the gains they had made in the trial, and of course he loved AIM, too.

He didn't need to feed the albatross – apparently, he only needed to tell it a story, something it hadn't heard before, and give it a day's rest before it would fly back to her. He shrugged and told it a story about a girl named Lyra, her daemon Pan, and the armoured bears of Svalbard, put together a package for Harry, and sent it on its way.

A week later, he was back in Britain, strolling into the Lower Alleys. John and Chess had arrived in Britain on a Muggle flight a few days after he returned, Chess handing Dad a gift of chocolates in embarrassment for allowing them to stay and Dad waving it off. They had even met with Aldon, looking sharp if somewhat stressed. Aldon told them all in further detail about his meeting with Cedric Diggory, one of the Welsh wizards, and with Quinn Cameron from the clans. Apparently a fifth clan had joined with them, but Cameron had reported that the Clanmeet was deadlocked – five non-noble clans standing against the three noble clans.

Archie felt like he needed to do something too, something a little more active than sitting back and writing reviews of No-Maj movies and books. What he was doing was important, and he had no doubt on that front, but if, as Aldon thought, the Ministry was already at war with a homegrown terrorist who called himself Lord Voldemort (he had found the name going back over Lestrange's letter to Harry), then he felt like he had to try more. Or, at least, go and warn some of Harry's other friends, and see if they might be interested in helping too. If nothing else, they should be warned.

Harry knew the Lower Alleys like the back of her hand, but Harry wasn't here and Hermione was visiting her grandparents. Archie was sort of hoping that someone would be kind enough to point him in the right direction, to an inn and pub called The Dancing Phoenix. He had purposely dressed down to go into the Alleys, picking out a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt with a big pocket in the front, in which he tucked his wand and his wallet and his hands. Sweatshirts were the epitome of comfort.

He wandered in, past Knockturn Alley. Things had changed – not so much in Diagon Alley, but in Knockturn Alley, the Serpent's Storeroom was boarded up and closed, along with a few other shops. Borgin and Burkes was still there, but everything felt different than before. People watched him, cautious, some of them crossing the street to get away from him, and no one seemed willing to make eye contact with him.

Maybe the No-Maj clothes had been a bad idea. He stood out in No-Maj clothes just as much as he had stood out in upper-class wizarding robes, too new and too elegant for his surroundings. Had he wanted to be inconspicuous, he really ought to have borrowed some of Harry's tunics and breeches, but none of them fit him anymore.

He turned off on an alleyway that he thought he remembered Harry taking, heading deeper in the Alleys. He thought he saw a familiar looking building, but he couldn't be sure – everything looked the same, and he had only been there once. He hadn't paid attention the last time he had been here, too shocked as he was by the ramshackle nature of the buildings around him, the dirt and god-only-knew what else running in rivulets between the cobblestones, and the smell, something like sewage and spoiled food that had been left out too long.

That hadn't changed, and Archie took another turn in the Alleys. He didn't see many people out and about, and the few he did see scampered out of his way the moment he came into view. He tried to call after someone, asking for directions to the Dancing Phoenix, but the woman only shook her head mutely and crossed the street to avoid him.

Well, he had to find someone to give him directions eventually, he thought, steeling himself for a long afternoon. He was here for a reason, and he wouldn't leave until he had accomplished his mission. Like James Bond, though James Bond probably would have had more success than he had had so far. James Bond would have looked cooler as he did it, too.

"Hello there, sir. Would you care to buy a flower?"

Archie turned around, hearing the voice. The speaker was a tiny girl, maybe ten years old, carrying a basket of flowers – not fancy flowers, not roses or orchids or lilies or anything, more like wildflowers. Archie thought he spotted peonies, chrysanthemums, daisies. She wore an impish smile on her face as she hopped down from the step she had been occupying, coming up to him and holding her basket out for his perusal. He returned the smile easily.

"I'll buy a whole bouquet, if you'll give me directions to the Dancing Phoenix," he replied, pulling out his wallet. "I don't know flowers very well, but can you make me a bouquet for me to give to my girlfriend? I want something that says how much I love her, but I don't want to be clichéd about it. Roses are so overdone, don't you think?"

The girl giggled. "Oh, absolutely. Anybody can buy his girlfriend a bouquet of roses, but it takes someone like me to build a bouquet with real meaning! I'll hold you to that promise, and I'll walk you over to the Dancing Phoenix. His Majesty sent me to fetch you, you know. We were getting reports of a bumbling Muggle wandering through the Lower Alleys."

"Thank you," Archie replied, sighing in somewhat unexpected relief. "I really appreciate it. My name is Archie – Archie Black. What's yours?"

"Archie Black, the cousin to Harry Potter," the girl sang back at him with another cheeky smile, motioning with one hand the direction they should go. "I know. My name is Margo, I knew Harry well – His Majesty used to pay me to track her when she came into the Alleys."

Archie laughed, not entirely sure whether he should have found that information comforting or creepy. He followed Margo, who really looked too small to be wandering around by herself, let alone selling flowers and being paid to track people, deeper into the Alleys.

The streets became cleaner, the smell of sewage disappeared as Margo led him into a nicer area of the Alleys, past a few bubbling fountains. He started recognizing a few more things as they went, or he thought he did, until they reached large, clean-looking inn and pub. The sign over the door was new, graven: The Dancing Phoenix.

"Here we are!" Margo said, gesturing for Archie to go in ahead of her. Archie pushed the door inwards, into a familiar looking room lined with long, burnished wooden harvest tables. It was quiet, unexpected for such a large room, but he supposed it hadn't been busy the last time he was there, either. He held the door politely open for the little girl who trailed him in and pointed him towards one table at the other end of the room. He recognized Leo Hurst, sitting with his head tilted towards a redhead he also recognized – Rispah Cooper, the Queen of the Ladies of the Rogue.

Archie took a deep breath, settling himself into what he called the very best version of himself. He was a representative of sorts, wasn't he? Best foot forward, and all.

He strode over to the head table, which was very clearly what Leo's table was, even with no other markers. Archie couldn't help studying him for a moment – how did he do it? He was leaning back in his seat, relaxed even as he listened to Rispah's talk, but Archie caught the way that his eyes roved around the room, his reaction to the slight noise from the direction of the kitchens. This man was perpetually alert, ready for action. He had known from the moment that Archie had walked in the room that he was there.

This was a different Leo Hurst than the one Harry saw usually, Archie thought. Leo, with Harry, exuded confidence, but he was also light, gentle, fun. This Leo was all seriousness, and the smiles occasionally flitting across his face didn't reach his hazel eyes.

Archie stopped a polite distance from the head table and swept the man a bow. Dad could have hold him exactly how many degrees it was, and someone like Aldon would have overanalyzed the gesture and told him exactly how much respect or disrespect he was showing, but Archie thought that, as a representative for a group of people that fought for equality, he wouldn't make distinctions that didn't matter outside of pureblood society anyway. As far as he was concerned, it was a straightforward bow between equals, one that he would have given to anyone.

"Well, well," he heard a woman's amused croon. "Look at the lordling's manners. He has them."

"Rispah." Leo's voice was a warning, before he glanced at Archie and nodded his head towards the empty seat across from him. "Black – not Rigel, but Arcturus. What brings you here?"

"Please, Archie is fine," Archie said with a quick smile, accepting the invitation gracefully. "I thought I would come and give you a warning, Your Majesty, and I'm sure Harry also would like an update about you, the next time I have a chance to write her."

Leo laughed, leaning forwards in his seat with an amused look on his face. "It's a kind thought, but I have my own ways of reaching out to Harry. A warning, you say?"

Rispah held up a hand, graceful and languid, calling over one of the wait staff. The boy was young, probably a few years younger than Archie himself, but he came over within a few seconds. "Ale, or a glass of milk?"

Her voice had a bit of a bite to it, but Archie stared unflinchingly up at her. "Ale will be fine, Lady Cooper."

"Three ales, then, Philip."

Truth be told, he liked milk better, but he wouldn't admit that here. Philip nodded, polite, and disappeared for the kitchens. Leo looked at him, nodding at him to go on.

Archie didn't beat around the bush. "Wizarding Britain is at war, Your Majesty, Lady Cooper."

"We know," Leo replied, leaning back with a small smile. "I read the analysis in Bridge – the conclusion seems inevitable, especially with the Ministry's increased raids in my territory. And how does your war affect us, Heir Black?"

Archie accepted the use of his formal title with no reaction – he supposed that, since he was calling Leo Your Majesty, he could hardly blame the man for referring to him by title. He hadn't entirely prepared this answer, because he had assumed that war was war – how it affected people should be obvious. "Wars have a way of making governments tighten their grip on everyone they can, and they don't care who they harm in the process. You've said yourself, there are more Ministry raids in the Lower Alleys."

Leo shrugged, nonchalant, exchanging a glance with Rispah, who shook her head. "If it wasn't their war, it would be something else. The Ministry likes to pretend they matter down here. For us, this war is just one in a long series of power struggles. You understand, Heir Black: for the most part, we don't have access to many of the things that you take for granted, and we never have. Who is in control of the Ministry makes little difference to us, whether it be Lord Riddle, Lord Dumbledore, or anyone else. None of those Lords will put food on our tables, clothes on our backs, ale in our bellies. Our children don't school at Hogwarts – blood restrictions or not, there's just no money for tuition. We have little to gain by sticking our necks out, and a lot to lose. It's better for us to stay forgotten."

Archie didn't think that was true, but he wasn't sure how to respond. He didn't know life in the Alleys, and he didn't want to push it too hard. He frowned a little, reaching for the tankard of ale that Rispah had returned with, taking a drink and thinking through his next few lines. "It's a fault of our political system that who's in control of the Ministry has so little effect on you," he fumbled eventually. Harry would have been better at this, at saying things without saying things, and also, ale was disgusting. "It's my hope that, should we achieve widespread emancipation, you might have more of a voice."

Leo burst into laughter, his hazel eyes sparking in genuine amusement. "You really aren't your cousin, Heir Black, are you?"

Archie shrugged with a smile of his own tugging at his lips. "I never said I was. Look, I'm even drinking ale!" He lifted his tankard as an example.

"You don't even like ale." Leo smirked, and Rispah laughed, low and throaty, her eyes sparkling. "I saw the look on your face when you took your first sip. But it was a good attempt, and therefore, from one leader to another, I tell you that we decline. We'll take care of our own, but we have no extra resources to fight wars not of our own making. But you are welcome to stay and take your ease. And have no fear for your wallet, either – Margo will keep an eye on you while you're in the Alleys."

Archie nodded, genuinely relieved and appreciative of the gesture. He didn't think he could get out of the Alleys without Margo's help anyway, and it really could have gone far worse. Leo could have been offended, and he wasn't, so he hadn't lost anything by asking. He relaxed. "If you ever need anything, you can always reach out to me at Grimmauld Place, too. If I can help, I will, no strings attached, Leo."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind, Archie," Leo replied, then something else caught his attention. Archie glanced around, spotting Marek Swiftknife coming through the doors, a stern expression on his face. Leo sighed, exchanging a look with Rispah, the smile disappearing from both of their faces as they stood up. "Sorry, but we need to go take care of business. Margo will look after you."

"Thanks for the chat, Leo, Rispah," Archie said, nodding agreeably as Margo joined him at the table, picking out flowers for Archie's bouquet. He ate lunch there, paying probably too much silver for the meal and the bouquet both, but he didn't mind.

XXX

Aldon fell. Again.

Francesca was perfectly steady, standing on a tiny square of hardened air, only a few feet above him, watching. Aldon cursed silently as she motioned for him to get up and try again. He swore he would master this faster if she wasn't teaching him, if anyone but her was teaching him. He would have preferred Archie. Or even John.

"But why us?" John had asked, frowning, when Aldon had dared to ask. "Monster is the one who is actually good at magical dance. The two of us, we just know the basics."

"And she's planned your complete choreography, so really, you need to learn it from her," Archie had chimed in with a bit of a grin. "She needs to work with you to see your progress, and to adjust her choreography if you don't master some of the techniques in time."

"Though, she hasn't made the lead role very hard," John had added, his frown clearing in favour of a teasing smile of his own. Aldon had glared at him, convinced it had to be a lie, even if his core wasn't ringing. He had seen the routine – Francesca had made John run through it once with her, before even getting him started on the air hardening spell.

The routine she had developed was stunning. She had written a choreography matching the story that Aldon was trying to tell, basing it off an old wizarding legend, the Dark Lord who fell for the Light Lady. It was set to the timing of an English waltz, and she slowly drew John into the air, letting him find his feet. She did have a technically difficult routine, because the lead, as the Dark Lord, tried to reject her three times, sending her into a solo pass each time so wrenchingly compelling that he couldn't help but try to follow her, gravitating almost against his will after her.

"It's as much acting as it actual dancing," Archie had said, watching beside him with a thoughtful look on his face. "See the expression John is wearing? That conflict? You've got to master that, too. Except better, because John is pants at acting."

Somehow, Aldon didn't think that would be difficult. Repressed desire, the feeling of falling for someone he shouldn't, that was a feeling to which he was quickly becoming all too accustomed. Letting it show on his face instead of hiding it, that should be no problem at all.

The routine, over the course of only three minutes, brought the Dark Lord into the Light Lady's orbit, took him against his own better judgement to her side. The central minute was pure love story: the lovers danced in perfect harmony, very traditional except for a few embellishments that Aldon thought he would be able to master easily, two spins where he held her by the hand, and a dip. The final minute was conflict, again – illusion magic standing in for the world, tearing them apart, and their seeking to be together despite it. There was a final throw, and from Aldon's perspective, it was the most difficult section for him because it was when he had to move, and move fast. Francesca, as the Light Lady, could tumble – he had to get down to the ground using something she called the modified stairwell descent, a controlled fall that didn't look like a fall, to catch her at the end of the tumble-pass.

