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.

12. Chapter 12

Words had power.

Or, perhaps it wasn't just the words. Not every witch or wizard cast using Latinate words, for example – the Russians and Eastern Europeans preferred Old Slavic, and the Chinese used no words at all, only runes and intention. But words worked for magic, words carried power, and words that had been used in traditional rituals in both the wizarding and the Muggle worlds for centuries carried something of their very own.

Aldon hadn't even finished his words before the signs appeared – golden runes spilled out into the air above them, a wave of cool power sweeping through the grand hall, alerting all of Society to the challenge. First, it was the people closest to them that stared up at the runes, their conversations forgotten, then others farther away noticed and fell silent, a ripple that spread through the hall until everyone was silent, staring, or whispering quietly to their neighbours.

Aldon caught sight of Ed, still standing with Alice and a few others. His oldest friend was pale, open-mouthed, staring up at the symbols now dangling above Aldon's head. Queenscove, standing not far away in a cluster of his kin, had an expression somewhere between shock and resignation.

"Challenge has been given," someone said, stepping forward, and it took a moment for Aldon to place the voice. He was shaking, and it was only with conscious effort that his hands were not balled into fists, that his wand wasn't already out to hex his cousin. Lord Parkinson separated himself from the crowd that was slowing drawing away from Aldon, Lestrange, and Francesca, still standing behind him. "Caelum Lestrange, as the challenged, you have a second opportunity to retract your statement and concede rather than duel."

Lestrange glared at Aldon, then his cousin's icy blue eyes flicked out to the staring crowds. His lip curled. "I will not take back what was true."

"Then, as the challenged, you may name the date and time."

Lestrange turned to Aldon, scanning him with a dismissive note in his eyes. "Let it be now, before Blake can disappear into the Muggle world, and before he can learn how to duel. Blake forgets that I went to Durmstrang."

Aldon had, in fact, forgotten that tiny detail. Still, as little as he knew about his second cousin, he was fairly sure that he had heard Lady Lestrange complain at length about both the stupidity and uselessness of her son. But Lestrange had also completed an internship at the Potions Guild alongside Harriett Potter, and Aldon knew what Harriett was like about Potions. He had never heard anyone mention anything about whether Lestrange could duel, and while he knew well that his cousin could be nasty, his nastiness had always been in words.

Then again, Aldon had little choice but to move forward now, regardless of what he might know or not. As the challenger, he had no opportunity to back down. This was his duel of honour, and he had to survive it.

He felt almost the way he had in the Tournament, when he had done a blood oath because Harriett Potter had not wanted to reveal her secrets. There was a pleasant buzz running through his veins, and he felt alive. He always felt alive, nowadays, but the fresh line of adrenaline running through his body was heady, a drug, bringing a whole new intensity to being alive.

He looked behind him for Francesca. She was still there, but her breathing was uneven, erratic as she hid behind him. He sighed, cursing mentally – she did not look well, and he would have to make sure she was with one of her friends while he fought. But for now, he had to get through the pre-duel formalities, and he had to put forward a strong face.

"Lestrange forgets that I was part of the duelling club at Hogwarts," Aldon said, turning back around and keeping his voice bored. He was stretching the truth, and his core let him know it. "Now will be fine."

Lord Parkinson studied him for a moment. "Then we will clear the floor. Seconds?"

Lestrange stared out on the crowds, his face blank. For all that he was noble, he had not been schooled in Britain, so he knew few people and asking someone to act as a second was no small thing. Aldon watched him carefully, reaching his hand back for Francesca – she put her hand in his, and squeezed hard. She was shaking, he could feel it through her hand, and he squeezed her hand back. Her hand was tiny in his.

"Edmund Rookwood," Lestrange said finally, and Aldon couldn't help a small intake of breath. "Heir Selwyn, and the son of my godfather."

Lord Parkinson looked out on the crowd, and Aldon saw Ed pulling himself away from Alice, who was now equally pale as her husband. "Heir Selwyn, do you accept the appointment?"

Ed's eyes flickered over to Aldon, but he couldn't read the expression in his oldest friend's eyes. There was a note of uncertainty, but then determination, and he had no idea what Ed was thinking. "I do."

Aldon shook his head, very slightly, as Francesca squeezed his hand again. He had not really expected Ed to accept, but as the son of Lestrange's godfather, maybe he had little choice. But there was something about it nonetheless that burned, painful, in his chest.

"Aldon Blake, your second?"

Aldon took a deep breath, considering his options. He didn't really have any options – Ed would have been his choice, but Lestrange had beaten him to it. Who did he know that was here, who could duel? Kowalski might have been a good choice, but Aldon couldn't be sure that Kowalski would accept, and Aldon had spent the night, if not the last four months, happily torching his other connections. There was only one other person he could try.

"Lord Nealan Queenscove," Aldon said, hoping against hope that Queenscove would accept. Queenscove could duel, and even if Aldon hadn't gone in detail on formal duels of honour, he had taught Queenscove about them. He remembered, because Queenscove had complained, at considerable length, about the uselessness of knowing how to do a formal duel of honour, because it was 1995 and no one challenged people to duels anymore.

"Tabernak," he heard Queenscove swearing, stepping forward from his cluster of family members. Aldon marked them in his head – they were the safest group for him to deposit Francesca with while he fought for his life. Queenscove answered before Lord Parkinson could ask. "Yes, yes, I accept the appointment, que Dieu vienne m'aider."

God help me, Aldon translated mentally, even as he was sighing with relief on the inside. At least he had a second – a strong one, though he had no idea how Queenscove measured against his oldest friend. He hoped it would not come to the involvement of seconds – hopefully, he would be able to force Lestrange to a surrender and no seconds would be needed at all. Even before the duel, there would be an opportunity for the named seconds to try to broker a peace, one which was not announced to the crowds, which would allow both he and Lestrange to walk away, honour intact.

"Very well," Lord Parkinson said, nodding sharply. "We shall clear the floor. You have an hour for preparations and for your seconds to discuss."

Aldon nodded, turning to take Francesca in his arms and to usher her over to the Queenscoves. The second they reached the group, Tina Kowalski snatched Francesca out of his arms, pushing her towards William Queenscove, who took one look at her and pulled her with him to his father, Baird Queenscove. Baird leaned down to look at her, then reached into his pockets for a blue-tinted potion, which he uncorked for her because her hands were shaking too much to manage it. A Calming Draught, Aldon realized.

A smack on his shoulder brought his attention back to the people in front of him. Tina Kowalski was not a small woman, but she carried herself as if she was exactly the size that everyone wanted to be. "I am going to murder you," she hissed at him. "My brother and I will murder you for this. What the fuck was that about?"

"He insulted her," Aldon snapped in reply, refusing to be cowed. He had a duel to fight in an hour, and he needed to discuss with Neal the next steps – the negotiation of seconds. "He insulted her, and he wouldn't take it back."

Neal sighed, rubbing his forehead, interceding and waving the older Kowalski away. "All right. What, exactly, did he say? I need to know, if I'm going to go in and negotiate a peace. Do you even know how to duel? Also, how the hell am I supposed to negotiate peace?"

Aldon scowled, not wanting to repeat the words. He looked over at Francesca again, who now had the younger Kowalski at her side, and they were staring into each others' eyes in that odd way that he had walked in on a few times, and she was sniffling. He marked the oddity for later, but he didn't think she would hear him if he did repeat it. "He said that I might as well have fucked a monkey in front of all of Wizarding Society. And she heard it. I didn't have a choice, Queenscove."

"If I'm going to be acting as a second for you, you might as well call me Neal." Neal blew out a breath, aggravated. "Fine, tell me what I need to know to make the other side back down, so you don't actually need to duel. Do you know how to duel? Que Dieu vienne m'aider, please tell me you know how to fucking duel."

"I didn't lie, entirely, when I said I was part of the duelling club," Aldon muttered in reply, keeping his voice down. "I can duel. A little. It's not my preferred way of handling problems, but I have no choice, Neal. I can't let an insult like that pass. I want Lestrange to take it back, and if he doesn't, I must duel him. I don't think he is a particularly good dueller either, his mother says he is an idiot."

"Osti de criss de tabernak," Neal swore, then he sighed again. "Okay, fine. You want him to take it back, and if he does, we're done, right? No duel?"