"Pretty basic," John had panted, when they had finished. "Monster has planned to manage all the illusion magic, too, so you just need to work out the air-hardening spell and a few technical moves, really."

Basic, Aldon couldn't help thinking, with a small scowl as he picked himself up. He had been at it for three days, and he was still on mastering and maintaining the air-hardening spell. He either lost focus, and the spell, as soon as he started looking to the next steps, or he stumbled when he first tried to move, and fell. The air hardening rune only created blocks of eight inches square for him to balance on, and he had never realized that eight inches square was so small.

"You, um. You need to concentrate," Francesca said gently, coming closer to him. She stepped down towards him, as if she were on a set of stairs, hovering effortlessly a foot off the ground, and touched him briefly, hesitantly, on his stomach. "And fix your posture – keep your core tight, and you'll fall less. Your physical core, I mean, not your magical one."

She was different in person, he thought. Or maybe he was different. Being there was different – in person, Aldon could see the way that her dark eyes shone when she was pleased, even if that was rarely reflected in her lips. He could smell the light strawberry scent wafting off her hair, he could feel her soft sighs as she watched his frankly disastrous attempts to get into the air and stay there without falling to the ground.

They didn't talk – not the way they did on communication orb, not the way they had for months on end. She was someone who knew some of Aldon's deepest secrets, but there was never any hint of it when they were face to face. She said little, speaking only enough to give him instructions, to guide him in the air-hardening spell. It had gotten to the point where sometimes, he would get home and look at his pretty green orb, and he would think about calling her, finding out what was wrong, but he never did. It felt silly, when she was right there in Britain with him, when he met with her in person every single day. Maybe he needed to meet with her alone, but he pushed that thought away – meeting her alone was a thousand times more improper than merely talking to her, late at night, when she was an ocean away.

She didn't smile at him. Indeed, she barely looked at him. Even when they danced, feet solidly on the ground, just an opportunity for her to see his skills without magic involved, she kept her eyes fixed firmly downwards, glancing at his shirt instead of his face as he guided her through a very traditional waltz. Her hand in his was warm, trembling a little, though she danced better than any pureblood noble girl of Aldon's acquaintance. With two-inch heels, she was the perfect height for him. He swallowed – the waltz felt too close, too intimate, when she was the one in his arms.

And he had to do it all in the air. He had to throw her, and catch her, and everything in between each of the technically difficult jigsaw pieces that formed the elegant, glorious picture painted at the end. And he wanted that picture – Francesca Lam was the most beautiful woman he had ever met, and she was brilliant and sensitive and sweet and a little obsessive about her ACD and frighteningly anxious about so many things, and the choreography she had planned was perfect because she was perfect in all her imperfections and he wanted it. He wanted the story he was trying to sell, he desperately wanted the fairy tale he was drawing in the air to be true.

But it wasn't true, he told himself, every time he pulled himself upright from another fall to the floor, every time he stepped smoothly into the air, slowly understanding the technique needed to balance and hold the spell. It wasn't true, he reminded himself, every time he touched her delicate hands, her tiny waist in the coolly impersonal touch of the waltz. It wasn't true, it was too good to ever be true, and it was probably better for her, he thought, if it wasn't true. Who was Aldon Blake? Aldon Blake was no one at all.

He wasn't the only one preparing. Hermione, too, was learning how to dance, since Archie had to take her out on the floor at least once over the night – a skill that, apparently, the harpy had never learned. She was, if anything, more frustrated with her lessons than Aldon, and she didn't even need to learn any magic. She took frequent breaks, one of which Archie had used serenade her, which was quite probably the most disturbingly overt demonstration of love Aldon had ever seen in his life. It was utterly horrific, but on the bright side, Hermione had nearly died of embarrassment. Even Francesca had giggled at the scene, her dark eyes shining in amusement.

Neal Queenscove was excited – apparently his entire family, as well as a few of his cousins, his best friend, Keladry Mindelan, and his girlfriend, Yukimi Daiomaru, would be coming. His house-elves, pleased both with a happy Lord and excited over their first year with someone in residence, had gone overboard with decorations. A massive tree looped with gold and silver dominated his great hall, long strings of baubles lined his hallways, and soft, warm fires lit in any room where anyone might spend any time. There were even never-melting icicles on his battlements.

Aldon had been at Queenscove walking Neal and his mother through Wizarding British formal event etiquette, when the Floo, passworded twice over, spat out Neal's father, Baird Queenscove, and two of his siblings.

"Baird!" Neal's mother had been on her feet immediately, an indescribable wave of emotion coming across her face as she ran towards the fireplace, leaping the last few feet towards her husband. Baird Queenscove, almost a full head taller than her, caught her easily and wrapped his arms tightly around her.

"Mei!" Neal's father had a kind voice, a tenor that rang through the great hall. "Oh, Mei. I missed you."

"And I, you," Neal's mother replied, her voice thick with emotion. Aldon blinked – in the past few months of knowing her, he had only seen Mei Ling Song as a powerful, somewhat domineering mother, and he would never have expected a woman who would throw herself on her husband. He thought she might even be sniffling a little against Baird's shirt collar.

"It's easy to forget, when you interact with her, that Mama did run away from home to be with Papa," Neal murmured dryly in Aldon's ear. He nodded at someone that Aldon thought had to be his elder brother, and his younger sister. "Graeme, Jessa, bienvenue! Laissez vos bagages ici, the house-elves will handle them, and if you head upstairs, I'm sure the castle will lead you to your rooms."

"The castle." Graeme Queenscove repeated, in a tone of mixed horror and fascination. He had Neal's exact shade of brown hair and green eyes, though he was built stocky rather than lean. "The castle will lead us to our rooms."

"Comme c'est beau," Jessa Queenscove murmured, barely above a whisper, staring around the great hall in wonder. She was her mother in miniature, save for her green eyes – those had to be a Queenscove trait, Aldon guessed. "Tiens, it even has you on a tapestry, Neal!"

"Not me," Neal winced, a little sheepishly. "It has to be one of our ancestors, c'était ici quand je suis arrivé. And yes, the castle itself can show you your rooms – it's a bit of a sentient castle, see?"

"Sure, an ancestor." Graeme snorted, shaking his head, seemingly impressed and aghast all at once. "I cannot believe that this is your life, little bro. Do you have lists?"

"I do have lists, and they are amazing," Neal replied with a grin, waving a hand towards the doors in the direction of his training grounds. "The castle even keeps it clear for me, no need to shovel."

"Tabernak." Graeme whistled under his breath, impressed.

"Et toi, Neal, you are going out to those lists with me, now," a new voice rang out, from the direction of the stairs. Aldon turned around, spotting someone who had to be Neal's other brother – dark hair or not, the green eyes, currently sparking in annoyance, didn't lie. Neither did the sword in his fist, already out and spitting sparks. William Queenscove, second eldest, future politician, currently a political analyst with the Canadian delegation at the International Confederation of Wizards. Aldon caught a light hint of French dusting his words – he must have gone to one of the French or bilingual schools. "Why do Tina and I have separate bedrooms?"

Neal shrugged, turning to face his other brother, keeping his own sword tucked in non-being. "The castle insisted. I think it thinks that since you aren't married, it would be improper for you two to share a bedroom."

William glared at his younger brother, pointing at him with his sword. "But you're the Lord, aren't you? Fix it."

"I can't," Neal replied, entirely honest even if he was smirking. He leaned back against the table where Aldon had been talking him through the typical schedule for any formal event, crossing his arms across his chest. "I really can't. The castle is surprisingly intractable on this point."

"Babe, it's fine." A woman who could only be the mysterious Tina appeared at William's shoulder, a laugh on her face. Aldon blinked again, taken aback – she looked so much like John, with the same thick eyebrows and prominent nose, that he suddenly had the very strong impression that this had to be Tina Kowalski, John's elder sister. "We can live with separate bedrooms for two weeks. C'est juste deux semaines – Neal, the rooms are fine. It's fine, tout est okay. Will, come on, let's get back to unpacking."

"C'est pas okay, Tina," Will snapped at her, green eyes flashing. "If it was just the rooms, that would be one thing, but the stupid castle won't even let us close the door for some privacy! We've shared a room for more than three years, if you count our seventh year at Collège, and I don't want to have separate rooms. We aren't children, we are common law spouses, and I would like to be treated as such!"

Aldon almost blushed, looking away, embarrassed for John's sister even if she had cracked up, her loud laughter now filling the room as Neal's other family members chuckled. He could guess what must have transpired – they had wanted to close the door of one of their bedrooms to engage in certain other activities, only to find that the castle itself, quite properly, had stymied them because they were unmarried. And now William was quite upset about this and was airing it to all and sundry in the great hall. Did no one else see any problem with this? Where was Tina's father? Where was John, even, to look out for her reputation?

"Common law spouses are not spouses," Neal said, deadpan, though his eyes were crinkled in amusement. "You aren't married, Will. C'est pas la même chose."

"It should be the same thing," Will groused, flicking his sword towards Neal in a motion of readiness. "This is discrimination, Neal. I want it fixed."

"If you want to be technical, Will, we aren't even common law yet – the legal definition is three years of cohabitation, and they aren't going to be counting boarding school in that," Tina added, straightening from where she had been doubled over in laughter, wiping her eyes quickly. She still had a bright smile on her face, and her brown eyes were dancing in mischief. "We have another six months to go before we even hit common law status. And I'm pretty sure that only applies in Canada, not in Switzerland."

Will turned around, glaring at her too, though Aldon saw that his sword was lowered when he faced her. "Et tu, Tina? Whose side are you on, anyway?"

She shrugged. "I just think you're making a big deal out of nothing. It's two weeks, Will. Deux semaines. And we'll be back in our apartment in Geneva and can sleep however we want to sleep there."

"Two weeks is too many weeks," Will muttered, turning back towards Neal. "Maman et Papa are fine with us sharing a room. Tina's parents are fine with us sharing a room. And meanwhile, my own little brother—"

Well, that answered Aldon's questions about where Tina's family was in all of this. They, apparently, were happy and willing participants in this whole disgraceful state of affairs, and Aldon was flummoxed. He felt like he should be defending the castle, as strange as it sounded, but he had no idea what to say. Of course, William and Tina could not and should not share a room without being married, but he didn't know how to explain why to these people. It was improper – it was just improper, and it damaged her reputation, but he could already imagine the strange look that Neal and his family would give him if he said so.

"So, propose." Neal rolled his eyes, though from the expression on his face, Aldon didn't think that he actually expected anything of the like to happen. "Get yourself a ring and propose. Not that hard, Will."

William flushed, and Aldon couldn't help but frown a little.

"We're – we're waiting, Neal, I explained that," William stammered, his ears red. "Because we're too young, and everyone says that young marriages never work out, and a few years of cohabitation never hurt anyone. We can wait until our careers settle a bit, and – and you're still coming with me into the lists, because this is still somehow your fault."

Neal sighed, dramatic, plucking his sword out of non-being. "If you insist. I'll thrash you, Will, and you know it."

"I think I will take that as my cue to leave," Aldon said, shuffling his papers into a stack on the table. Neal and his family could read over his notes at their own leisure, and he was deeply uncomfortable with the attitude of general humour and complete nonchalance that the whole Queenscove family had over this scene. Marriage, he thought, was important. "I'm concerned that your lack of propriety might be contagious."

Unfortunately, more impropriety was inevitable, because he had accepted an invitation to Grimmauld Place for Christmas. Or rather, Aldon had declined, until he remembered that being there would let him see Francesca's reaction to his gift, and he did want to see that. And then, Archie had spotted the split second of weakness and pounced, making such a fuss that Aldon had eventually just given in. He had pulled that look, again, the one that Harriett used to use at Hogwarts when she wanted something, though he had adapted it with age to be less childish and more disappointed.

On Christmas Day, he had breakfast with his mother, a full spread with bacon, eggs, sausages and toast that he knew Christie had worked hard to cook. Aldon only picked out a few eggshells from his eggs, and he didn't have the heart to tell her that he hated having greasy foods for breakfast and would have been perfectly happy with those wonderful cheese croissants she was always picking up from the fancy bakery down the street. Instead, he told her it was delicious, ignoring the discomfort both in his stomach and his magical core as he did so.

She smiled at him, a little sadly, and Aldon knew that, ungifted she might be, she had seen right through him. "You don't have to lie, you know. I just – I thought it would be nice, a home-cooked meal on Christmas Day. And breakfast is easier to make than dinner."

Aldon sighed, an awkward breath. "You really don't have to force yourself," he muttered, reaching for his mug of coffee, the best thing on the spread. "It's enough that you give me a place to stay. I really – I think you have this impression that at Rosier Place, I had home-cooked family meals all the time, but that was Ummi and the house-elves. Takeaway is fine, the bakery around the corner is fine."

There was a moment of silence, before Christie spoke, more wistful than anything else. "I wanted to, though. Because it's something I never got to do for you growing up."

Aldon coughed, looking away, not sure how to respond. His attention caught on the wrapped gifts under the tree. There were more than he had expected – at Rosier Place, Aldon's tree had been in his private parlour, heavily decorated with a dozen meaningless gifts under it. New robes from his mother, who seemed to have settled on a standard gift early on and always gave him new robes. Books about Quidditch that he only skimmed, or Quidditch paraphernalia he would never use. Once, a broom, a Firebolt, that he never flew. A wizarding chess set that was more useful as a hiding place for his contraband than anything else. Christie's tree was tiny, the decorations askew, but there was still something about it infinitely warmer than his tree at Rosier Place had been.

"Er." Aldon cleared his throat, getting up to fetch one gift from under the tree. It was poorly wrapped, the corners a little floppy, since he had never wrapped anything by himself before. "I bought you a gift."

Christie laughed a little, reaching for it, and Aldon noticed the care she took to unfold every one of his clumsy corners. It was a simple scarf, made of a fine wool, patterned in a soft sort of plaid that he thought she would like. Her brown eyes lit up.

"Burberry," she said, running one finger over the soft fabric. "You shouldn't have, Aldon."

Aldon only cleared his throat again, looking away. It was just a scarf, and admittedly he hadn't thought much before buying it. And he had to get her something, he felt, for turning her life on its head. "It's, er, nothing."

She smiled again, more brightly this time, and fetched a gift of her own out from under the tree. "Here, Aldon," she said, offering it to him. "My gift."

It was a book – it was obviously a book, even before Aldon opened it, which he did with almost the care that Christie herself had used in opening his gift, he knew. That wasn't natural to him, typically at home he would have left his presents unopened for several days, then quickly rip into them when he was packing to return to Hogwarts, just to see if there was anything worth taking along with him. There usually wasn't.

It was a treatise on magical theory, a classic, generalist text that Aldon had heard about but never managed to obtain. It was banned in Wizarding Britain, not merely censored, not merely something he had to special order through Flourish and Blotts and then sign a waiver to accept. She had to have had it shipped months ago. It was thoughtful, and useful, and tailored precisely to him, a better present than he had ever received from his parents.

"Thank you," he said, meaning it, but Christie only smiled, gesturing down at his new book.

"Open it," she said, her voice carrying a hint of mischief.

Aldon raised an eyebrow, then flipped open the front cover. There was a folded sheet of paper on the inside. VOUCHER, it said in huge letters, and Aldon unfolded it to read the words, REDEEMABLE FOR ONE MASTERY PROGRAM.

"It's – well, your father said that you had always planned on doing a mastery after finishing at Hogwarts. Obviously, over the summer, things took a turn, but I wanted you to know that you can still go." Christie looked down, twisting her fingers in her lap. "You would still need to apply for and get into a program, but I mean – you could take a leave from work. I can cover the cost of a two-year Mastery program anywhere you like, and it's – it's—"

"It's safer abroad," Aldon finished for her, folding the slip of paper and tucking it back in the book. Wizarding Britain was becoming more dangerous – that much was obvious, between the Marriage Law, Lord Voldemort, and his own activities. Aldon was right in the middle of it, and he was even fairly certain Christie knew that. But the thought was kind. "I – I will use this one day, even if it's not next year, or even the year after. Thank you."

That wasn't his only gift. The moment he arrived at Grimmauld Place, a few minutes late because he had helped Christie greet her guests at her own catered party, Archie dragged him into the sitting room. The Blacks had a tree, done in blue and gold, though Aldon was surprised to see that there were no presents under it. Instead, there were several piles of presents throughout the room; Aldon understood only when Archie pushed him towards one of the piles, a small one of only a few gifts. His own, unless he missed his guess – with a few more than he had expected, if truth be told.

"You're the last one here!" Archie said, his grey eyes bright with excitement and, Aldon guessed, either too little sleep or too much coffee. Possibly both. "Come on, we couldn't start without you, and I've been waiting all morning to open presents!"

Aldon raised an eyebrow but didn't reply, instead simply handing Archie his own stack of gifts for everyone. Scanning the room, he saw that the Lord Black was looking indulgent, happy, though there was a worn sort of worry to him as well. Lupin was sitting on the sofa beside him, with Archie and Hermione both on the floor. John had taken the only armchair, with Francesca perched on the arm.

There were no seats left for him, but Aldon, whether it was as a Rosier or as a Blake, did not sit on floors. He could go to the kitchen and fetch a chair, or better yet, just summon one, but something about that option seemed too conspicuous and possibly a little rude. Then again, it was rude not to provide him with a chair or other seating arrangement, so he debated with himself internally for a moment before he spotted the unused footstool in front of the armchair. He considered the round, cushioned object.

"Come on, Aldon," Archie insisted, reaching already for his first present in a stack somewhat larger than Aldon's. "Sit down! It's presents time!"

Aldon ignored him. The footstool would suffice, he decided, and fetched it to bring to his small pile, settling in for what he expected would be a trying day of watching Archie and his friends open presents. He hadn't really expected anyone to get him any gifts – he had always given something small to Ed and Alice, his only friends in the past, and they had usually reciprocated with small items as well, but he did not know what etiquette was governing here. Truth be told, he still wasn't entirely sure that Archie or his friends followed any etiquette whatsoever, nor was he sure what to think of many of them.

Archie himself was overwhelmingly excitable and enthusiastic, for all that he had a serious side, while his girlfriend Hermione simply didn't bear thinking about. John was openly friendly, and four months ago, Aldon would have cautiously called him a good acquaintance, perhaps even the beginnings of a friend, but something had changed. There was a certain coolness to John's words to him now, and Aldon would sometimes catch the large boy studying him, a considering frown on his face, when he thought that Aldon wasn't watching. He had checked his mental shields, multiple times, but he didn't think that they were being disturbed. Then again, he didn't know – even with the textbooks that John had sent him from America, Aldon would not trust his skills as an Occlumens against a Natural Legilimens.

But there was also Francesca, and whatever her friends were like, she was there, and Aldon without a shred of uncertainty did like her. She sat, balanced on the arm of the chair closest to the fire, her ankles crossed and her legs swinging a little towards the flames. A small smile graced her face as she watched her friends open their presents.

Archie's pile of gifts, larger than the others, was almost surprising – aside from Aldon's contribution of a science fiction novel, there were piles of Muggle classic novels, play tickets from Hermione to something in the West End, a Potions-based, experimental emergency Healing kit from Harriett, and advanced Healing and Potions texts from his other family members. There was little by way of pranking items or Quidditch gear, as Aldon might have expected for such a boisterous teenager. Indeed, it seemed as if most of those had gone to John instead, who got new Quodpot gear for his annual attempt to get onto the AIM Quodpot team, new Beater gloves and a box of Marauder pranking items among a mix of books and CDs.

Hermione's expression, opening Aldon's gift after a series of other books, was absolutely priceless. There was a moment of surprise that Aldon had even gotten her a gift, then a flash of shock and offense as she opened it.

"Etiquette for All Occasions," she read, a suspicious look crawling over her face as she flipped open the front cover. "I might consider taking a few lessons before the Ball?"

"It would seem to be in your best interests." Aldon smirked, waiting for the inevitable fury, but to his surprise the girl only smirked in reply.

"Well, now I don't feel bad at all," she commented, shooting Archie a satisfied look. "I told you Aldon would never get me a present, and if he did it would be somehow a joke."

Aldon glared at her suspiciously, but it was only a few minutes later that he was forced to unwrap his own presents. He dug through his pile, deeming it best to simply get Hermione's present over with, and found hers with ease. He unwrapped it with a sense of caution – for all he knew, the harpy had rigged it to blow up in his face.

Instead, he pulled out a book.

"On the Vindication of the Rights of Women," he read, frowning, a scowl coming across his face. "Mary Wollstonecraft. Hermione, I am perfectly respectful of women!"

"In a fifteenth-century sort of sense, maybe," she retorted, her arms crossed over her chest. "That will bring you to, hmm, late seventeenth century. We can go from there."

He was also distinctly unimpressed with his present from Archie and the Lord Black, a very Muggle-looking leather motorcycle jacket. He pulled it out, heavy in its packaging, not even bothering to hide his expression of distaste. The leather was a shiny black, slick to the touch, and marked with a dozen zippers hiding tiny pockets that were too small to ever be useful for anything. The only good thing he could say about it was that it looked small, and maybe it wouldn't fit him.

"Put it on, put it on!" Archie grinned, his grey eyes lit with eager anticipation.

Aldon grimaced. "It doesn't look like it'll fit," he said, his voice carrying a hint of hope.

"It'll fit," Archie replied confidently. "Try it on! I bet you'll look great."

Aldon glared at him, not finding any way to refuse – or rather, he could refuse, but he somehow had the suspicion that his refusal would go nowhere, and he would shortly find himself putting on the ridiculous jacket anyway. He picked it up, a little gingerly, and slid one arm into one long sleeve.

It was quilted on the inside, surprisingly warm and comfortable, and with something like dread he slipped his other arm into the other sleeve and pulled it on properly, zipping it up. The main zipper was asymmetrical, ending under almost under his ear. It fit; he shouldn't have doubted Archie, not when the boy had taken his shopping for his Muggle wardrobe, so of course it fit. He looked around for a mirror, and the Lord Black conjured one quickly in the air.

It didn't just fit, it fit well. He looked different, a little wild, a little dangerous – he looked like someone who did not care about propriety. He was fairly certain that he hated it, or, at least, that he should hate it. He ran his fingers through his hair, self-conscious.

"I like it," Francesca announced, looking him over with an odd look on her face. Half surprise, half something else that was hard to read. "I think it looks good."

"It looks great," Archie corrected, beaming. "Fits like a glove!"

Aldon scowled at him but couldn't find it within himself to say anything as he pulled the jacket off and folded it neatly in his lap. It did fit well. And it was warm. And he supposed he did need a better winter coat, given how much it rained in London in the winter. His coat that he had bought was good enough for a light rain, but anything too heavy still soaked through and he hadn't gotten around to putting an Impermeable Charm on it.

There was one final, tiny box at the bottom of his pile – it had been on the top of his stack, but he had set it aside in his search for Hermione's prank gift. It was well-wrapped, each fold pristine, and he couldn't help but be careful unwrapping it. He had opened his gifts from everyone else, and no one could miss the giant, handwritten, tag on top, Francesca's slanted, messy cursive reading To Aldon, From Francesca. There was a black box beneath the shiny, iridescent packaging, and he pulled it open.

It was a set of cufflinks, nestled in dark blue tissue paper. He picked them out, examining them – woven silver runes, in the Chinese system, on a silver back and covered in a hard, shiny, clear plastic.

"They're, um, the runes for a sword and shield," Francesca said, her voice small. "Um, I experimented a little – if you wind three small wires together, and coat with resin, it holds the spell. It, um, decays kind of fast, in only about a day instead of the usual, um, week, but I couldn't, um, do any further experiments because I was running out of time…"

Her voice trailed off and she looked away, her cheeks red, and Aldon coughed, clearing this throat. "Thank you, Francesca," he said, looking at her even if she was staring at the fire as if it were the most fascinating thing she had ever seen. "Even this, I am sure, was an achievement. I appreciate it."

He watched her open her pile of gifts with rather more attention that he had paid to Archie, or John, or anyone else. To something like relief, he wasn't the only one to give her jewellery – Archie, the Lord Black and Remus Lupin had combined on a pair of dangling earrings with a matching necklace. He watched as she unwrapped a thick sweater from Hermione, which Archie had probably picked out, then a traditional tea ceremony set from John and his family, one that Francesca had apparently been eyeing for a while and which she opened with no surprises. When it came to his own present, Aldon couldn't help but flush a little – his box stood out, wrapped in red, the sticky tape somehow a little messy even when he tried to use magic to make everything even. There was a spell for wrapping things, but he had never learned it.

She was worse than his mother, carefully unfolding each corner of the box, tongue trapped between her teeth as she tried not to rip the paper. Archie hadn't done that – he had simply ripped into his gifts eagerly, tossing the paper away on the floor to be cleaned later, or into the crackling fire. Francesca unwrapped each object carefully, then she folded the paper into a neat square and set it aside. Aldon wasn't sure what she intended to do with all the paper.

She pried the lid off the box, and Aldon stared at her face, breath held discreetly for her reaction. The comb was perfect for her, gold and pearls shining in the firelight, and she picked it up, rotating it in her fingers. Her mouth was opened in shock, her expression awed as she reached up and slid it into her hair.

"It's – um, it's beautiful, Aldon," she said, her dark eyes wide. She wasn't smiling, but the expression on her face – surprise, gratitude, something else that Aldon couldn't quite read – was better than a smile. She had smiled at her other gifts, giggling and thanking the person who gave it with grace, but only Aldon's had given her this expression. "I – I don't know what to say. Thank you."

Aldon ignored the speculative look that Archie and the Lord Black were now fixing him with, as well as Hermione's slight frown and John's open scowl. "It's nothing," he said instead, even if it was nothing of the like.

She wore his gift, shining in her hair, the entire night.

XXX

Pansy stared down at the sheaf of parchment. She didn't need to read it – she had read it maybe four times over by now, looking something, anything objectionable. The closest she could get were the terms for the Parkinson Wizengamot seat, in which she would be permitted to sit (as if she needed anyone's permission) and which her second-born child would inherit (if she was able to bear a second child). The terms were good, better than anything she had received previously, better than anything she could expect from a noble Heir. She would have preferred to marry a second son, or a non-noble to elevate into the nobility, but second sons were even rarer in her generation than previous, and her father had refused to countenance a non-noble son-in-law. It was hypocritical in the extreme, Pansy considered, because her father himself had been elevated into the nobility.

He would tell her, though, that he had still come from a noble, Book of Silver family. He was only just distant enough from the main line not to be considered noble himself, from one of the numerous lesser Avery branches. Pansy gritted her teeth for a moment – if it were not for her father's intransigence on this point, her options would be much broader. But her husband had to be a noble, and her father's reaction when she had, more out of desperation than genuine hope, pitched Aldon Blake-formerly-Rosier as an option, had put paid to that idea. Aldon was not noble, and nobility was non-negotiable.

Admittedly, Aldon was a poor example, but she hadn't been able to think of anyone better. Scandalous or not, Aldon has been raised noble and he was the bastard son of Lord Rosier, still in line for the seat. She wrote him regularly, but his brief, friendly replies never mentioned where he might be, and he always used her owl to respond.

She was past sixteen. Good noble girls had secured arrangements by now. She was, or she had always tried to appear to be, a good noble girl. She might enjoy toying with people, her personality might flex from day to day on her whims, but she knew her duty to House Parkinson. She had to marry, and she had to bear children (at least two, if she wanted the Parkinson seat to remain alive), and the Malfoys had given her a good offer.