"Yes," Aldon agreed, turning around and spotting Lestrange in a knot of his own kin, Ed standing by. Lestrange was scowling, and Aldon saw Lady Lestrange talking to her son, her face flushed with excited pleasure. Ed looked none too pleased, his mouth pressed together tightly, which Aldon guessed did not bode well. "I don't know if we'll get there, but if they refuse to back down, tell them that I look forward to eliminating a potential challenger to the Rosier seat."

"You're a nutcase. A complete and total nutcase." The floor was slowly clearing, Lord Parkinson and others gesturing for people to move to the side, making space for a duelling arena, but the Lestranges were still discussing. Neal shook his head. "I think we have a few minutes – what else do I need to know?"

Aldon shook his head, starting to run through his options. He was not a dueller, but he had his ACD, and he had charged his cufflinks earlier that day. And he had a ritual knife, and while he didn't know much blood magic, it was raw, relying more on intent than technique, and he was absolutely willing to resort to it in a moment of need. "Ed will want to end it if he can, but he has to follow Lestrange's directions. I am not hopeful that Lestrange will retract his statement – the Lestranges are not … known for their flexibility."

"Câlisse." Neal put his head in his hands. "What is the point of what I'm about to do, then? Why the hell did you pick me as your second?"

"Because I didn't have much choice." Aldon took a deep breath, considering his options. The ward contained in his ACD would give him a defensive edge, since it wouldn't fall to anything as simple as a Pertus, and it was a full ward, something more advanced than blended shield spells. His concern was on his offensive capabilities – he wanted to end it, as fast as possible, but as much as he could defend himself, he didn't know how he could force Lestrange into submission. He would have to find a way. "Look – I don't think Lestrange is much of a dueller either. He's nasty, but historically he's only been nasty with words, and his mother has always been extremely denigrating about his capabilities. He's good at potions, but the likelihood of him carrying an explosive potion aren't high, and he will use most of what he has on me."

Neal sighed again, shaking his head. "Just so you know, this isn't endearing you to either John or his sister."

A pause, and Aldon shook his shoulders out, checking his multiple channelling methods. The cufflinks were still active, full, ready to go, and his ACD's batteries were full. His core was full. What was it that Malfoy had always made them do before they did anything in duelling club? He started stretching, the movements a little foreign, because he had never liked any of duelling club. "I don't have a choice, Neal. I don't have a choice. And she kissed me, she kissed me, and I need to – I don't have a choice. I'll figure it out with Kowalski later."

"I can't say I understand, but fine. It's your funeral." A pause, and Aldon saw that Ed was done his discussions with the Lestranges and was striding out onto the centre of the floor. Neal drew in a deep breath. "Off I go. You better think up something brilliant, Aldon, because I don't want to be duelling today."

Aldon nodded, distracted, looking for Francesca. Kowalski, the younger one, was holding her, listening to the whispered conference his sister was now having with William Queenscove. He took a few steps closer to that group, ignoring the glares that were being thrown his way as he reached out to touch her on the shoulder. "Francesca, my darling?"

She didn't answer, but she looked at him, and he saw that her eyes were wet. Her makeup was coming off a little, but oddly he didn't find that bothersome in the least. She was still beautiful. He glared at Kowalski, hovering over her, but Kowalski only shook his head, refusing to leave. He would have to deal with Kowalski later, assuming he survived.

"I don't want you to watch," he said baldly, turning her to face him. "It's going to be messy, and dirty, and it's not something you should see."

"I've seen duelling before," she whispered, looking down. "I – I go to the competitions every year, with John. I watched the Tournament."

"But this isn't going to be that kind of competition, Francesca. I'm going to do my best, but Lestrange will be trying to murder me, and I have to respond in kind." Aldon's voice was calm, serious. "It's not something you should see."

She sniffled. "You shouldn't have – I'm not worth that. I can – I can take an insult."

"Let me be the judge of that," Aldon replied, glancing up at Kowalski, who only shook his head, disgusted. They would have words later, Aldon was sure. "May I?"

Kowalski shook his head again, seemingly even more disgusted. "That's not my choice. Chess?"

Francesca hesitated, and then she reached for him, and that one movement, that one motion, made Aldon all the more resolute. He would survive this, so that he could have her arms around him again, maybe even another kiss, though he really ought to speak to her parents before taking such a liberty again. An embrace was one thing – kisses were another. On the other hand, he had already broken that rule, so what was one more?

Especially because Aldon was fairly certain that his cousin would be attempting to murder him, and in a world of druthers, he would rather have one more kiss than worry about propriety at this exact instant. He reached down, cradling her chin with one hand as he gently pressed his lips against hers again.

Her mouth was soft, even as she responded, a shy note of hesitance as she did so. She was so sweet, and if he survived this, he would do everything properly, he swore it. He would court her as she deserved to be courted, and the papers would be signed before he took any further liberties, and they would have a proper chaperone for any and all in-person meetings, and when she was seventeen, when she finished school, they would have the most lavish wedding he could afford. She deserved that much, and he would face down worse than Caelum Lestrange for her.

"No luck, Aldon." Neal's voice cut into his moment, and Aldon hastily broke off his kiss. "According to Rookwood, Lestrange spat out a stream of Russian which essentially translates as telling you to go fuck yourself. In the ass. Then Rookwood downplayed and said that he imagined he could talk Lestrange around if you simply withdrew your challenge with nothing further, no apology needed."

"Language, Neal," Aldon snapped, though he was unsurprised at his cousin's words. Still, Neal ought to have found a more decorous way to express the sentiment. "There are women present. And why should I apologize? He insulted her."

"Aldon, women know how to swear, and Tina swears far worse than that on a regular basis, I promise." Neal paused. "I did ask why you ought to apologize, and said that as long as he retracted the insult, we could all walk away, but according to Rookwood, Lestrange doesn't feel that he ought to retract the statement because, as lesser-blooded mages, you should be used to insults and he was only saying what everyone was thinking anyway. I might have hit him for that, but luckily, I have more self-control than you. Rookwood suggested you just concede, because you can't duel worth beans, so I hope you have a plan."

"A plan." Aldon couldn't help but snort, but Francesca was still there, in his arms, so he changed it hurriedly into a cough that he was sure Neal saw through. "Yes, a plan. I have one of those."

"Sure." Neal drew the word out, skeptical. "Come on then, leave Francesca to John and Tina. Let's go consider these plans – Rookwood said he would report the result to Parkinson, we have a few minutes. I can't teach you duelling in the next five minutes, but hell if I'm not going to try."

Aldon sighed, reluctantly letting go of Francesca and pushing her back towards the younger Kowalski, with a final whisper for her not to watch whatever happened. She only shook her head mutely, then fished in her dress for a paper-charm.

"Lightning," she said, by way of explanation. "I – it's good I used it, earlier. Take it."

Aldon nodded, charging it pre-emptively and tucking it into his pocket. It bit into his core, but he had a few minutes for his core to try to recover before he actively started dueling. A few drops could make all the difference. He made sure she was back with Kowalski, now with his boyfriend, the German, at his side as well, and that she was turned around, her eyes hidden.

Looking out over the now cleared floor, he didn't need Neal to guide him to where he would stand – he had studied these rituals since he was a child, and he didn't need to see the markings to know the limits. Master Regulus Black was already setting up protective warding, to catch any wayward spells.

The only people permitted within the duelling arena were the Master of Ceremonies, the duellers and their seconds, and Aldon felt the pounding mix of dread and anticipation as he crossed the line where the protective wards would go up.

"Be straight with me, Aldon," Neal said, keeping his voice down, even if there was no real need. "How much duelling have you really done?"

Aldon shrugged, thinking through his options. It had to be tricks, with him. The ACD – he pulled up his sleeve and turned it on. It would take just over thirty seconds for the ward to form, during which he likely wouldn't be able to do much else, but he should be able to start it before the duel formally began. And he had fuelled both his cufflinks earlier that day, so those would add an edge for him. "I didn't lie about being in the duelling club. I wasn't particularly good at it, but I have done it. I don't know about Lestrange – everything I have heard about him from his mother is complaints that he's an idiot."

"I know nothing about the Lestranges, but you can't afford to rely on her comments," Neal replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "He went to Durmstrang – they're the only school that teaches free dueling, as well as an array of Dark spells that aren't taught anywhere else. You saw them during the Triwizard Tournament. What's your plan, if you don't duel that well?"

"Tricks." Aldon looked over to the other side of the duelling arena, where Lestrange was standing with Ed. Ed had his arms crossed over his chest as well, but he wasn't talking to his dueller; instead, Aldon met his eyes across the field, and Ed shook his head, very slightly. He had tried, Aldon thought that meant. "I have an ACD on me – a new model. It carries a ward in it, harder for Lestrange to break through than just shield spells. Francesca also made some cufflinks for me for Christmas, they're holding an elemental attack spell and shield spell, and she gave me a lightning charm. And I have a ritual knife, and I'm not afraid of using blood magic."