She stood up, glancing at the gleaming Parkinson crest hanging over the mantle of her fireplace. She would go outside, take a walk in the brisk winter air. Maybe there would be unicorns, or other creatures crossing over the Parkinson grounds, and they could help her clear her head. It was hard to be upset when a unicorn was nudging its nose under her hand for more pats, and they didn't reply or judge her when she whispered to them the things she could say to no one else. Even of there weren't unicorns, she could go to the stables, talk to the two Abraxans they kept, and that her mother loved.

She pulled on her boots in the entryway, solid brown leather boots that were perhaps a little larger and clunkier than anyone might expect her to wear, still mulling over the Malfoy offer. She liked Draco. Not as a lover, but Draco was easily her best friend. He could be short-sighted, and he was perhaps a little fixed in his beliefs, but he was also kind and he had the capacity for change. He was far better than anyone else she had received an offer from, and she shuddered at the thought of any of her other offers touching her like that. Draco, she could tolerate, but she was not her mother, deeply in love with her father though she thought he cared just as much for the Parkinson title, wealth, and name as he did for her. Were Rose Parkinson not the Heir Parkinson, now the Lady Parkinson, Pansy had sometimes wondered whether her father would have ever looked at her mother.

The air outside was cold on her face, the wind whipping her blonde hair into disarray. She pushed her hair out of her face, twisting it into a knot at the nape of her neck and fixing it with a quick Stability Charm. The ground was hard, not completely frozen, and the thin layer of snow was dirty, mixed with the mud underneath. Her boots were spelled to keep out the wet and shuck off the muck, so she didn't worry about the state of the grounds as she strode off to the nearest copse of trees.

Draco didn't deserve someone who would merely tolerate him. That sort of thinking was discouraged, in her world, but she couldn't help the thought anyway. Love marriages were the province of rebels, of the wild noble girls who shirked their duty and ran off with wholly inappropriate men, and Pansy was not one of them. But Draco was kind, and he would try to love whomever his parents married him to, and he would be faithful, and he deserved someone who loved him romantically and not only as a friend. She wanted better than that for him, for her best friend.

It was an irony, she thought. Until now, until she stood on the brink of having to make a decision, she had wanted to get married. She had wanted a husband, she had wanted children – and she still wanted a husband and children, one day. She was capable of romantic love, she sighed over just as many romances as the other girls at school, if less overtly so, and she was even sexually attracted to men and women both. She was attracted to Harry Potter, both in her guise as Rigel Black and as herself, and she had to admit that Ronald Weasley was developing into a fine specimen of a man. But, nobility aside, her parents would never consider a Weasley, so she hadn't even tried – even though Ronald Weasley was the only one who would face her on a duelling ground and treat her as an equal. Yes, she still beat him, but unlike literally all the other boys, he at least tried against her.

Why did she have to make this decision now? She was sixteen. She wanted other things from her life – she was doing brilliantly in Arithmancy and a Mastery Program was sounding more and more interesting by day. She wanted to see the world a little, travel to more places than just France where she was sequestered in small rooms meeting potential marriage partners. She wanted to travel to Wizarding China, Russia, the Americas, Japan, see the things that she wanted to see instead of being led around on a carefully prepared tour. She wanted to sit in her own Wizengamot seat, because it was hers, she wanted to be a political player on her own instead of standing on the sidelines and allowing her husband to do it for her.

At least the last one was addressed by the Malfoy offer, which is what made it better than all her other offers. Why was it that, on marriage, women simply ceased to exist as entities in and of themselves? She wanted, one day, to be a wife and a mother, but she was still her, wasn't she? Pansy Parkinson, wife and mother, was still the same person as Pansy Parkinson, who liked creatures and duelling and manipulating people and events to her own desires, wasn't she?

She kicked at the ground a little, stamping clear a small circle of snow in front of a fallen tree trunk, long one of her favourite spots to sit and reflect on her life. She brushed the snow off, drying the old wood with a modified, intense, Heating Charm, so the water would rise as steam into the cold, frozen air. She sat down heavily, setting her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in her hands.

She knew the answer to these questions. A noble wife was expected to set her own desires and her own ambitions aside to support her husband and raise her children. Noble women who had their own careers shirked their duties to their families, and even if it was becoming more common as a result of economic circumstance, it was not ideal. It was scandalous for a noblewoman to take orders from a social inferior, or worse, from any customer who walked in off the street. And Mastery programs – thirty years ago, those would have been fine, but now the timing was all wrong. The new theories were that if Pansy spaced her children out enough, having one at seventeen or eighteen and another ten years later, her second child would be less susceptible to the Fade. Conceivably, Pansy could have her first child at eighteen and then complete her mastery, but Draco was her only suitor likely to even consider the possibility, and his parents certainly would not. Realistically, Pansy's options were to get married directly after Hogwarts and forgoing her Mastery or completing her Mastery and risking her eligibility for marriage, and her concomitant opportunity for children at all.

There were other things she could do. She could leave the country, or marry a non-British wizard, a pureblood from France or elsewhere on the Continent who would likely be more open to waiting for children or to her obtaining a Mastery later. She had investigated those options at length, but the problem was that of the possibilities she had met, the ones of whom her father had approved, they had all required that Pansy leave Britain and reside on the Continent at least for part of the year.

She looked up, through the openings in the trees, through which she could just see her childhood home. Parkinson Palace was made of gleaming white stone, with graceful columns holding up the roof, built with wide, open courtyards and spaces made to bring in the outside. The windows were huge, and nearly every one had a comfortable, cushioned window seat. Numerous skylights that brought in even more sun. Her home was built to work with the nature around it, appropriate for an Estate that doubled as a magical creature sanctuary.

From where she sat, in the woods close to her home, she could hear the slap of the waves on the shoreline and smell the brine of the sea. Parkinson Palace was on the coast, on a small inlet that housed a merpeople colony, several rare species of salamanders, and one of Wizarding Britain's only remaining habitats of flying seahorses. She heard a small peep, and she turned to see a Golden Snidget whip by her, one of the very rare birds that had almost been hunted to extinction for Quidditch games before the Golden Snitch was invented. She barely saw the small bird before he disappeared, back into some bushes on the other side.

She would have to bring out some treats for him later, she thought, a small, sad smile coming across her face. It was winter, and the Snidgets couldn't find much by way of food in the cold forests of her home. They were so endangered, and she had to look out for them, where she could.

There was a whicker behind her, and she turned around to see a unicorn, picking its way through the snow towards her. A male, seventeen hands tall, and his bright horn gleamed in the light. She smiled, reaching out to beckon him closer. The Parkinsons had always had a unicorn herd on their estates, though with the risk of poachers, she rarely mentioned them other than to the closest of her friends. This unicorn was named Voronwë, and he had been born on the Estate some ten years ago. Pansy had practically grown up with him, and he came closer to her, nuzzling into her hair.

"I know," she murmured to him, scratching his nose. "Yes, I'm upset. I don't want to leave you, see?"

He didn't understand, but he nosed at her anyway, trying to comfort her.

Pansy was British. British-born, and British-raised, and she was a Parkinson. She loved her glorious, beautiful home, and she loved the magical creatures that the Parkinsons had protected on their estate for generations. It was hard enough to leave it all for Hogwarts, so how could she leave it for a marriage abroad? If she married Draco, she might not be able to live at Parkinson Palace, but she would be close enough to check on her beloved creatures often, several times a week. Perhaps she would even be able to convince Draco to live at Parkinson Palace much of the time, an option that wouldn't be available for her if she went abroad. Pansy couldn't leave her home, her creatures, and she would do everything in her power to protect and preserve her home and her estate for the creatures that lived there.

And she did want to get married one day. She did want to have children. She did not want to be a leftover, undesirable because of her age and education, and she was running out of time to reply to her offers.

The Malfoys were making a very large concession by allowing Pansy to sit in the Parkinson seat rather than forcing her to give her proxy to Draco. They made a second huge concession by stating that Pansy's second-born child would be the Parkinson Heir, and a third by letting her choose to keep her own name. She was unlikely to get a better offer from anyone else. The Lord Malfoy had been extremely generous in trying to secure her hand in an attempt to distract Draco from Harry.

She didn't have a choice. For all her scheming and allies and nearly perfect grades, if she wanted to remain here, in Britain, in Society, if she wanted to protect her home, she didn't have a choice. There was only one right answer for her House.

She took a long, deep breath of cold air, feeling it freeze her from the inside out, one last breath of something almost like freedom. She patted Voronwë on the nose, promising him that she would be out later with a few cubes of sugar for him and the herd.

Then she went inside and told her father that she would accept the Malfoy offer.

XXX

Francesca stared at the mirror, considering her face and hair. Her hair was too short, now – it hadn't grown out enough for her to curl it into the big, loose waves she liked for formal events. She would have to leave it straight tonight, even if she thought the hint of movement made her prettier.

Maybe that was best, she thought, reaching for her box of makeup. It was a larger box than her usual travel set, since she had expected a formal event. Aldon wanted to tell a fantastical fairy tale about falling in love, and Francesca had to be the right person for him to fixate on. She had to be beautiful, but she also had to be naturally beautiful, because she had to be the kind of beautiful that would draw someone like Aldon Blake: Truth-Speaker, Justice's Chosen, someone who could see through lies, illusions, and, probably, makeup charms. Anything obviously fake would be unbelievable, so she reached for the neutral colours.

Francesca was pretty. She worked hard at being pretty, but she wasn't pretty enough for this. Aldon wanted Helen of Troy on his arm tonight, and Francesca was not Helen of Troy. The whole concept of going to the Ball was terrifying, and she was going to be stared at and judged by hundreds of strange, unfriendly Wizarding British elite, and she hated it. She wondered if she would even be able to balance Aldon's sharp good looks.

Because Aldon Blake was handsome. There it was, writ stark, and she reached for the false eyelashes and glue. He was shorter than most, probably only five foot seven on a good day, but he was built slender and elegant. And he could dance – better than Archie, better than John, better than anyone she had met who wasn't competing against her in America. He had picked up the air-hardening rune within a week, then the other choreography, including the modified stairwell descent, in only a few days.

When she dared to think about it, Aldon Blake was scarily handsome. She wasn't sure how she had never noticed over the summer, or how she had managed to forget how sharply good-looking he was, but she had come back to Britain, and there it had been, staring her right in the face. Aldon Blake and his honey-gold eyes, sharp, pointed nose and small mouth, lithe dancer's body and trim waist.

And he knew her secrets. He knew about her hopes and dreams, her deepest thoughts and fears and worries, because she had told him, and he knew more of her than anyone other than John. Maybe he even knew her more than John, whom she loved dearly but for whom she would always remain, on some level, a helpless eleven-year-old girl who needed someone to look after her.

Aldon Blake was frighteningly handsome, and he knew all her secrets. And somehow, she still had managed to teach him how to dance. And now she had to touch him, they had to move together in the intimate embrace of a waltz, her nose just inches away from his shoulder, breathing in his heady scent of cedar and spice, trying to ignore how he made her head spin, in public. She never felt like this when she danced with anyone else, all fluttering nerves and electric anxiety, and she could barely look at him. Not without thinking about a hundred conversations they had had about a hundred different things, all of them irrelevant to the ACD, and she would never have told him any of it if she had remembered how handsome he was. It was embarrassing. She was embarrassing.

She hadn't even spoken to him properly since she had arrived in Britain, and bizarrely she missed him. There was a wall between them, a thin wall between the Aldon Blake whom she talked to on comm orb and the one in front of her in real life, and even if they were the same, they didn't feel the same at all. In her room sometimes, late at night, she toyed around with her comm orb, rolling it around in her palms, thinking about calling him. But she never did, because she would only see him tomorrow in real life, and what did it say about her, that she preferred the faceless communication of the comm orb over the real thing?

"All ready there, Monster?" John asked, and Francesca could tell from her mental link and his voice both that he was standing in the doorway.

"Getting there," Francesca replied, finishing with her face. Her face was not one that would launch a thousand ships, but this was about as close to it as she could get – even skin, long eyelashes that made her eyes bigger and more luminous, a pale pink lipstick. All in neutral colours so that, in theory, the Wizarding British elite would think that it was natural. She pulled half of her hair back, pinning it in a simple knot with bobby pins and fixing it with the stunning, elegant comb that Aldon had given her for Christmas. It matched well with the cream-coloured, velvet long-sleeved dress she had picked for the evening, which shone with a discreet glimmer-spell. It was a No-Maj dress, since Aldon, too, would be in No-Maj dress. She still looked like herself, and her stomach hurt. "How do I look?"

"Good enough to make a thousand people rethink their prejudices." His tone was diffident, and Francesca shot him a look. He was frowning, his thoughts a low buzz of worry. He didn't really want Francesca to attend – it would be dangerous, and he didn't know what Aldon's duelling or combat skills were. He suspected the man had none, which was not promising, and on top of that there was a strong echo of disapproval of Aldon, the reason for which Francesca hadn't worked out. It had become more prominent since they had come back to Britain, but he kept the reasons for it hidden under his surface layer of thoughts, and Francesca didn't pry.

I have my paper-charms, John, she said, mind-to-mind. They were tucked under a bra strap, six combat spells and four shields of varying strength, all of them pre-charged. A lightning spell, two fire spells, a poison spell strong enough to drop a man, and two general blasting spells. They would take nearly no magic at all to activate, and one advantage of having a small magical core was that at least she recovered faster than most. I'm prepared. And I have my lightning, and I'll use it this time, I swear.

I still don't like it, John replied, his mental voice a growl. What about your choreography? The illusions you're pulling will exhaust you, you'll be done other than those paper spells for at least an hour. Two hours.