"Well, he has a ritual knife too, Lady Lestrange just gave him one." Neal sighed. "You're an idiot, Aldon. T'es totalement fucké, tu sais?"

"Yes, totally fucked, I understand," Aldon replied, glaring at his cousin across the duelling arena. He saw the ritual knife, but he didn't know if his cousin would know how to use it. "Why is it that when you speak English, you swear in bizarre Quebecois French, but when you speak French, you swear in bastardized English?"

Neal shrugged, ignoring the question. "Look, the most I can tell you is to keep moving and use everything you have. Don't hold back – you just can't afford to. Don't waste your time with anything big or showy either, a lot of beginner duellers do, but you need to go for smaller spells, or some creativity. Smaller spells are easier to get off, and speed is your friend. Lestrange feels like the kind of person who wants to go big and showy, but those spells will slow him down, so use that to press your advantage."

"Fine." Aldon's voice was terse, and he saw Lord Parkinson, stepping inside the ward. "If I die, do me a favour and make sure Francesca's cared for with your obscene amounts of money. You can afford it. And kill Lestrange for me, if you can. This is an open duel of honour – no charges can be laid for what happens within the arena."

"That's two favours, but fine. I would have cared for Francesca anyway, she's a friend and also basically my sister-in-law's little sister." Neal shook his head, resigned. "Try not to die, Aldon."

Aldon nodded mutely, then headed for the unmarked spot on his end of the arena. Lestrange, too, was taking his position, and Aldon surreptitiously threw a line of his magic to his ACD. Thirty seconds, and he would have a ward.

"Bow." Lord Parkinson's voice was emotionless, and Aldon bowed a perfect thirty degrees. There was a pause, but Lord Parkinson didn't comment. To be entirely proper, Aldon should have bowed forty-five degrees, while all Lestrange needed to do was fifteen degrees, the bow of a noble to a non-noble or a halfblood. The only reason Aldon was allowed to call a formal duel of honour at all was that he was a still a blood noble, even unacknowledged – he still had a wide array of rights, including making a claim for Lordship, though his claim was secondary to that of any legitimate heirs. It had happened, in the past, where a blood noble had taken the family title, though never without bloodshed.

In that light, duelling Lestrange was only one step closer to his title. Lestrange had a claim on the Rosier title, and if Aldon managed to kill him now, it was one less challenger later.

"On the count of three, you may begin. One, two—"

"Avada Kedavra!" Lestrange roared from across the arena, and Aldon didn't think before he released the shield spell he was holding in his right cufflink, followed quickly by the attack spell held in his left cufflink. The sheet of ice, four inches thick, ballooned into the air in front of him, catching the Killing Curse and shattering into green-tinted pieces on the floor, and Aldon quickly gave praise to the fact that his elemental affinity was ice, a solid, the only thing that could defend against the Killing Curse.

His attack spell, it turned out, fired an array of small icicles in Lestrange's general direction, which were deflected by a shield spell of some kind. Aldon didn't know shield spells well enough to tell which one it was, but his spikes bounced off, while he brought his wand into play.

Lestrange flicked another spell at him, another one that Aldon didn't identify – his cousin cast in Old Slavic, which was not good. Verbal casting meant that none of what Lestrange was casting was secret, but since Aldon still didn't understand it, the advantage was lost on him.

His ward was not up in time, and a belated attempt at dodging only meant that Lestrange had scored a line on his upper arm, instead of anywhere more vital. It didn't feel critical, and he felt his ward snap into being around him, a second too late, but he growled out a Bombarda spell. His arm burned, a line of fire, but he didn't have time to look at it and his left hand still worked. He fished out the paper spell in his pocket and let the lightning spell go, flashing across the arena with a wild crash of thunder.

"First blood goes to Caelum Lestrange," he heard Lord Parkinson announce, monotone, but Aldon ignored it in favour of moving, Malfoy's and Harriett's and Neal's words ringing in his mind. He wasn't especially athletic, and he knew he couldn't keep this up for long. He had to finish it, and he threw out a Piercing Spell, following by both a Severing Charm, and a Reductor Curse.

The Piercing Spell took care of the shield, and Aldon's Severing Charm was a direct hit, slashing a tear across Lestrange's shoulder. Now he had drawn blood too, not that that was of great use. Aldon was already panting – he was not used to moving so much, so quickly, and it showed. The only positive was that it didn't seem like his cousin was much of a dueller either, since he was stationary, barely having moved a single step since the duel had started. Lestrange fired another series of spells at him, but Aldon didn't worry about it – his ward deflected them, and he saw Lestrange frown, lifting his wand and casting something else.

Aldon leapt back, cursing in surprise as a cobra appeared on the ground, spitting poison. He threw out a Fumos spell, disappearing into smoke, before he sheathed his wand and reached for his ritual knife. He didn't know whether the snake could see through the smoke or not, but he needed the cover for what he was about to do next – he was shaking, already bleeding, and he didn't have a spell for what he wanted to happen. He reached for the cut on his arm, since he was bleeding, letting his blood collect on the blade, then he focused on what he wanted to happen.

He wanted fire, and lots of it. He could do a fireball with Inflamari, or start a minor blaze with Incendio, but really he wanted fire across the floor, as if he had poured an accelerant over everything before he lit it aflame. Something that wouldn't be easily extinguished.

It took a hit out of his core, but it worked – nearly a two fifths of his core was gone in the spell, but with luck, the flames would hold. His ward would be able to handle it, but who knew if his cousin could. He could feel a wind blowing, taking out his smoke spell, and none too quickly as Aldon caught sight of what his blood magic had done.

There was fire, several bonfires and walls of flame linking them, and the cobra seemed more afraid of the flames than anything else. Aldon fired a dismissive Incendio at it, letting his ward handle another of the spells that Lestrange was throwing at him, this one apparently an attempt at a shield-breaking charm. His ward was steady under the assault, so he drove the snake into one of the nearby lines of flame and made sure it shrivelled.

It was entirely luck that he heard Lestrange's command, and that he leapt out of the way of the Imperius in time, his mouth thinning as he fired back with another Depulso, then Everte Statum, then another Reductor Curse. Aldon directed a line of his magic to refuel his shield cufflink – his ward would not handle an Unforgiveable, and he supposed he should count it lucky that, wherever his cousin had picked up the Unforgiveable Curses, they were at least Latinate. Not Durmstrang, then.

Lestrange dodged the Depulso and blocked the Everte Statum, but the Reductor caught him square across his chest, sending him flying. He fell into a line of flames, but was up and out, looking much the worse for wear with his robes smoking as he hissed another spell, one with a few quick movements, at Aldon.

It wasn't an Unforgiveable, so Aldon didn't worry about it, advancing on his cousin instead with his ritual dagger in his left hand and his wand in his right. Two spells slammed into his ward, and he immediately changed course when he felt his ward collapsing under them, jumping out of the way of a Crucio.

His cousin was a nasty piece of work, Aldon thought, the Torture curse just missing him even as he let go of his second elemental shield spell and threw a line of magic at his ACD for a fresh ward. It was hot in the duelling arena without it, his flames scorching, but he needed to buy just over thirty seconds of time before it would materialize again. He watched his cousin across the arena – he was far enough away, thankfully, that he had enough forewarning to dodge most of the spells thrown at him.

It was just thirty seconds, but to cover the fact that his magic was tied up in the ACD, he kept moving, waiting for the right moment to release his ice spike spell. He didn't know how effective it was likely to be when he had set the arena of fire, but it was something, and he pulled out Francesca's paper charm for good measure. It was spent, but Lestrange couldn't know that he hadn't refueled it, and that he didn't have one primed.

Lestrange watched him warily, before redoubling on his advantage, sending another array of spells at Aldon, which he dodged primarily through desperation and sheer, dumb luck. He took the opportunity to fire off his ice spike spell and saw that, in the heat of the arena, it had turned to more of a hailstorm. Not useful – it hit Lestrange square and did nothing.

His ward snapped back into being around him, and he could finally focus on the attack, on his wand magic. Lestrange had barely moved from where he had started – Aldon would have to take the fight to him, he realized, as little as he liked it. He moved, panting heavily and pushing himself as fast as possible, ducking another Torture Curse as it was flung his way.

Big spells, showy spells, Aldon realized. Just as Neal had said, and they slowed his cousin down. Lestrange was sweating in the heat, and Aldon fired off another stream of Cutting and Severing Charms. He couldn't be sure if any of them hit, because he dashed through one of his many walls of flame, his ward taking care of the heat, a direct path to his cousin.

The other problem with not moving, Aldon realized soon afterwards, was that his cousin was standing in a spot slippery with his own dripped blood, with the debris of his burned robes, with his sweat. He saw Aldon coming at him, wand in hand, bringing his wand back for another curse.

"Avada," he started, but he took a single, critical step back—

And he slipped. He slipped, and he went down heavily, and Aldon threw himself on top of his cousin, cutting off his air supply through the very practical means of resting his left arm, and most of his weight, on Lestrange's neck. His wand was out, pointing at Lestrange's eye.

"Do it," Aldon panted, grinding his arm against Lestrange's neck. He was sweating, and he didn't want to know what he looked like at this exact moment. "Finish that spell."

His cousin choked, his face red as he struggled to breathe.

There was a moment of ringing silence, and Aldon suddenly realized the scene that everyone was watching: the Ministry Unity Ball on fire, Aldon Blake-formerly-Rosier seemingly prepared to murder his cousin, Caelum Lestrange, in the course of a duel of honour.

He hoped that Francesca was not watching.

"His life is yours to take, Blake," Lord Parkinson said, his monotone voice cutting through Aldon's thoughts. "You have the right."

Francesca might be watching. He had told her not to, but it would be hard not to watch, and her friends and family were watching besides. He had won – he had won, and that meant he had to consider what came next.

Lestrange was turning an unpleasant shade of aubergine.

Killing Lestrange when he didn't have to would not endear him to the Kowalskis, whom he knew very well had considerable influence on Francesca. Francesca considered them to be her magical family, and that meant that Aldon had to earn his way into their esteem. It would be hard enough for him to earn his way back from this, as justified as it might be.

"I have no need to take his life, Lord Parkinson," he said, though he disarmed his cousin just because he would not put it past Lestrange to attempt to murder him even after the end of the duel. He slipped Lestrange's wand into his waistcoat, which was very much the worse for wear. "My victory demonstrates the righteousness of my cause. I will, in lieu, take Lestrange's wand and a life debt as appropriate recompense."

"Very well." Aldon did not look up, hearing Lord Parkinson's response. "I declare Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier to be the winner of this duel of honour. His victory demonstrates the righteousness of his cause, and he has taken a wand and a life debt as just recompense. This matter is now concluded, witnessed today by myself, Lord Cassius Julian Parkinson, acting as Master of Ceremonies."

Aldon breathed a sigh of relief, suddenly aching all over as he got up. Lestrange sat up, looking in equal measure disgusted and furious and, strangely, apprehensive. Aldon didn't worry about it, turning around instead to see Lord Malfoy, Master Regulus Black, Professor Snape, along with the Lord Black, Archie, Hermione, Remus Lupin and several others, were putting out the flames that he had spent blood to create. Lord Riddle did not look entirely happy at the state of affairs, and Aldon spent a moment considering why he had allowed it to go forward at all. Admittedly, there was likely little that he could have done; a duel of honour was a matter of right, and a personal matter between two nobles, not a matter an external party could opine on. He could have ordered the duel happen elsewhere, perhaps, but with Lestrange demanding it in the here and now, perhaps the choice had been taken out of his hands as well. And, Aldon had to consider, Lord Riddle had always enjoyed a certain pageantry. The very public death of halfblood Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier, who had unwisely challenged pureblood Caelum Magnus Lestrange to a duel of honour, was likely a desirable result permitting certain risks to be taken.

"Aldon," he heard a soft voice calling him, and he whipped around to see Francesca skirting her way through the flames, onto a field marred with spell marks and stained with blood and sweat. He cursed mentally and strode over to meet her – she ought to have stayed with the Kowalskis and the Queenscoves, not come out onto the arena floor. It wasn't a good place for her. "Aldon, are you all right?"

She looked frightened, ready to throw herself on him to reassure herself that he was fine, but he held up one hand to stop her from doing it. Her dress was white, a beautiful snow white, shining with the light of a glimmer charm, and he paused.

She looked so beautiful in the firelight, even if she had obviously been weeping, terrified.

Words had power, and so did moments. There were certain moments, after certain events, that carried a certain power of their own. Certain rituals done in these moments let one circumvent what would be the normal challenges, would force anyone and everyone to accept a particular result even if it went against all sense, all duty, all responsibility, and all law.

A victory over a duel of honour, over an insult to a lady, was one of those very precious moments.

He knelt, drawing his ritual knife as he did so and laying it on the ground before her. Traditionally, it would have been a sword, but he didn't have one, so his ritual knife it would have to be. He drew one of her hands, small and delicate, into both of his, and winced a little when he saw that his hands were covered in blood and soot. Well, not all romantic moments could be planned.

Francesca's mouth was open, her expression bewildered.

"Francesca Nga Bik Lam," he started, choking a little over her proper Cantonese name, a late night's conversation over communication orb completely inadequate for teaching him the proper pronunciation. "I have nothing to offer you. I am nothing – I am only a blood noble, and I have no great wealth or manor or title of my own. But all I have is yours, and everything I will ever have is yours. I swear, openly before witnesses and with no expectations, that I shall defend you with my wand and shield you with my name, from this moment henceforth, until my death. I ask, and this is a request only with no bearing on my oath, that you might be mine, to have and to hold, until death do us part."

XXX

"Shit!"

Archie looked over at his Dad, who had gone pale. He had never heard his Dad swear before – or rather, he probably had, but the times were so rare that he couldn't bring any occasion to mind. He hadn't seen Dad like this before.

Dad caught his eye and shook his head. "It's a ritual, Arch," he explained, words tumbling fast as if he were Archie himself, but instead of excitement it was urgency driving his speech. "A formal proposal of marriage on the heels of a duel of honour – it's old magic. It doesn't follow any laws, it's beyond our laws. If she says yes, she's legally considered married, and that's it."

"What, with nothing else?" Archie blinked, bewildered. "I don't understand—"

"Your mum and I decided that you didn't need to know the old rituals, because we figured you would get into less trouble that way," Dad explained, eyes wide in horror, staring at the scene in front of them. "Like this. Aldon's doing this to skirt the Marriage Law."

Archie looked back over the scene with new eyes. Before, he had thought the whole thing a little romantic, straight out of one of Chess' romance novels, exactly the kind of thing that she would like, but that was only if it wasn't real. This was very real, and Chess was fifteen – it was far, far too early for any proposal, not in any world which was not Wizarding Britain.

He glanced back at Dad, who had a furrow in his brows. He was muttering under his breath, something about acceptable diversions. Archie needed to get this information over to Chess, before Chess could say anything that would lock her permanently into a marriage at fifteen. Wizarding Britain's laws on divorce were regressive, to say the least, and he somehow doubted the old rituals had any divorce clauses.

John. The answer was John. No one was watching Archie as he carefully aimed a small Depulso, the smallest one he could manage, at his friend. Depulso was a general blunt force attack, a little stronger than a Flipendo, the main advantage of it being that it appeared as a wave of power, rather than a beam of light. It was harder to block, and invisible, though Archie purposely made the spell as weak as he could. He only wanted John's attention, not anything else.

It worked. John looked over at him, and Archie dropped his mental shields, throwing the knowledge at him like a bomb out of his mists. It's a real marriage, John! She can't say yes. Do something!

John's face turned into a scowl as he strode forward, obviously planning on interceding. Chess saw the movement, caught his eye, and that was all that she needed.

Her mouth opened in a gasp, and there was a slight hiccough of breath, and she turned around and bolted. Aldon got up and went after her a few steps, but she whipped around, pulling out one of her spells, and Archie brought his wand out – he knew what Chess was carrying today, because he had watched her make half the spells two nights ago, charging them full with her magic. None of them were nice.

There were no words, but her eyes were filled with tears, her mouth set in anger and betrayal. She just released the spell, and Archie threw out a shield more out of instinct than anything else, uselessly covering himself, Hermione and Dad.

Fire exploded out at Aldon, which he had been caught too flatfooted to block. Instead, a chill wind caught the flames, overpowering, dispersing the embers into nothing, and Archie saw that Neal had drawn his sword. He turned his attention back to Chess, who was bolting for the Floo hallway, John not far behind her. Back to Grimmauld Place, Archie hoped.