Less with food. Francesca stood up, straightening her black tights so they sat more comfortably on her thighs, looking him over carefully. John had pulled out his best dress robes for the night, the insignia of a Natural Legilimens shining on his chest. He hated the symbol, Francesca knew – it reeked too much of a time where Natural Legilimens were forced to wear it, and the point of wearing it now was only intimidation. Being a Natural Legilimens was an intrinsic part of John, but he had never wanted people to fear him. But there it shone, bright, polished silver against his black, high-collared shirt. Coupled with his midnight blue robes falling just past his knees in the American formal style, his ACD and wand holster hidden under his sleeves, he looked dashing and ready for anything.

Food should be good at least, it's a fancy schmancy event. John smirked, catching Francesca's other thoughts. Think Gerry will be impressed?

I think Gerry will be all over you. Francesca rolled her eyes, giving herself one last look over in her mirror. She looked as good as she ever would. "Where is Gerry, anyway?"

"He booked a hotel room, not too far from here." John shrugged, and Francesca glanced at him, picking up a hopeful undercurrent to his thoughts. She didn't need to hear the explicit thought to know what he was hoping. He should be coming by soon.

I'll tell Sirius you aren't coming home tonight, then. It wasn't something she would ever say aloud, but the advantage of her mind link was that John got a certain unfiltered version of her that no one else saw. John laughed, following her as she brushed past him and headed downstairs.

Her stomach was roiling, a mess of anxiety and nerves. She could ask Archie for a Calming Draught, but he had taken to asking her a bunch of questions she didn't really want to answer every time she asked, suggesting that she talk to a Mind Healer about her anxiety. Francesca didn't think she needed one, and she hated the lecture, so she had stopped asking so often. She debated internally about whether it would be worth suffering the lecture, decided it wasn't, and let it be. Archie was preoccupied staring at Hermione anyway, who had managed to order a set of periwinkle blue dress robes for the Ball from New York City, styled in the Wizarding British fashion. Her hair had been smoothed down, twisted into a chignon on the back of her head, the kind of pretty, elegant knot that Francesca's hair had always been too slick to put in without too much hairspray. Sirius and Remus were talking in one corner, their voices low, and Remus was flicking his wand repetitively as if he was running through a repertoire of spells he might need to call on.

Aldon was already there, staring into the fire with an expression of mild distaste, as if he was gearing himself up for a very unpleasant task. Francesca agreed, even if there was a plummeting flip flop sensation in her stomach. He looked good, too good, in a black satin waistcoat on black dress shirt and trousers. It should have looked bland, dull, but it didn't – the silky shine of his waistcoat brought it into sharp relief against his other clothes. She could see her cufflinks at his wrists, and the slight bulge over his left arm told her that he was carrying his ACD. His wand, she guessed, was tucked in an inner pocket of his waistcoat, and he had a ritual knife belted at his waist.

He looked over at her, golden eyes thoughtful, and a small frown appeared between his brows. He tilted his head for a moment, and Francesca panicked, her breath becoming short even as she tried to keep it natural. Did she not look beautiful enough? His whole story hinged on her, and even if she had been assured that he would handle any and all interactions with the rest of the Wizarding British elite, breaking a hundred etiquette rules along the way, she was nervous, scared, terrified. Maybe she should ask Archie for a Calming Draught, lecture or no.

"Are you all right, Francesca?" he asked, his voice steady and kind. "You look stunning, by the way."

"I – fine," she muttered, looking away. There was a pause. "I don't like the Floo."

That was a true statement, so Francesca couldn't be sure whether it had triggered his gift or not, and he didn't tell her. Instead, he offered her his arm.

"Come, then," he said, his frown clearing and an uncertain half-smile on his lips. "We can Floo together. It's only one night, and I'll be beside you the entire time."

"You better be." John took a step forward, aggressive, his voice unusually hard. He was already hand in hand with Gerry, who was looking formal in a military-style No-Maj jacket with a double row of buttons and a red armband on one arm. A not-so-subtle reminder of the Grindelwald Wars, Francesca thought, though she didn't know how many people in Britain would know that.

Gerry aside, John's expression was stern as he glared at Aldon. "Chess doesn't like crowds at the best of times, and we all know how the Wizarding British elite are going to see a Wandless, American newblood. Don't leave her alone, for anything – if an old friend invites you to talk privately, you find me, or Gerry, or the Queenscoves and leave her with us. If you need to go to the washroom, you find one of us, and you leave her with us. If you have to leave her for any reason, you find one of us. If I find out that you left her alone, for any reason, and she gets hurts tonight, no one will find your body. Am I making myself clear?"

Aldon studied her best friend for a moment, even as Francesca looked at the ground, blushing in absolute shame. John was standing just outside of her kicking range, a fact that he had no doubt considered before he engaged in this wholly embarrassing, unnecessary and humiliating spectacle. She would have to remember to kick him later; she wasn't helpless, she had her paper spells and her lightning. She grasped onto Aldon's arm, which was warm and surprisingly solid.

"Crystal," Aldon was saying, his voice silk, almost a little mocking, then he sighed. "I'll take care of her, Kowalski. You have my word."

John glared at him, a stray thought coming across his mind, but what is your word worth? But he didn't say it aloud, and instead turned back to Gerry, who gave Francesca a small, commiserating smile as he looped one arm around John's shoulders.

Flooing into the Ministry of Magic was something else. Francesca shut her eyes tightly against the hot, spinning sensation, and Aldon's arm, firm around her shoulder, didn't help in the least. Instead of just the fear of the fire and the intense, hurtling, roller-coaster sensation of flying, now she also had in mind his warm arm around her, the sense of being too close to him, and she wanted to throw up.

The flames spat her out into a huge hallway lined with a half-dozen massive fireplaces, a Floo Central like Francesca had never seen. There was a long lineup of mages, dressed in their finest, a rush of energy filling the room with an excited hum. Francesca's grip on Aldon's arm tightened as he directed her to the end of the line. There were too many people, and it was too crowded, and her heart was beating too fast and she wanted to go home. Not just Grimmauld Place home, but home home to San Francisco, or even New York City to John's kind grandparents who always had something delicious and filling on the table or to the lovely townhouse in Brooklyn where John's sister dressed her up while John duelled in the backyard with Will Queenscove. Didn't these people know that it would be dangerous here, tonight? Why were they so happy and excited?

"It's the first chance for a lot of these people to go to a formal event of this nature," Aldon said, leaning down a little to murmur in her ear. "The Galas in previous years were invitation-only, for the most exclusive of guest lists. And this replaces the usual SOW Party Gala, so that crowd is also here in force, tonight."

Francesca nodded, her mouth dry as sandpaper she stared at the floor. The tiles were stone, a dark slate grey, smooth but unpolished.

"Francesca." His voice was soft, but there was a pleading note in it which made her look up, into those entrancing golden eyes. He pulled her a little closer to him, slipping one arm around her shoulders. One would think, after dancing with him for almost two weeks, she would have gotten more used to this – his warmth, his cedar musk and spice smell. "I know this is odd and difficult, but please. We used to talk so often, and I don't know what's changed, but can we pretend it hasn't? Just for tonight – I'll take care of you, I swear it, so – so just try to have a little fun, at my expense?"

Francesca laughed, though it sounded a little weak to her ears. Her lips trembled as she tried for a smile. "Your – financial, or emotional expense?"

"Both," Aldon replied with a small smile of his own. "You are witnessing my social suicide firsthand. You may as well enjoy it."

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. In this alternate, fictional universe, she was also the cause of his social suicide, but her alternate self didn't worry about that – maybe she was too naïve to worry about it, or maybe she considered herself well worth the price, or maybe she simply trusted Aldon enough to accept his choice. The real Francesca wasn't sure of any of those things, and couldn't help but feel awkward, targeted. Was she worth it? Was she worth him? A thousand of the Wizarding British elite wouldn't think so.

She was bad at this, bad at people. But Aldon had made his own decision, and it was easier that it was all fake. She didn't have to be naïve, failing to notice the inquiring looks already being tossed her way, or believe that she was worth the cost of his social suicide, or blindly trust that Aldon's decision was right. It wasn't real, and for her, it could be simple: she had agreed to help, and he couldn't pull this off if she didn't play her part.

"You are," she said, then she paused, thinking her words over. "You are maybe the worst excuse for a bad boy that I've ever met."

"It is not my usual role, no," Aldon conceded agreeably, visibly relaxing as she spoke. His hold around her shoulders tightened a little, his golden eyes leaving hers only to look over her head, skimming the crowd. The Blacks were behind them, a few strangers separating them in the line, while John and Gerry had disappeared. Francesca focused on the other sense tying her to John, and found him and Gerry across the room with his cousin Rolf and three generations of Scamanders. Even the elder Mr. Scamander, the noted Magizoologist, had come today, looking spry in a light-blue No-Maj coat over a tan waistcoat and dark, pinstriped trousers. His wife, American Auror Porpentina Goldstein Scamander, scanned the crowds, a red armband matching Gerry's on her arm.

"Newt Scamander," Aldon said, impressed, following her gaze. "He is very rarely seen in Society."

"He's nice." Francesca fidgeted a bit with the hem of her dress, which didn't fall as long as Wizarding British robes. Even with her black tights, she felt like she was flashing her ankles and shins to the world. "But there are too many creatures at his house. He and Rolf are probably hiding a few in their clothes now."

Aldon was startled into a laugh, his thin eyebrows twitching upwards. "And where, pray tell, in their clothes would they be hiding creatures?"

"Swooping Evils are small when they aren't attacking anyone. Cocoon-shaped." Francesca tilted her head, considering the Scamanders closely. "Rolf has a pet one, he brought it with him into the Triwizard Tournament. They could definitely fit a Swooping Evil under their clothes."

Aldon grimaced, an expression with which Francesca whole-heartedly agreed. Swooping Evils, in the wild, fed on human brains. Rolf claimed that he and his grandfather had developed an equally nutritious substitute, but the fact remained – the creatures were basically zombies. Or they were going to be the ultimate source of a zombie epidemic. She didn't know, she just knew that she wanted them nowhere near her.

They were at the front of the line before she knew it, with Aldon pulling out two parchment tickets from his waistcoat to give to the man. The man didn't seem to notice who Aldon was, or maybe he had just been bored into an unthinking stupor, because he didn't look at them, instead only looking at the tickets.

"Wands," he said, holding his hand out, and Francesca stiffened.

Aldon pulled put his wand, light brown and stiff, and handed it to the man with little ceremony. "My companion does not use a wand."

The man looked at them then, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He was bald, with age spots dotting his scalp, but the bags sagging under his eyes suggested that he was not as old as he looked, merely tired and overworked. "What do you mean, no wand?" he snapped, suddenly alert. "No Muggles allowed. I should be calling the Aurors."

"Do it," Aldon replied and leaning forward, putting one hand on the table, a sharp grin playing about his mouth. "I am sure they would enjoy you wasting their time, Thompson. I didn't say she wasn't a witch, I just said she didn't use a wand."

"'The wand makes the wizard'," Thompson quoted back at him, and Francesca scowled. It was a common enough saying, showing of the incredible power that wands had over Wizarding society, and the exact sort of thinking that she wanted her ACD to obliterate. "If she has no wand, how can I tell that she's a witch?"

Aldon shrugged, straightening. "If you won't take my word, you could always ask her to do magic."

The man hesitated, then he fixed his attention on her, his expression alive with suspicion. "Do magic, then."

Francesca glanced at Aldon – she wanted to bite her lip, but that would ruin her lipstick, so she resisted. All she had on her were attack and defense spells. She could summon light or sparks or fog without a paper charm, but she didn't know if that would be enough. They weren't subtle, but at the same time, she wasn't sure that this man would believe that she had cast them. "Aldon…"

Aldon tapped her shoulder, where her paper spells were hidden. "Go on, sweetheart."

Francesca hesitated, then sighed. Aldon had wanted her to show off anyway. She pulled out her small stack of paper spells, paging through them to find her lightning – it was the one that would cost her the least to use, since her elemental magic was lightning anyway. She held it up, looked around for an empty line of sight, picked a spot on the ceiling and added the tiny drop of magic it took to finish the spell and release it.

Thunder cracked, following her lightning as it leapt through the air, striking the ceiling at the exact spot she had aimed. There was a breath of silence, all conversation gone, and the scent of ozone lay heavy. The spot on the ceiling was burned, smoking slightly, and Francesca slipped her spent paper charm back into her pile, then the whole set back under her bra strap. It was loud, it was messy, it was unrefined and violent – the way most elemental attack magic tended to be.

"Does that satisfy you?" Aldon asked, his voice ringing into the silence, full of hard amusement. "We've given you our tickets, she's shown you that she's a witch, now let us in."

The man was still staring at the smoking crack in the ceiling. He swallowed. "Er, yes, sir, Mr. Ros—"

"I go by Blake now, Thompson," Aldon finished for him, taking his wand back and ushering Francesca towards the cavernous room the man was guarding. She could see sparks of light, like stars, shimmering from a million sources – mirrors, glass, water. "Mr. Blake, thank you."

Inside, the ballroom was dominated by a huge fountain. On one side, there was a massive golden wizard, his wand pointed proudly in the air, dressed in the ultra-conservative robes of the Wizarding British elite with an ornate pointed hat. On the other side of the fountain, a witch with long, braided hair stared up at him, hand-in-hand with a house-elf, adoring, while a goblin and a centaur stared on. The goblin's expression was awed, cowed, while the centaur was turned the other way, looking over his shoulder as if he was fleeing, his bow turned to the ground. Based on what John said about creature relations, especially with goblins and centaurs, Francesca didn't think it was realistic in the least.

"They expanded the space," Aldon murmured, looking around, releasing his arm from around her shoulders in favour of tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow instead. The room was crowded, with too many people, far more than would be at any AIM school dance. Francesca took a deep breath, trying to breathe, trying to focus.