He looked down at the floor, but Neal was already striding across the floor to Aldon, so Archie didn't worry about it. He trusted that Neal would take care of Aldon, who was looking much the worse for wear after his duel.

"I think I've had enough for one night, what do you think?" he said, turning around to Dad and Hermione with a sterling attempt at a grin. "I love excitement as much as the next person, but it's past my bedtime and I'm all tuckered out. Can we go home now?"

XXX

Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier was an idiot, Neal decided, not for the first time that night as he watched Francesca run from Aldon's overeager declaration of intent. Granted, he had always kind of thought Aldon was an idiot, as well as an ultra-conservative pureblood noble, even if by happenstance of birth Aldon was neither a pureblood nor a recognized heir. But this particular escapade demonstrated new heights in his friend's sheer stupidity.

A friend – for that was what Aldon was. He had been for months, for all that they had called each other Blake and Queenscove and threw entertaining insults at each other hourly, for all that Neal paid Aldon for his time teaching him noble etiquette and plotting his course through Wizarding British Society. Given where Aldon had started, the set of rules and the education and culture that he had absorbed, and given where he was now, Neal couldn't help but like him. Aldon was floundering in a world where his status had changed abruptly for the worse, and overall, Neal thought he was handling it pretty well.

Since when had he become the sensible one? He wondered idly, striding over to look Aldon over, sheathing his sword and drawing his wand instead. That cut on his arm looked nasty, and Neal suspected more injuries than that. Aldon really was an awful dueller, and if it wasn't for Francesca's ACD and those cufflinks, he would have been dead. Beyond question, he would have been dead within the first thirty seconds. Neal had winced at the first Killing Curse, a ball of combined fury and shock deep in his stomach as he prepared to leap in to retaliate, when Aldon's ice shield had kicked in.

Even after that, it looked as though Aldon was sunk. He hadn't blocked the spells coming, nor did his feet move fast enough, and whatever Lestrange had cast had hit him in the arm. A slashing or cutting curse, Neal thought, but it could have been worse. It was really only when Aldon had pulled out the blood magic that he had begun having something like a chance, bringing fire into the arena. Neal had been fine, calling on a small winter wind to keep the heat at bay, but he had seen how Lestrange and Rookwood had sweated in the hell that Aldon had created.

Though, he had told Aldon, no big flashy spells. His friend had apparently tossed that piece of advice out the window.

Aldon was lucky that Lestrange was no better a dueller than he. Neal had seen it within the first two minutes – Lestrange hadn't moved around as much as an experienced dueller would, he had gone for big spells like the Unforgiveable Curses, he had almost entirely attacked Aldon directly rather than changing the environment or terrain around him to his advantage. His knees were locked, his grip on his wand too tight, and he had been glaring at Aldon and only at Aldon. Basic errors – Neal probably could have gutted him in less than three minutes. Kel would have taken even less time, because her elemental affinity, earth, was a solid. Heck, Kel probably would have just opened a crevasse under him and watched him fall. Even Yuki, peppery Yuki who Neal had the pleasure of seeing in the lists this holiday, could have taken Lestrange down without too much trouble.

Neal glanced up at Yuki, who raised an eyebrow at him. He shot her a wry grin, nodding at Aldon, and she shook her head with a small smile of her own. She understood.

Aldon's eventual victory was still more luck. Neal had been ready to dive into combat, seeing the Killing Curse coming, when Aldon had plowed into Lestrange and slammed his arm across Lestrange's windpipe. A win was a win, but Neal would have to make sure that Aldon learned how to duel if he was going to engage in this sort of insanity on a regular basis. He considered, offhand, what bribes he could offer to get Aldon into his lists.

"You're an idiot," he announced, voice firm as he turned Aldon around to face him and ran a diagnostic charm. A number of cuts and bruises, including the deep one across his shoulder, which was also poisoned. More than one spell had hit him, Aldon just had the good fortune not to have noticed, and none of them had been debilitating. He sighed and started weaving a Healing spell. "Do I need to say it in French, too? T'es idiot."

Aldon didn't answer, still staring off to where Francesca had disappeared, John hot on her heels. The Blacks, too, seemed to be heading in that direction. Aldon's face was carefully poised, blank, but Neal thought he could read some hurt in his eyes.

"So, what was that about, eh?" he said, switching into full French. He knew perfectly well that Aldon understood the language, though he rarely spoke it, preferring to reply in English. French was not the best secret language to use in Britain, but it wasn't as if Aldon spoke Mandarin. It was something though, and it should take a few minutes for any eavesdroppers to decipher Neal's accent anyway, which Aldon was already accustomed to. "Explain."

Aldon looked at Neal, and he looked at the people around him, and he sighed. He thought for a moment, before speaking – in French. His accent was tolerable, if not perfect, and while he fumbled with his words, he seemed competent enough in the language. "I – she kissed me. So, I proposed – I would have done so anyway, but this way, we wouldn't have to worry about the Marriage Law, because a proposal in these circumstances means that all of Society would have to accept us. It's an old rite, the most romantic one – she is a romantic. I know, from too many conversations I wasn't supposed to have with her, for months. And she kissed me, so – so she cares for me too. I don't understand."

"Whereas I don't know where to begin," Neal replied, his voice dry with humour. He had finished purging Aldon of poison, which would have become a problem a few hours from now, and moved on to Healing the cuts, still sluggishly bleeding. "Your relationship just changed tonight, didn't it? You were still doing that mooning thing a few days ago, and I heard about that comb – must have cost you a week's pay, that."

"Two weeks." Aldon took a deep breath. "Just because I wanted one of those smiles. The ones that light up her whole face. And she took it, and the expression when she opened it – it was better than that. It was shock, it was happiness, it was … I don't know how to say it. Something profound."

"Profound," Neal drawled, a little mocking, but shook his head when Aldon glared at him. He finished up with one cut and moved on. "Sorry, sorry, not the right time, I know, but I couldn't resist. Those smiles were a recurring theme among her hopeful suitors. The ones where she forgets about being anxious and terrified of everyone, or being anxious and hating everyone, Faleron called them."

Aldon paused, his poised expression breaking for a moment into surprise, then annoyance. "Faleron," he repeated, his voice cool and scathing. "Is he the only one?"

"Like I would know." Neal examined the scar on Aldon's shoulder, and decided he had done his best, and what remained was as best as it would ever be. Blood magic always scarred. One could always tell a bloodmage by the number of scars they had, especially on their arms. "There were always a few. John used to ask me for backup if he needed to face one down, but I only went with him once, when Emile Shirazi wouldn't take no for an answer – Francesca made the mistake of going to the Midwinter Ball with him, just as friends. He got other ideas in his head later. No one is ever going to be good enough for her in John's books, you know. There were always suitors around Francesca when I was at AIM, and there probably still are, but to your credit, you're probably the first one that she's ever liked back. As far as I know, anyway."

Aldon frowned. "Then I don't understand. I gave her the most romantic proposal possible in the wizarding world. She's a romantic – she cares for me – I don't understand."

"Francesca might be a romantic, but she hasn't grown up in your world." Neal sighed, finishing with the last of his friend's injuries. "To us, a kiss is just a kiss. She likes you, but that doesn't mean she wants to marry you. She's fifteen, Aldon, and she's only just worked out that you return her feelings, though I honestly have no idea how she possibly could have missed it before. Now you're proposing marriage after what, thirty minutes? You're completely bonkers."

"Fifteen-year-olds in my world are at the appropriate age for a betrothal," Aldon muttered, his eyes flicking over the crowds at the Ball. "Especially women. Men can usually put it off to nineteen, twenty, sometimes later, but we marry young."

"Yeah, well, in my world, and Francesca's world, fifteen-year-olds are still figuring out what they want to do with their lives, worrying about failing their classes or what Masteries they should be aiming for, and dating." Neal shrugged. "My brother Graeme had four girlfriends, each lasting less than a month, when he was fifteen, and, let me tell you, he thought every one of them was his soulmate. Graeme's a bit of a player now, but I have to admit even he's never managed to get dumped in less than an hour – even his one-night stands are longer. All this to say, Aldon, even if she likes you, it's too much, far too soon. You terrified her."

Aldon paused, and something flickered across his eyes. Neal frowned, then smacked him on the shoulder – the one he had just healed. "What is it? Spit it out."

"Er," Aldon said, and Neal thought he sounded a little awkward, embarrassed. "I, er…"

Neal glared at him. He was pretty sure he was not going to like what came next. "You, what?"

"Think about the wording of my oath, Queenscove," Aldon snapped, suddenly crabby, which Neal knew to be one of Aldon's first defensive mechanisms. In event of stress or embarrassment, be an asshole. "Openly and before witnesses, with no expectations. A request only with no bearing on my oath. I am a wizard, and I swore it on my own blood, and do use your head."

It took a second for Neal to remember what Aldon had said, and then three deep breaths before Neal could speak without clobbering his friend over the head with the hilt of his sword. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You married her anyway."

"Yes, but she didn't marry me."

XXX

Francesca flew to her room at Grimmauld Place, kicking off her heels into a corner. She threw herself on her bed, pulling one of her pillows into her arms and bursting into proper tears. She wished she had one of her teddy bears.

She trusted him. She trusted Aldon, and she thought he knew her, better than anyone, even John. She told Aldon almost everything, and she didn't even tell John everything. Lying to John was harder, but the two of them had rules, and neither of them wantonly rooted around in each other's minds. If one of them kept something hidden, the other tried not to go looking.

She had told him – over and over again, that very night. If what they had was real, if the parts they played were real, then everything she had said was true. It was too early. No, he couldn't meet her parents. Her parents thought she was too young to be dating. She needed to finish a No-Maj degree before she could even consider something like marriage. She was fifteen, and she was too young, and it was far too early. She had told him this, but did he listen?

The whole night had started terrifying, but she had committed to it for his sake, for the sake of what he and Archie and their British friends wanted to achieve. He became her ballast through that wretched hour when she had to stand by his side, bearing the looks and the hidden sneers, silently with an attitude of cheerful obliviousness. Aldon had said that she could at least enjoy watching his social suicide, but she hadn't enjoyed it in the least – it hurt to watch people, some of whom she guessed he had deeply cared for once, say things that had to have hurt him, all because of something that wasn't really his fault. It had hurt to see his loss of status firsthand, to see what he must have been dealing with over the last several months, and it hurt even more that she was supposedly the cause for an even greater rejection.

Supposedly, or actually? She didn't know anymore. Things were all well and good if it wasn't real, because then Francesca didn't need to deal with the feelings of whether she was worth it, whether she was worth Aldon's kamikaze flight through Wizarding British Society tonight. When it wasn't real, she could easily tell herself that it was fiction, and Aldon had made his own choices – when it was real, she had to question. And seeing firsthand what he'd thrown into a fire because of her, she didn't know whether she was worth that.

It was an irony of ironies. Francesca loved romance novels, and what had happened tonight had come straight out of a romance novel. But Francesca wasn't a romance novel heroine, and Aldon wasn't a hero, and when everything happened in real life it was more horror than romance. There had been a moment, the moment when Aldon had first kissed her and she had reached up to kiss him back, where she had been so happy, and nervous and excited, because kissing her meant that he wasn't gay and that maybe he even liked her the way she liked him. They had a few minutes, maybe even a half-hour, where Aldon had defended her to Lord Riddle, then he had made sure she had food in her hands and they had even bantered, a little, and Francesca had put off questions like but what are we to another day and another time. Her heart had beat so fast, and his arm around had been warm and steady. It was new, it was exciting, and then Lestrange happened and he was like a bucket of cold water dumped over her stupid head.

Duels of honour, over her honour, only happened in storybooks. She liked them in books, where they were a wonderful plot device, but she hated them when they were real. And it was all so needless – Aldon never asked Francesca how she felt about what was said, he had just done it, and in all honesty, Francesca had heard worse. She wondered vaguely if either Lestrange or Aldon knew that he had chosen a racially charged epithet, or if that had been pure luck. She would be lucky, like that, but being compared to a monkey was old hat, for her. It was boring, even No-Majs used that comparison, usually when people who looked like her succeeded at something.

If Aldon only knew the litany of things she had been called at school. She giggled a bit, her voice thick with tears, snorting into her pillow. He would be fighting duels endlessly if he knew, worse than John. She didn't even like when John defended her – for all he said mildly I'll just have a word with them, she knew perfectly well that words had turned into fists on more than one occasion, which was exactly why she tried to hide these things as much as possible from John. She could protect herself, and a little insult like being called a monkey, Francesca tried to let go. Words would only hurt her as much as she let them, she always told herself, and even if it was easier said than done, it helped.

The whole duel was terrifying, and it was only the Calming Draught, still running through her system, that had kept her from completely losing her head and bawling right at the Ball. She hadn't watched; Aldon told her not to, so she had spent the entire time with her head buried in Tina's shoulder, and listening to the duel was far worse than watching it.

Tina had sworn like a sailor, cursing the air blue around her. "He pulled out the Killing Curse? As the first move? Holy—"

"He can't duel. Neither of them know how to duel." John had moaned, his voice somewhere between disgust and horror. "Why did he challenge someone to a duel when he doesn't know how to duel?"

"Honour," Will had added, his voice a little strained. "Honour is important."

"Will, if you ever challenge someone to a duel of honour over me, after you killed them, I would kill you." Tina paused. "And if you were stupid enough to get killed in a duel over me, I would find a way to summon you back just so I could kill you again."

John made a noise like agreement, and all three of them fell silent, watching. Francesca could hear the scrabble of desperate movement, the crackle and pop of things burning, the smell of smoke. She heard the first Torture Curse, heard John groan, but she didn't hear any commentary or screaming, so she assumed they hadn't landed. She had fought to keep from turning around and watching the duel herself, but Aldon had told her that he didn't want her to see it. There was a moment where Will sucked in a breath, but no one said anything, so Francesca didn't know what happened.

"It's done," John said suddenly, and Francesca could see the look on his face, the same one he wore at duelling competitions when he knew who the winner would be. "Risky move, but Aldon has it."

A second later, Francesca knew he was right. Lord Parkinson asked if Aldon wanted to kill Lestrange, and Francesca couldn't help herself – she pulled her face from the crook of Tina's neck, turning to face the arena.

The arena was on fire – three huge bonfires littered the floor, with smaller barriers of fire running through the arena. The floor was dirty with soot and debris and probably blood, and Aldon was on top of his cousin, his arm pressed against Lestrange's neck. His handsome clothes were ripped, and Lestrange's face was turning a disturbing shade of purple.

There had been a pregnant pause, and Francesca held her breath, waiting for Aldon's answer. He didn't need to kill Lestrange, and he wouldn't – the Aldon she knew wouldn't kill him, no matter what he had said, because he wasn't a murderer. And, sure enough, Aldon let him go, and Francesca had picked her way down to him, as soon as she could. He didn't look well, and she had been about to ask John to look at him for her.

And it was then that things twisted. There had been a moment, when Aldon had just looked at her, a strange light in his amber eyes, and then, while she watched, he morphed into a creature she didn't understand, and that she didn't want to understand. One that didn't listen to her, one that had never listened to her, one that was willing to play tricks on her. She didn't know what changed – she didn't know what made him try to bind her into a marriage ritual when she had explicitly told him, over and over in a dozen conversations that very night, no.

She sniffled, curled up in her bed, and the door to her room opened. It was John, and he held out a teddy bear.

"You didn't bring any of yours to Britain," he said by way of explanation, making eye contact with her. Do you know how hard it is to find a teddy bear at this hour? Even in London. We had to hit the arcades and thank god Gerry is good at those crane games, else we would still be there.

Francesca snorted, reaching out for the bear. It was a light brown, fluffy, but a little cold and wet from the outdoors. A red ribbon circled its neck, tied in a very pretty bow. Francesca used a corner of her blanket to dry the poor thing off.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Francesca shook her head, but her eyes made contact with his – it wasn't that she didn't want to share it, she just didn't know how to talk about it. Mindscape?

John sighed, shutting the door behind him, but Francesca knew that it wasn't a sigh of annoyance or frustration, or at least not at her. He was just tired and wrung out from the last few hours – the Ball hadn't been easy for him either, though Francesca knew from his mind that Gerry had taken care of most of the politicking. They had suggested that the Unity Ball was a good start, that change was good and that more change within Wizarding Britain could encourage a loosening of the sanctions, but it was hard making headway when so many people simply lacked basic education about economics and the international political landscape.

"Gerry?"

In the kitchen, John replied mentally, settling on the bed and tossing himself into her mindscape. He floated down to her battlements, where she was looking over her mental dominion. He's drinking tea and talking to Sirius. If Aldon dares to come and try to see you, which I don't think he will, I told Gerry to break his nose. Archie and Hermione went out to get you ice cream and cake.