"Should we…?" she asked, looking around for the dance floor. She would feel better if she was moving. She spotted it on the other side of the fountain, a beautiful, dark hardwood floor that had clearly only been laid down for the night, but no one was on it yet and she didn't hear any music.

"They won't start the dancing for another hour, at least – they have to make sure everyone arrives and gets in, even the people who can't possibly be considered fashionably late anymore." Aldon turned towards one corner of the room, taking a deep breath of his own, and Francesca tightened her grip on his elbow. He glanced down at her with a small smile. "Would you like to meet Ed? I've told you about him, so why don't we go meet him?"

"Um, if you want to," Francesca said, huddling a little closer to him. She didn't fit in, here – not just her clothes, which were entirely No-Maj, but her face, her skin colour, her accent, everything stood out. "I – I guess we have time."

Aldon studied her for a moment, then he reached up with one hand to brush a strand of her hair away from her face. It was a natural movement, one that made her catch her breath a little. "Trust me, Francesca. I won't leave you alone here, and whatever happens, I'll make sure you're safe."

Francesca went to bite her lip, but stopped herself at the last instant, again. People were staring at them. People were already staring at them, their eyes making Francesca's skin crawl, but Aldon was ignoring them all. She tried to reply, but her mouth was too dry, a small piping noise coming out instead, so instead she just nodded and let Aldon lead her to a cluster of people standing a little out of the way, in the corner.

They were all tall, in long, elegant robes, cotton and linen and silk. She felt so small, following Aldon as he nosed into the circle, a few regal nods at the people around him, who hesitated for only a fraction of a second before making room.

"Edmund, Alice," Aldon started, his voice purposely light, looking around the circle. "Ah, and Lucian, Adrian. It is a pleasure to see you all, after so long. If I may introduce my girlfriend, Francesca Lam? Francesca, my oldest friends, Edmund and Alesana Rookwood, the Heir and Heiress Selwyn, Lucian Bole and Adrian Pucey."

"I—" Francesca tried, but her voice failed her, so instead she simply dipped a trembling dancer's curtsey. It had worked well enough with Aldon, so maybe it would work here. She didn't know. Her heart was beating too fast.

"Girlfriend," one of the men repeated, his voice a low growl. He was broad-shouldered, his arm around his wife, so Francesca knew that he had to be Ed. "Interesting use of words, Aldon."

"Americanism," Aldon replied, looking down at Francesca with a soft smile, one that looked a little too real for their game of pretend. "Francesca is American, one of Archie's friends at the American Institute of Magic. I was fortunate enough to meet her over the summer, and, well, she prefers the terminology and I don't know what else to call her. I have not, regrettably, been able to meet her parents yet to formalize our arrangement, though I intend to post-haste."

Francesca could feel herself flushing as four mages in the circle looked down at her. The woman, who had jewel-like blue eyes heavily lined in kohl, was already glaring at her like she was someone beneath their collective notice, while Ed seemed more considering. The one that Aldon had called Lucian, a stocky, broad-shouldered blond, was expressionless, but Adrian, the sandy-haired shadow beside him, wore an open expression of horror. They were looking for a response from her, she realized belatedly – Aldon had thrown the bomb, so to speak, and they were looking for a reaction.

"It's – it's a little early for that, Aldon," she said, looking up at him in desperation. She had no idea what to say. "I – I'm only fifteen, and, um, my parents – they want me to go to college after I'm done at AIM. Study something useful, like, um. Engineering."

Aldon smiled, pulling her closer to him before looking up at the frightening people around them. "Francesca's parents are Muggles, so it is difficult to explain wizarding cultural norms to them," he explained, and Francesca could see the moment the second bomb hit, as Adrian's face turned from horror to disgust, and he took a step back. "We'll work on it."

"This is why you won't take advantage of the Marriage Law, then," Alice said, her voice sharp. "A – Muggleborn."

From the way she had caught herself, Francesca suspected that the first word hadn't been so favourable. Not that Muggleborn was a favourable term in Wizarding America anyway – it permanently tied newbloods to their history, instead of embracing their magic, and the thinking was that it encouraged discrimination. Like using the word handicapped instead of person with a disability.

"New – newblood," she interrupted. She wasn't Hermione, but she didn't like the word Muggleborn. It was like Wandless, and it made her feel defective. How defective she felt changed by day, and some days were worse than others, but she didn't like the feeling. "I – I prefer the term newblood. Just because, um, my magic is new, doesn't mean, um, that it's lesser."

Adrian opened his mouth to reply, but Aldon cut him off with a peal of laughter. A good thing, Francesca would guess, based on the expression on Adrian's face.

"And there's a mark on the ceiling in the Floo room proving the point, my darling," Aldon said, sliding one arm around her waist and tugging her closer to him. She swallowed. "That thunder earlier? That was my Francesca. Thompson insisted she prove she was a witch, so she threw lightning and torched two square feet of the ceiling."

"Never heard of a Lumos charm?" Lucian asked, and Francesca was grateful to note that he seemed to be amused instead of horrified or disgusted.

"No such thing. Francesca uses paper charms," Aldon replied, with an easy half-shrug. "The magical creature her wand core needs to come from hasn't been seen in a thousand years, so she relies on runes and paper charms. Unless you know where we can find a kraken."

Francesca glared at Aldon. It wasn't a secret, but it was still something she only told a few people. But his golden eyes asked her to trust him, and she could feel his thumb stroking small circles in the small of her back. She swallowed and looked back at the circle of people he had once known, trying to figure out what she should say.

"I – I usually rely on runes for things like light spells," she said finally, no smile on her face. "They aren't difficult or magically intensive enough to make it worth a paper charm, but I was worried that the doorman wouldn't, um, accept it as being proof of magic."

"Thompson might have thought that I had cast it for her, to hide her lack of magic," Aldon clarified, with another small laugh. "Let me tell you though, the expression on his face when she pulled out the paper charm and let her spell go was priceless."

"You can't marry her, Aldon." That was Alice, again, her face carved in a harsh frown, looking right at Aldon as if Francesca didn't exist. "You're throwing your life away. And it's illegal. The Ministry won't recognize a marriage between a halfblood and a Muggleborn. What will you do, raise your children as bastards? With what money? Are you going to expect her to work? You're better than this, Aldon. You know better than this."

Aldon didn't react, instead only looking down at Francesca, the expression on his face odd. It was almost admiring, with a hint of something that Francesca didn't dare identify. Neal was a liar – if this was Aldon's acting, then he was easily as good as Archie. There was a pause as he looked at her, and his voice when he spoke was firm. "The world is a big place, Alice, and I thought that you, of all people, would understand. I have a few years to save money, then we'll go wherever my darling wants to live, and we'll figure it out. New York City, do you think? Or home, to San Francisco?"

"Um," Francesca said, blushing deeply. How was Aldon so good at acting? Her stomach was fluttering, a strange mix with the stabbing pains of her anxiety. What would one of the heroines of her romance novels say? "Anywhere with you would be fine."

Aldon sighed, turning away. "I really must meet your parents, as soon as possible," he muttered. "And buy a ring. Rings are important."

Francesca felt like she would die of embarrassment. Some part of her was floating, swooning like when she read her romance novels, but most of her just wanted to melt into a puddle and disappear. Her ears were burning. "It's – it's too soon," she stammered. "Too soon, and we're too young. You're so – so impatient."

She was a terrible actress. Archie could act circles around her. Her lines were awful and contrived.

"How long as it been, anyway?" Lucian asked, giving her a small smile of his own. It was a friendly enough smile, with something a little unsure about it, but at least he addressed her directly. Adrian was eyeing her like she was some sort of feral animal, while Alice treated her presence like a personal affront, pretending she wasn't even there. "You met during the summer?"

"After the trial." Aldon picked up the thread of conversation, letting Francesca breathe a sigh of relief. She didn't know the story she was supposed to tell, anyway. They were hiding, as much as possible, her connection to the ACD so she didn't know how they were supposed to have met. "Archie insisted on inviting me to his birthday party, and Francesca was there. That night, all I could see was her – I don't remember Archie's other antics, or what we ate, or anything. After that, I wrangled myself a formal introduction. And here we are now."

"And your family, Francesca?" Ed asked, almost the first time he had spoken since Aldon had introduced her. His tone was bland, without any inflection whatsoever, and she couldn't tell what he was thinking. "Or the Lord Black, whom I suppose is your legal guardian while in Britain? What do they think?"

She glanced up at Aldon, not knowing what to say. Legal guardian? Francesca was her own person, and fifteen or not, she made her own decisions. Her parents were supportive of her independence. She had no idea what he was talking about, and this was Aldon's best friend, or former best friend. She didn't want to offend him.

"As I said, I haven't had the fortune of meeting her parents yet," Aldon said, sounding a little forlorn, while his grip on her tightened. It didn't hurt; strangely, it was comforting. "I don't know if they even know about me, yet. As for the Lord Black, Archie and their other friends are often around, and Kowalski is... absurdly overprotective of her, as are the Queenscoves. It was difficult enough getting permission to escort her to the Ball."

Francesca's eyebrows twitched upwards. That wasn't entirely a lie, though it wasn't true either, but she could see his intentions – he was linking her to both the Kowalskis and the Queenscoves, both well-known and powerful international families. She was close to John and to his family, but while she was friendly with Neal and Will, who had been dating John's sister forever, she had never met the rest of their clan. Still, there wasn't much she could say about it, not in front of these strangers, so she cast about for something else to say instead. "My parents, um, don't think I should be dating until I'm done school," she said, looking down and shifting her feet a little. "That's why I haven't said anything, Aldon. I, um, I told you that. Neal is nice, he lets us hang out together at Queenscove."

"Yes, and the Lord Queenscove's words to me were that, if there was any funny business, he would separate my head from my body and bury them on opposite sides of his rather large estate. And I don't date. I might not be noble any longer, but I still don't date." Aldon tapped her on her nose, an affectionate movement, and snorted, looking back at his friends. "You see the difficulty. She doesn't believe me when I say I really must meet her parents."

"It's too early for that," Francesca insisted, a little weakly, but the circle of mages all laughed, and the conversation turned. Aldon asked something about Hogwarts, letting Lucian and Adrian regale them all with tales of professors that she didn't know and people that she didn't care about. She took another steadying breath, leaning into Aldon's arm, looking around.

The hall was crowded, hundreds of people now milling around, almost all of them in the floor-length ultra-conservative robes of Wizarding Britain. Francesca had never really liked robes – on top of being shapeless, they didn't really make any sense, when she really thought about them. They were supposed to be traditional, but what tradition were they drawing from? The Wizarding world had only separated from the No-Maj one in 1689, but robes had gone out of fashion outside of religious orders, the legal profession and academia sometime in the early middle ages, if not earlier. They had to have reinvented them at some point more recently and claimed that they were what mages had always worn. A return to Merlin movement or something, maybe.

The people who weren't in robes stood out. Naturally, she looked for John first, her mental link telling her his general direction and Gerry's unorthodox dress and red armband drawing her attention. Rolf Scamander was still standing with them, and they had been joined by a girl about her age in robes, with shoulder-length dark brown hair, built with wide shoulders and hips. Francesca didn't recognize her, but all three of the boys wore serious, considering expressions. She focused on John's eyes and their connection, but he was a little too far away; all she got was the girl's name, Millicent Bulstrode. She would have to ask John about her later.

Scanning the room, she spotted the Queenscove clan easily. Neal and his brothers were dressed in the traditional, close-fitting trousers and surcoat of Chinese heirloom-caster families, and they had even pulled out their family crests for the event. Their swords were in the open, belted at their waists, and Francesca was almost amused to note the differences between the three of them. Graeme was shorter than either of his younger brothers, but built broader, and his sword was a two-handed monster. Will was on the opposite end of the spectrum, tall but slender, his sword lighter, thinner, closer to a rapier. Neal was somewhere in the middle, taking after his father in colouring but with the leaner build of his mother's family.

With the Queenscoves, she spotted Tina, John's sister, who had opted for American-style, wine-coloured, wizarding dress robes. Kel was there too, standing with Neal's girlfriend, Yukimi Daiomaru – the two of them had eschewed both robes and kimono in favour of keikogi and hakama, the traditional clothing of Japanese traditional casters. She hadn't realized that Yuki knew any combat magic at all.

She glanced at Aldon, amusing herself for a moment with a memory of him in wizarding dress robes. She imagined that he had always thought he looked good in them, but she honestly hadn't noticed how handsome he was until he had gotten a haircut and proper clothing. Robes, no matter how finely tailored, ate him – he was too short to carry them off, and too slender to be anything but swallowed. His mop of near-shoulder-length hair hadn't helped, making him look dishevelled and unkempt. Someone like Aldon was born to wear clean lines: modern waistcoats, tapered trousers, even that leather jacket Archie and Sirius had bought him. He looked so handsome in it, even with the uncomfortable expression on his face, and she hadn't been able to help staring.

"Hmm?" Aldon glanced at her, and she realized that she was staring at him and blushed again. He smiled, a warm expression that somehow seemed odd on his face. "What is it, Francesca? I've been a poor escort, talking with my friends instead of paying attention to you."

Francesca shook her head quickly, embarrassed. She was here on a job, and she had been caught staring, and that wasn't very professional. And she didn't need more attention. Even if she would love a chance to talk to Neal, or Tina or Will, she could always go over to Queenscove after the Ball was over. John said that Will and Tina would be staying until the new year, the same as them.

"Lying." Aldon sighed, looking back at his friends, or his former friends. "I will try to catch up with you later."

She let him usher her away, even as she frowned. "You didn't have to," she whispered, as soon as they were out of earshot. "You could have kept talking to them."

"It is better for me to move on anyway," Aldon murmured back. "We need to draw attention, and while Adrian, in particular, will be delighted to spread word of my disgrace, we should likely drop the word in a few other ears as well. Ah, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, with Blaise Zabini – Theodore Nott would have been more useful, but I suppose they have cast him off after the trial."

Aldon steered her into another circle, this one with a very pretty girl with waist-length, golden hair, who had one hand tucked in the elbow of the regal-looking boy beside her. Making up the circle was a dark-skinned man, smirking as he swirled a glass of wine idly in one hand.

"Pansy, a pleasure to see you in person after so long," Aldon began, with a short bow. "Congratulations on your engagement. Malfoy, Zabini."

The girl tilted her head, her curtain of hair sparkling as she flipped a lock over her shoulder. A genuine smile appeared on her lips, along with a look of surprise. "Thank you, Aldon, very much. It has been a long time in coming, and we are very grateful for your support. I must say, though, I am surprised to see you here – it is a bit of a risk for you, isn't it? And your friend."

Pansy's blue eyes turned towards Francesca, more thoughtful than anything else. There was some sort of glitter in the girl's hair – it shimmered, and Francesca couldn't help but take a tiny step closer to Aldon. The regal-looking blond boy beside her wore a surly expression, while the dark-skinned one was impassive.

Aldon smiled in reply, wrapping one warm arm around Francesca's shoulders. "A bit of a risk, yes, but I wanted Francesca to meet some of my old friends, to see a little of my world. Francesca Lam, meet Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy, and Blaise Zabini. They were Harriett's friends at Hogwarts. Francesca is a close friend of Archie's from school."

The blond boy's face twitched. "Are Harry's friends," he corrected, blunt, though he seemed preoccupied and disinterested. "We still are Harry's friends."

Pansy threw him a look, before turning back to Aldon and Francesca. "I apologize for Draco. He had harboured a hope, I think, that we might have found Harry by now and brought her home, or that her cousin might have slipped her into the Ball somehow. Harry always said they were very close."

Aldon's eyebrows creased together in a slight, disapproving frown. "Even without the outstanding charges, with the Marriage Law…"

"The Marriage Law works in her favour," Draco snapped, coming alive to glare at Aldon. "She is engaged to Black, so she is now legally a pureblood. All she needs to do is marry him, or another pureblood, for that to continue. It's simple."

There was an awkward pause, into which Blaise snorted. "I rather think that is quite a lot to ask of someone, Draco, to marry someone they wouldn't choose. I also think, from the doting expression on Black's face when he looks at his companion, that he has every intention of breaking his engagement."

"Another pureblood, then. Halfblood or not, she's still a Book of Gold noble, and the Heiress Potter." Draco shook his head, dismissive. "Frankly, I'm shocked Black is flaunting his Muggleborn mistress in Society while engaged."

Francesca stiffened. She supposed she understood, to an extent – it did look awful that Archie was legally engaged and yet bringing Hermione out with him into the public. She even almost understood Draco's attitude to the Marriage Law, the very reason that Aldon had been avoiding the Wizarding world, because from what Aldon had said, nobles weren't taught to marry where they loved. They already used marriage as a tool for elevating status, so maybe the Marriage Law did read, to many, like a very progressive piece of legislation.

The rest of her recoiled in disgust. Francesca was a romantic, and that aspect of her wasn't even hidden. She wanted a knight to come sweeping her off her feet; she wanted to fall madly in love, she wanted to marry a man she was desperately in love with, she wanted a husband who would slay dragons for her. Men like that might not exist, but she still dreamed. Love and marriage should be sacred, not tools for political and social advancement.

Aldon's arm was tight around her. "I should note, perhaps, that Francesca is a Muggleborn. I think I see a cousin that I ought to greet; we must catch up another time, Pansy."

"My apologies, Aldon." The girl nodded, sighing. "I do miss you, with your self-imposed exile, but having met your companion, I think I understand better. Another time."

Aldon nodded crisply, then turned away, tucking Francesca's hand in his elbow without thought. It was a very medieval sort of movement, one which Francesca wasn't sure what to make of in real life instead of in a romance novel. So many things were awkward in real life compared to in a book.

They moved on – names, titles, and faces that all started to blur together in Francesca's mind. Aldon pointed out his parents, the Lord and Lady Rosier, from across the room but didn't try to approach them. Lord Evan Rosier was quite a bit taller than Aldon, though Aldon had clearly taken after him in looks, while the Lady Eveline Rosier was a brunette, around Aldon's height and what Francesca's mother would have called "pear-shaped". She met a few of his other cousins and former cousins, his other friendly acquaintances from Hogwarts: a spindly man with auburn hair called Nigel Fairister that she only remembered because Nigel was such a British name, Theodore Nott in a cluster of Aldon's former Avery cousins, all of whom turned their noses up at the both of them, Susan Bones who treated Aldon with wary caution but welcomed Francesca to Britain with open arms.

The reaction to the two of them was mixed. A few people stood out as being especially kind, asking Francesca questions that she would stutter through answering, if Aldon didn't answer for her. Most stared at her, at them, some openly horrified, others more subtle, and still others were expressionless while asking Aldon what he thought he was doing, bringing her into a major Society event. Everything about her was wrong – her dress was wrong, her accent was wrong, her magic was wrong, her blood was wrong. Aldon had stopped tucking her hand into his elbow after the third conversation, the one where his former cousins had almost thrown him out of their circle, keeping one arm tight around her waist as he guided her into the next one. It was as much for his comfort as hers, she suspected, because as flippantly as he was approaching each one, she thought the comments were starting to grind on him. It's not real, she wanted to remind him, but she couldn't find the words. She tried to imagine herself, reinvent herself, as one of the heroines from her romance novels, the ones who always had a clever comeback for any insult, but she wasn't one of them and the looks, the glares, the surface-deep pleasantries made her want to run and hide and never come out.

"Oh, is it time for the first dance, already?" Aldon said, looking around, blatantly ignoring the unwelcome looks they were receiving from this circle. He was, in her opinion, doing far too good of a job of playing at being in love with her. "We had better go, hadn't we, Francesca? She loves to dance, and I promised her a dozen if she would come with me tonight. I will see you all later."

"I bet she doesn't even know how to dance," someone whose name she had already forgotten muttered, while someone else snickered. "And preferably never."

Aldon flashed them a sharp grin, just letting them know that he had heard, but didn't reply. Instead, he led her onto that wonderful, hardwood dance floor, which instantly felt familiar even in a sea of unfriendly faces.

She spotted Archie leading a very frustrated and angry-looking Hermione onto the dance floor and gave him a tremulous smile. He winked back at her, letting her know they were fine, as the first bars of music came wafting through the air. Her left hand locked on Aldon's shoulder, her right in his hand, and her feet knew what to do. They found the tempo, and Aldon was a good lead, expertly keeping her from careening into any of the other pairs – no easy feat, when the floor was so crowded. It was almost as if a third of the room was now on the dance floor.

"The first dance is important," Aldon murmured, leaning down slightly to whisper into her ear, though his eyes were skimming the other couples over her head. "It signals new alliances, close relationships, courtships. Queenscove should be on the floor too, especially if he is looking to avoid overtures from other families."

"Neal isn't very good at dancing," Francesca replied, off-hand, following Aldon's gaze when he spun her around to see Neal and Yuki still talking in another quarter of the room. "For theatre, he used to just memorize my choreography, and he always talked me into making it easier for him. And maybe Yuki just doesn't want to dance – he did step on her foot rather a lot at the banquet for the Triwizard Tournament."

"Banquet?" Aldon raised an eyebrow, looking down at her. "During the Tournament?"

Francesca giggled, feeling herself loosen and relax a little from the last hour. "Yes, the North American League always hosts a team banquet for the Triwizard Tournament, and it's a big party because everyone invites their friends. We had people from about twelve, thirteen schools, I think – John invited his cousin Rolf, Neal his cousin from the National Magic School of China, Kel invited her friends from Mahoutokoro..."

Aldon nodded, listening, a slight smile on his face as she told him about that night, starting with Fei Long Lin's wild crash through an upper window during the last of the speeches, then challenging a room full of the top duellers from five schools to a seventy-five on one fight. Francesca was usually too shy and awkward to go out and meet anyone by herself, so she had stuck close to John until Gerry from Schwarzenstein had walked in, and then she had found Archie and made him dance with her until he, too, had tapped out. After that, she had soloed over the dance floor, until one of the boys from Ilvermorny had invited her to dance, followed by boys from the Collège, Cascadia, even one from the United Academy in Switzerland who had with a French accent so thick she had no idea what he was trying to say to her. Aldon's face grew more and more wistful as she told him about it, about how everyone had come together and danced through until midnight. It was one of her favourite memories, before everything had gone south.

"My experience was quite different," he said, in a pause between the first and second dance – or maybe it was the second and the third, Francesca wasn't keeping track anymore. His expression was a little sad, almost, imagining it. "Hogwarts… the Triwizard Tournament was a competition, one which it was assumed we would win. I don't know that anyone knew what to expect. Maybe Chang, but not the rest of us. I didn't realize that other teams were meeting, socializing, outside of games."

Francesca laughed, leaning into him. He did smell so good, intoxicating. "The entire North American League stayed together in one hotel, and Schwarzenstein and the United Academy were close to us, too. The Tournament – it's supposed to be an opportunity for us to meet people from other schools, as well as compete. Maybe, if you had grown up as a halfblood, we would have met there."

"If I had, I would have danced with you the entire night." Aldon's face was alive with interest, voice warm and low, striking something in her chest. The words were a little too close, a little too personal, especially when his arms were around her.

"We – we don't have to act, right now, Aldon," she whispered, looking down from him and fixing her eyes on his shiny, satin waistcoat. "I'm sure no one is listening to us. I – please don't act right now."

His hands on her stiffened, and his reply was curt, almost surprised. "Yes, of course," he said, and then he paused. "It's about time. Fifth dance. Are you ready?"

Francesca took a deep breath, pulling herself together. This was what she had come here for, and she would carry it off. A performance, a magical dance routine like Wizarding Britain had never seen, and she recognized the bars of music that were coming across the dance floor now. Aldon was good – he had predicted the exact piece that they would be playing.

She broke from the closed position of the International Standard Waltz, sliding into the first open position of the American Smooth, letting go of Aldon's shoulder and slipping out of his grip, but keeping his hand in hers as she started the stairwell ascent into the air. He followed with a hesitation change, just slightly off beat from the music, drawing attention to her movement. She smiled at him, her best performance smile – an invitation to join her.

He scowled at her, and she let go of his hand, spinning around him in the air in a wide circle. No one in Wizarding Britain seemed to do magical dance, and the space above the floor was a breath of fresh air. Aldon executed a second, perfect hesitation change, watching her, expression conflicted, and Francesca made sure the modesty charm on her skirt was active as she pulled off a spin that had come straight from swing. Her choreography was mostly International Standard Waltz on the paired sections, which was the closest to what Aldon knew, but with significant influence from the American Smooth style which permitted open positions. Her solo sections she had gone with a mix of her favourites – moves from swing and contemporary, a few jumps and spins, but nothing too complicated. She wasn't aiming to maximize her technical scores here, only make something beautiful.

She prepared the first spell in her mind, a simple spark shower, letting it go when Aldon shook his head and followed her into the air. She threw a second set of spark runes onto his boots with a small flick, activating them when he finally reached her level. He caught her, and they danced one circular round in the air, while Francesca prepared her next few spells – light spells to dance around their heads, above them, two lovers meeting under a starry night sky. He tried to cast her off, sending her spinning away from him, which were her opportunities to show off. A promenade spell let her glide into her first jumping spin-pass, two singles in quick succession, before she was caught by Aldon, who had his own footwork to follow her. Her second pass only had one double spin jump, but a second spin, and the last one was entirely contemporary, involving no spins at all but several jumps and poses. She couldn't see how Aldon was executing his half of the choreography, not between the five spells she was now maintaining, enforcing an artificial darkness above them as well as the sparks of stars, her air-hardening spell, and a soft golden glow from her and a heavy dark aura around Aldon.

They were the Lady Light and the Dark Lord, and she let Aldon catch her after her third pass. This time, he didn't let her go, seconds later – this time, he seemed to have given in, and he kept a firm grip on her as they entered the second phase of her choreography. She handed control over to him, letting her lead her through the next series of steps, while she prepared the next set of illusion spells.

The next set of illusion spells were harder. She had to shred her own careful illusion work above them, letting in parts of the real world, ripping tears in her own work while maintaining those spells in other sections. The light of the room began leaking through the runic darkness spell, and just to mark it and draw even more attention, Francesca let loose a small lightning spell, keeping it small enough that it went nowhere near the crowds below. She didn't need the lightning, though it didn't hurt, but it was the crack of thunder she wanted as she spun away from him. This time, she danced away, out of reach, while Aldon tried to recapture her, as she shredded her night sky above into ribbons.

If Aldon could do magical dance, he would have taken over half of the spells, and Francesca wouldn't feel so heavy from the drag of her magic. She still had one more to cast, too, a complex layered illusion. She had calculated it exactly – she had enough magic for this performance, but it would drain her. A check on her core, but she was on track. She skipped away from Aldon's reaching arms, but her footwork was all circles, all quick turns, while Aldon's was straight lines, direct. He had to catch her, because Lady Light didn't really want to escape, she only wanted to bring him into the Light with her as the Dark Lord tried to pull her into darkness.

Aldon caught her, and Francesca couldn't help but let out a small squeak. This was the grand finale of the performance, but she was so distracted by the weight of her spells that she barely noticed. It didn't matter – over everything else, no one would hear it, and she jumped, just as expected, her body taking over the movements that she had memorized over the last two and a half weeks. Aldon let his grip on her slip, and she dropped, a back turn as she let go of her air hardening spell and plummeted to the ground. A half-pike, one full rotation, before rolling in a traditional fall position, and she had to trust that Aldon would be there at the bottom to catch her.