Ice cream and cake is for breakups. Francesca sniffled a little, leading the way inside her mental sanctuary, to her warmest solar. She snapped her fingers, bringing the fire in the fireplace to life, and again for a tray of tea. We didn't break up. We weren't even anything.

Tell him that, Chess. John sighed, flopping his mental avatar onto her chaise. He's been in love with you almost since he met you. He wasn't creepy about it until today though, not that I could tell, or I would have headed it off earlier.

He tried to trick me, John. Francesca curled up in a corner of her sofa, snuggling the side of her face into the soft cushions. He tried to trick me into marrying him. I don't understand. He was always so good at listening to me, for months and months, and he doesn't treat me any different because I don't have a wand, and he understands the ACD and what I want to do with the ACD. I thought he understood me. But tonight, he didn't listen to me, he didn't listen when I told him no, a million different ways. Why would he try to trick me, John?

Because he's a crazy son of a bitch who is in love with you. John's eyes darkened, a scowl coming over his avatar's face. He only saw what he wanted, not how it impacts you, and he tried to get it.

But why would he want to marry me? Francesca shook her head, mussing her hair against the cushions of her sofa, confused. Or maybe – why now? He's not much older than me – only eighteen. Why would anyone want to make a choice like that so early? We even talked, before, about how we didn't want arranged marriages, and he mentioned that his friends married early but he never – I thought he was different. And I said no, John!

She made a motion with her head towards the large screen television, bringing up her memories of the night. From the first conversation they had had that night, whenever he said anything about them, she had said no. She had said she was too young, that it was too early. She had said she had things she needed to do first, she had said her parents didn't want her dating. What else was she supposed to have said? How else could she have explained it to him?

You couldn't have said anything more, John replied, watching the interplay of memories. Moments, flashes, here and there, pieces of that uncomfortable hour when everyone had stared at her and found her wanting. Aldon didn't want to hear it. You can do better than him, Chess. He doesn't respect your boundaries – I don't think he knows what boundaries are. And that shit with the proposal, trying to bind you in a marriage with him? That's not cool, and you know it.

Francesca sniffled a little, reaching for the throw tossed over the back of her chair. Yeah. I know. I – I don't want to see him again while I'm here, John.

All your meetings with Blake & Associates are done though, right? You had a bunch of meetings before Christmas.

Yeah. Just… Francesca tilted her head, thinking about it, pulling her throw over her mental avatar. A lot of these little gestures didn't matter, since she was in her mindscape and not in real life, but they were comforting, and she liked comfort in her mindscape. Well, I guess he's worked out the proto-runes, so most of our ACD discussions will have to be with the wider group now anyway, on fixing magical frequency and so on. We don't have to talk one-on-one anymore.

I think that's probably for the best. John seemed to think for a minute, before he held out his arms. Need a hug?

Yeah. Francesca sniffled, standing up and tugging her blanket over to where John was sprawled out on the chaise in her mindscape. Sorry you couldn't have your romantic night with Gerry.

Don't worry about it, monster. There'll be other romantic nights, and I'll still punch Aldon out for you if I get a chance.

XXX

Aldon was drunk.

It turned out that there was a whole world of alcohol did not make him feel sick. He had discovered this almost purely by chance – he had Flooed out of the Ministry of Magic and had been planning on just Apparating home, the better to mope in his bedroom. His mother didn't have a Floo entrance in her penthouse, so it didn't matter overmuch where he Flooed, as long as it was within his Apparation distance. It was pure chance, or perhaps convenience, which had led him to Flooing into the Leaky Cauldron.

The bar was quiet that night. A group of wizards were playing cards at a back table, their robes sodden and dirty from the cold rain outside, and one or two middle-aged wizards were at the bar, chatting to the old barkeep, Tom, as he polished glasses. Aldon looked behind the bar for a second, spotting the bright and colourful bottles lining the shelves. Breathing in, he caught the scent of smoke, Butterbeer, a hint of stronger liquor, all mixed with the hearty scent of British pub fare: shepherd's pie, fish and chips, bangers and mash. He looked at the bar, at the empty row of seats along one end.

He didn't feel sick, breathing in the scent of liquor. It wasn't whisky, but it was still alcohol, and he had no trouble being in a pub. He never had, come to think of it – even at Ed's bachelor party, held at a pub farther within Diagon Alley, he had never had any problems simply being in a pub. He hadn't really thought about it before, because every time he caught the scent of whisky, he was light-headed, nauseated, with a visceral feeling of wrongness that penetrated through his stomach.

But he didn't have that reaction to any other liquor. And he wanted a drink. In the six months, through his possession, his disownment, through Ed and Alice's rejection and so much more, he had never wanted a drink more than he wanted one now.

He hesitated, but Ed wouldn't be coming to stop him.

No one would be coming to stop him.

He took a seat at the bar.

It took a minute or two before a bartender, a woman with wispy blonde hair that he thought he recognized from the last time he had eaten at the Leaky Cauldron, came over to him. She was tucking a pad of paper and pens into the apron at her front.

"What can I get you, Mr. Blake?" Her eyes were thoughtful as she took him in – these clothes were fit for nothing but the trash bin, now. His trousers were burned slightly, covered in soot, and both his shirt and waistcoat were ripped. He was still decent, but these clothes could not be saved.

"What liquor do you have that's not Butterbeer, wine, or whiskey?" He didn't feel like Butterbeer, which was too weak to get him drunk quickly, wine only reminded him of the night that he had just had, and whiskey, well, he still couldn't think about whiskey.

"Gigglewater?"

"I don't want to laugh."

The bartender raised an eyebrow. "Bad night?"

"The love of my life rejected my proposal. I'd say so." Aldon shrugged, not wanting to get into more details, and his core itched abominably. He ignored it. "What liquor do you have?"

"Brandy? Gin? Mead? Rum? Sherry?" The bartender's eyebrows were raised and she spread her hands in front of her, almost a little helpless. "Sake? Scotch? Tequila? Vodka? Name it, we probably have it."

"What will get me drunk the fastest?" Aldon frowned at the wall of drinks behind her. He hadn't heard of half the things she had named.

"Vodka or tequila would get you drunk pretty quick."

"Give me one of those then."

The bartender hesitated for a minute, eyeing him, then she turned around to grab two tiny glasses, much smaller than any that Aldon had seen before. She pulled a clear bottle off the shelf, filling both of the tiny glasses, then handed them to him.

It was such a small amount of liquid, but he picked one up and threw it back anyway. Then he nearly choked – it was strong, whatever it was, and it burned the entire way down. But the taste was clear, icy, somehow reminding him of frozen winter. That was good, because he felt much the same.

"Vodka. Forty proof, Mr. Blake." The bartender tilted her head in concern. "Are you sure…?"

"Very sure," Aldon coughed, then he took the other shot and threw it back as well. Conversely, the shots were warming – as cold and bitter as they tasted, once they hit his belly, they burned. They lit a fire inside his centre, thawing him out, smoothing his sharp, jagged feelings into something easier, something less painful for him to manage. When he was drunk, he felt good. When he was drunk, he could cope, and everything was so much easier for him when he had a drink in hand.

He had to talk to Francesca. He had to explain himself to her – he had to explain how deeply he loved her, and he had to explain that this was the only way they had for them to have a future in Wizarding Britain, to avoid the Marriage Law. He had to make her understand what he was intending, and make it clear that she didn't necessarily have to answer him right now. The door was open, now, and it was an opportunity he had had to take for them. She would understand – she had to understand.

She had kissed him. That meant she cared for him, and he would take care of the rest. As long as she cared for him, he would bring down the skies for her. Whatever she wanted, he would find a way to get it. He would take over Rosier Place, his rightful manor, come hell or high water; he would win back his position in Society, or something very much like it, along with the Rosier Investment Trust. The wealth, the money, the power – he would win them all back, just so that he could shower her with everything she deserved and more. And he was sworn to her now, and just as he had promised, everything he ever had would be hers. He would defend her, protect her; he would see that she wanted for nothing her entire life.

He just had to explain this all to her, make her understand. He would tell her all the oldest wizarding legends, of wizard-knights sworn to their ladies, and she would understand. She was a romantic. She loved romantic stories, so she had to understand. She would be delighted, even, to have her romantic fantasies come to life.

It was with the courage of five shots of vodka that he Flooed into Grimmauld Place. Floo, because he wasn't entirely sure he would be able to Apparate in his current condition without Splinching himself. He had just enough time to recognize the Lord Black, sitting at the kitchen table across from Gerhardt Riemann, Kowalski's boyfriend, before Riemann's fist caught him across the nose.