He was there, grabbing her out of the air and Francesca focused, wiping the rest of her spells with a sharp termination rune and executing two new spells in quick succession – another darkness spell, one strong enough to blast out from the two of them in a concussive wave, and a spark spell, filling the darkness with pinpricks of light, a mix of light and dark so much prettier than neutral grey. It was a powerful spell, wiping her core entirely, but the spell lingered, where it would bleed away over the next few minutes.

It was perfect. It had gone perfectly, and she hadn't seen half of Aldon's movements but if he had managed to catch her, he had to have done everything right. She looked down at him, since he hadn't set her on the ground yet – he had worked so hard, and her arms went around him in a hard, genuine hug, one filled with sweaty joy and satisfaction and exhaustion. He was breathing heavily, and she pulled back to tell him how well he had done.

He was staring at her, shocked, and her own eyes widened in surprise. Then his lips were on hers, warm and sweet, and she sagged, sinking into him, falling into his kiss.

Oh.

XXX

Aldon froze, his lips on hers.

It was too easy. The whole night had been too easy, living the lie had been both harder and easier than he had expected. From the minute Francesca had walked out into the Grimmauld Place kitchen, the comb he had given her shining in her dark hair, he had known he was in trouble. That cream-coloured ivory dress hugged her delicate curves in all the best ways, the cowl at her neck building up her chest without being immodest and the skirt flaring at her waist to emphasize her slender legs and perfectly proportioned hips. He had never been one to focus on a woman's chest, rather their hips and legs, and Francesca's were perfect. He could perfectly imagine himself beside her, doting on her, and she fit so nicely against him.

Every conversation he had with her that night, every time she had looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and trusting, even admiring, every time she had leaned into him for comfort… it had been the sweetest torment he could imagine for himself, and it was all too easy for him to fall into it, to make himself believe that everything was true. It wasn't, but it was there, and she was there, and the line had blurred all night.

And now he had crossed it. He had crossed the line, and he set her down, pulling back, his mouth opening for a very hasty, very sincere apology. He was sorry – it was an action he couldn't take back, and what would he do now? What could he do now?

She looked up at him, still leaning into him, her eyes wide and shocked.

"I'm so—" he started, but she reached up, one hand running a finger along his jaw, and gently pressed her lips back against his.

She was leaning on him, letting him take her weight. Her lips were plump, tasting like strawberries, and he reached one hand up to her soft, round cheek. His other hand rested in the small of her back, supportive, holding her close to him. He could feel every curve of her body against his, and it was perfect. Everything was perfect.

She pulled back, hesitant, shyly bringing her hands back to rest on his chest, her expression an open mix of joy, nervousness, and fear. Aldon understood because that expression mirrored his own feelings. He felt as if he stood on the edge of a precipice, the point after which there would be no return, and in that split second, he made a choice.

He smiled, and he leaned back down, and he kissed her properly. He forgot, or perhaps he simply did not care, that he was on a platform in front of all of Wizarding British Society and then some. He was persona non grata anyway, and this entire evening had been meant to emphasize that Aldon Blake was not Aldon Rosier. Forget Lord Sirius Black, Aldon Blake was the new bad boy of Wizarding Britain, and kissing his beautiful Muggleborn girlfriend (until he had a better word for her) at a major society event was, well, it was real. It was real, and it was perfect, and Aldon was on top of the world.

Aldon was on top of the world. He didn't care who approached him, or who said what, or what happened next, because nothing could deflate him at this instant. He would deal with Kowalski and whatever fit he was likely to throw – and Queenscove, well, Queenscove would let his brother sleep with Kowalski's unmarried sister in his castle, so he was sure he could talk him out of whatever objections he might have. Unlike William Queenscove, Aldon would make sure all the formalities were followed. He would need to meet her parents, and arrangements would need to be made, but they would happen. She had kissed him, and even now she was leaning into him, kissing him back, her hands gripping a little at his waistcoat, so he would make them happen. He could do anything at that moment.

"That is quite enough, Mr. Blake."

That low voice was one that Aldon recognized instantly, and it was not one that anyone disobeyed. Still, he broke off his kiss gently before pushing Francesca to stand behind him.

"Lord Riddle," he replied, sweeping a perfect thirty-degree bow. He should have bowed lower, but he didn't, because he was in front of Francesca Lam and he could not afford to present himself as anything but an equal. He felt her hands, trembling, on his back and waist, her warmth as she hid behind him from the most powerful politician, if not also the most powerful wizard, in Wizarding Britain.

"A beautiful performance," Riddle said, though Aldon did not believe for a second that he meant it. "Beautiful, but flashy and wasteful, as one expects American magic to be."

"Beautiful things have a value entirely their own," Aldon retorted, scrambling for an answer and finding, surprisingly, that he even believed it. "They cannot be measured by the amount of magic invested in them."

Lord Riddle was unlikely to do anything to the two of them – not here, and not now. Not when Aldon was no one, when this very performance, dance floor kiss included, already provided Riddle with a litany of terrible things to say about him. Aldon Rosier had fallen away from his noble pretensions, he had forgotten the value of magic, and he was not a worthy person with whom anyone should associate. Lord Riddle had no need to take any active steps against him, because Aldon posed no threat at all.

"Your performance ought to have ended with the beauty, before turning to the indecent." Riddle's dark eyes shifted, turning on Francesca, huddled behind him. "Your … companion."

"What of her?"

Riddle's expression betrayed a hint of distaste, which Aldon knew hid a much deeper disgust, something that set his back teeth on edge. Riddle could have chosen to hide it, but he hadn't – because Francesca wasn't worth it. Riddle couldn't see the beauty, the brilliance, the million little things that Aldon admired about her – all he could see was her blood. "She's completely drained. Barely above Squib-levels to begin with, I would imagine."

"From a theoretical perspective, there is a minimum amount of power that must exist before magic even asserts itself. Barely above Squib-levels is meaningless." Aldon narrowed his eyes. That was true; if it wasn't, then they would see partial gifts, or very weak gifts, ones that did not allow witches and wizards to complete even basic spells. And yet, every witch or wizard, if they had magic at all, had a minimum level which enabled them to function in magical society. Francesca rested at that level, and so did many competent witches and wizards.

Riddle paused, examining Francesca again, and Aldon tried to shift to shield her better, feeling her shaking a little against his back – out of fear or only magical exhaustion, he didn't know. "You could do better, Mr. Blake. You were a promising and intelligent wizard – with the Marriage Law, I assume you have dozens of more appropriate marriage partners lined up. Make the right choices, and you would do well."

"I think I have done well." Aldon's voice was ice and his frown etched deeper, and he ordered himself to keep his hands loose, easy, when they were more inclined to ball into fists. He could say whatever he wanted, but none of it mattered. Aldon was no one. Aldon was persona non grata, and he wasn't even a particularly powerful wizard. Aldon could fling words in response, he could throw himself between Francesca and Lord Riddle, but there was nothing else he could do if Lord Riddle decided to take any other action. He was solely relying on the fact that Lord Riddle wouldn't, not at a major Society event, not when he didn't need to do anything at all.

It burned. He wanted to do something. He wanted to mean something.

"Your companion needs to eat," Riddle said, turning away dismissive. He was done. "She's pale."

Aldon took a slow, shaky breath, hearing the music for the sixth set starting above him, and turned around to take Francesca in his arms. One glance down at her, and his decision was made. She was pale, still shaking, with almost a grey tinge to her skin. She did need something to eat, and Aldon knew she would skip if it he let her. There was a reason that her friends at school had to escort her to meals – from the little that Aldon had gathered, it was some combination of the fact that she didn't feel hungry if she was focused on work, and the fact that most food at school made her stomach hurt.

"We should try the refreshments," Aldon said firmly, directing her towards the back of the room, where a long table covered in hors d'oeuvres sat. He could see small glasses of soup, one a pale green and another orange, crackers covered in smoked salmon and capers, small puff pastries filled with sausage, piles of cheese and other charcuterie. "We paid an exorbitant amount for them, so we should try them before writing them off, at least."

If he hadn't known she had to be exhausted by the look on her face, he would have known from the way she only pulled a small face before allowing herself to be steered in the direction of the refreshments table. She let him fill a plate for her, shaking her head firmly at the puff pastries but accepting one of the tiny soups, a few of the crackers, a little bit of cheese and meat. He led her to a clear spot, close to one wall, positioning himself between her and the easy view of the crowd. He couldn't resist standing close to her, feeling her warmth, one hand resting on her upper arm as he watched her pick through the food on her plate.

She nibbled on one of the crackers, more out of need than any apparent desire for it. She wasn't looking at him, her gaze fixed on the tiny plate he had put in her small hands.

"I thought you were gay," she said finally, her voice soft. "I mean – you—"

"I am equally attracted to both sexes," Aldon corrected, equally quiet, tilting his head. "It is considered rude in Wizarding Britain to prefer one over the other, but I have always genuinely been attracted to both sexes."

"Oh."

There was so much trapped in that one word, and a faint blush had reappeared on her cheeks. Aldon couldn't help but smile, brushing a strand of her hair over her shoulder. She didn't need it, because her hair was always perfect and tonight was no exception, but he couldn't help it. "We should likely discuss this, though. Later. And I really should meet your parents."

She giggled, the sound bubbly, glancing up at him. "And it really is too early for that."

"But I really don't date," Aldon retorted lightly, letting his hand rest again on her shoulder. He didn't want to let go of her. "I wasn't lying about that. Men of my status don't date, Francesca. Or my former status. I don't date."

"What is it that you do, then, if not date?" Her smile was light, teasing, and her face was lit was mischievous sort of curiosity. "What fancy word do you call it?"

He leaned down to whisper directly into the curve of her ear. "Marriage."

She burst into laughter, pushing him away with one hand as she turned around to put her empty plate on a table nearby. "And it's really, really too early for that."

"And a thousand years too early for me to overhear that," a voice said, filled with disgust. "That was so nauseating that I don't even think I can find enough words to describe it. You're putting me off my wine."

Aldon whipped around, though he recognized the slow, chilly drawl. Caelum Lestrange leaned against the wall, a few feet away from them – Aldon had not noticed him earlier, a failing for which he was now cursing himself. He had been too occupied with Francesca, trying to find a clear enough spot where he could just look at her, talk to her, focus on her and nothing but her.

He had been having such a nice conversation with her. She had laughed. They had bantered. The stiff silence of their in-person interactions had cracked, broken, and there was something between them that had felt right, like the Francesca Lam of the communication orb was finally standing in front of him. And Caelum Lestrange, his second cousin through his Great-Aunt Druella, who had married into the Black Family, had had to ruin it.

He hated Lestrange.

"Caelum," he said, acknowledging him with a slight nod, and being somewhat satisfied when Lestrange's lip curled. He checked quickly for Francesca and saw that she had smartly stepped behind him. "No one invited your opinion."

"No one invited you here, yet here you are." Lestrange swirled his glass of wine, uncaring. "I saw your little performance."

"You would have been blind not to have seen it."

"I wish I were blind." Lestrange snorted, throwing back a third of his glass. "I would rather have seen you fucking an animal – at least that could have been explained by an improperly brewed lust potion. Though, she's little more than a monkey anyway, so maybe you did fuck a monkey in the middle of Society."

Aldon froze, a numb feeling starting from the top of his head and spreading slowly down his body. He couldn't believe he had heard those words, and yet he knew that he had, and Francesca was standing there behind him. And Lestrange had made no attempt to lower his voice, which meant that a few people around them were turning to look at them, frowning. His cousin had never been one to care what anyone thought of him, and he had enough status that, for the most part, people let him say whatever he wanted.

But Aldon was standing in front of Francesca, who had heard him, along with the people around them.

"Take that back." Aldon's mouth was numb. He could do nothing about Riddle – he didn't have the political power, the magical power, or the influence to do anything. But this was Caelum Lestrange, Aldon's second cousin, whom he had never particularly liked, whom he hated in this instant, and who didn't have the social, political, or magical power that Riddle did. "I demand that you take that back."

"Or what?" Lestrange narrowed his eyes at Aldon, looking down at him. "What are you going to do about it, Blake?"

"Demand satisfaction," Aldon said, the words falling out of his mouth, like a train that could not be stopped, like rocks tumbling down a ravine. They were so easy, those words, and he didn't even think before he repeated them. "You have paid my lady a grave insult, and I have demanded that you take it back. You have refused. As a blood noble, I now demand satisfaction from you for your insult to my lady's honour. Name your second."

XXX

ANs: Merry Christmas, everyone! Yes, this is a few days early, even for me - I am away for the holidays visiting family and between family festivities and trips to theme parks planned for both Thursday and Friday, I decided I'd rather post early when I had a few hours for the final edits than worry about it while at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. And there's a certain poetic justice to posting the Christmas chapter on Christmas, too. Thanks as always to meek_bookworm, faithful beta-reader and to everyone who reads and comments on this work! I would love a review for the holidays from everyone (even if it is just screaming), and for those who missed it, reader graveexcitement has a fanfic essay on his dreamwidth with his fan theory on: Who is Lina Avery?

French translations, for those that need them: Neal says first, "Welcome, leave your luggage here." Jessa says, "It's so beautiful... Look!". Neal says, "It was here when I got here." Graeme swears. "Et toi"/"Et tu" means "And you", though the former is you in object form, the latter is you in subject form. Tina says "It's just two weeks", then "everything is okay", while Will replies "It's not okay." Finally, Neal says, "It's not the same thing" and Tina just repeats "Two weeks." And yes, this amount of language switching would be perfectly normal and natural for the Queenscoves, who are native speakers of both English and French.

Next Chapter: What if we rewrite the stars? / Say you were made to be mine / Nothing could keep us apart / You'd be the one I was meant to find / It's up to you, and it's up to me / No one can say what we get to be / So why don't we rewrite the stars? / Maybe the world could be ours / Tonight (Rewrite the Stars, from The Greatest Showman soundtrack)