Aldon gasped, the starburst of pain across his face penetrating even his state of determined inebriation. He reached his hand to his face, and it came away with blood. More bleeding. Fantastic.

"John asked me to do that, if you showed up." Riemann's voice was mild.

"And you listened to him?" Aldon's voice was nasal, and he realized he couldn't breathe through his nose anymore. He glared at Riemann. "I need to talk to Francesca. I need to explain things to her, I need to make her understand, I need to—"

"You need do nothing, not in that condition," Riemann replied coolly in his accented English, crossing his arms over his chest. He was leaner than John was, but a few inches taller, and while Aldon vaguely recalled that he had a desk job, working in the German Ministry for Magic, he certainly seemed to be very fit. "You are drunk, and you reek of alcohol. How many drinks have you had?"

"None of your business," Aldon snapped, annoyed, considering his chances at making it through the door before either Riemann or the Lord Black stopped him. He knew where Francesca's room was, but he wasn't feeling entirely steady. He could probably make it out of the kitchen, he thought. There was a tickle on his upper lip, and he wiped away it, his hand coming away with blood. "I need to talk to Francesca."

"She won't be impressed that you smell like stale drink, though." The Lord Black was uncorking a vial, pouring it into a glass and filling it with water. "You better take a breath mint potion, just to be sure. You want to put your best foot forward, don't you?"

Aldon thought for a moment, but the Lord Black made quite a lot of sense. He couldn't remember what Francesca thought about alcohol, and it would probably be better for him not to reek of it. He also probably smelled from the Leaky Cauldron, and that was not likely to please her. A breath mint potion was a good idea, especially if he was lucky and more kissing was involved. He nodded sagely, reaching for the glass with one blood-stained hand.

"The whole thing, Aldon," the Lord Black chided, but Aldon knew how potions worked when they were watered down. Why had Lord Black watered down the breath mint potion, anyway? Those weren't potions that needed watering normally, and didn't they usually come in peppermint green?

A second later, he swore, clutching his head as the Sobriety potion kicked in. He had a blinding headache now, and he could feel a steady ache in his nose. Riemann had to have broken it or something, and he could feel the bruises forming under his eyes. And his nose was dripping. He swore again, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief and holding it to his nose.

"Back to our senses, are we?" The Lord Black had a hint of humour to his voice, though his expression was serious.

Aldon scowled, squinting. The light hurt his eyes, stabbing pains into the back of his head, meshing poorly with the sharper pain of his nose. "Where is Francesca?"

"In her room, being comforted by John, while Archie and Hermione fetch ice cream and cake. The latter is taking considerable time because the shops are mostly closed at this hour." Riemann's face, on the contrary, showed nothing but cold disapproval, which Aldon ignored. He didn't know Riemann, and Riemann wasn't British, so he couldn't possibly understand. And what was the point of telling him about ice cream and cake right now? He couldn't care less what Archie and Hermione were doing.

Aldon was here now. Perhaps he needed a little liquid courage to help him get here, but he was here. "I still need to talk to her."

"And I think you've done enough damage for one night, don't you?" Riemann's arms were crossed over his chest, and he stood between Aldon and the door out of the kitchen. "Go home, Blake."

Aldon glared, his jaw tightening. Damage? He had done a lot in one night, but he wouldn't call it damage. He pulled the handkerchief away from his face, saw the red blossom on it, and pressed it against his nose again. At this rate, he was the one who was damaged. "There are things I need to explain to her. And who are you to stop me? What right do you have to interfere?"

"Gerhardt, maybe it would be better for me to talk with Aldon," the Lord Black interceded, motioning to the door with his head. "Alone. Would you mind? There's a library where I'm sure you'll find something to interest you, or there are two sitting rooms. Make yourself at home."

Riemann looked between Aldon and the Lord Black, then he nodded, though he looked none too pleased about it. "I think I will go retrieve a book, then, and read on the stairs. John would not like me to leave my post, particularly when Blake is here."

"And you always listen to what he says?" Aldon asked, trying to infuse his words with mockery. He wasn't as successful in the venture as he normally was – his voice was unusually nasal, and his head hurt. His face hurt, and he still had a handkerchief held to his nose.

Riemann looked him over, unperturbed. "I try." He looked back over at the Lord Black. "Thank you for a pleasant conversation, Sirius. I'll be hovering on the stairs, should you need someone to help you in taking out the trash."

His blue eyes skimmed over Aldon, his meaning clear, and then he disappeared. Aldon made an aborted movement to go after him, considering a potential opening before Riemann had his book, but the Lord Black caught him by the arm before he could take it more than a step.

"Sit down, Aldon," he said, his tone making clear that this was not a choice. He pushed Aldon into the seat vacated by Riemann, across from him, and pulled out his wand. Aldon tensed, reaching for his wand himself, but the Lord Black only muttered, "Episkey."

It wasn't a gentle healing spelling, and Aldon gasped again as he felt the bones in his nose grinding, shifting back into their proper shape. His nasal passages were suddenly clear, and he could breathe properly, though he could still feel the ache on his face. He blew his nose, a wad of blood and mucus coming out onto his handkerchief, but at least his nose wasn't bleeding anymore. He folded the bit of cloth, though he wasn't sure it was salvageable, and tucked it in his pocket.

"Archie is better than I am at this – he has a more delicate touch," the Lord Black said, and while his voice wasn't warm, neither was it especially angry. He waved his hand once more, and Aldon felt the familiar sensation of a basic cleaning charm brushing across his face and hands. "I don't know how to take care of the swelling or bruising either, so you'll have to wait for him to get home to Heal that. In the Auror Training Academy, they only taught us stop-gaps. First aid, as Archie would call it."

Aldon reached up, checking his nose, his face. His nose was the right shape, and he couldn't feel any dried blood, or worse. He wasn't entirely sure what to say. "I – thank you, Lord Black."

"Just Sirius, Aldon. I don't stand on ceremony, and neither should you." The Lord Black sighed. It was something that he had told Aldon nearly every time he had seen him, but calling the Lord Black by name had always felt too strange, uncomfortable, for Aldon. Even as a noble, he had only been of the Book of Copper, and the Lord Black was a generation his elder. He could no more call the Lord Black Sirius than he could call the Lord Parkinson Cassius. The Lord Black pushed Riemann's mug to one side, summoning a new one for Aldon. "I want to talk to you about what happened tonight, Aldon. Your actions tonight were, collectively, the stupidest thing I have ever seen in my entire life, and I worked as an Auror for a decade."

Aldon glared at him but didn't comment. The Lord Black could think whatever he wanted – even if he had been the last generation's bad boy, even if he had been thrown out of the family manor for a brief period, the Lord Black had always been a pureblood, had always been the Heir Black even before he became the Lord Black. Aldon had to do as he did, because if he hadn't, he would only have been inviting more insults later. Duelling made a point, and the proposal afterwards gave him a chance at the future he wanted, the future that he could not have unless he did something about it. "I still need to talk to Francesca. I need to explain some things to her."

"Like what?" The Lord Black raised an eyebrow, pouring Aldon a mug of tea from the pot sitting on the table. "An explanation why you tried to trap her into marriage with you?"

Aldon frowned, taken aback, reaching out slowly for the mug of tea and wrapping his hands around it. "Trap? I didn't try to trap her. She didn't have to respond. It's right there in the wording of the oaths – without reservation, a request only with no bearing."

"And had she said yes, it would have formed a binding marriage on the spot, from which there would have been no divorce. The old rituals lead to a marriage even more restrictive than our current laws." The Lord Black's stormy grey eyes were serious, but his voice was even and calm. "Aldon, she didn't grow up as a witch – you knew that. You cannot expect her to know the same things that a pureblood noble girl would have been taught as a child. You cannot trust that she knows the same things that you do, and she's fifteen years old."

"You both say that – you and Neal." Aldon stared into his cup of tea, scowling, but it gave him no answers. His head hurt, though not as badly as it did five minutes ago. "Fifteen is a perfectly appropriate time for a betrothal agreement. Most noble girls are betrothed around that age. And I don't believe in divorce. I also don't believe in dating."

The Lord Black sighed, bringing one hand up to his forehead. There was a second of silence, in which Aldon guessed that the Lord Black was picking his words. "First of all, Aldon, Francesca is not a noble girl. She is an American Muggleborn. Second, she does believe in divorce – obviously, it isn't considered an ideal outcome, but it is an accepted reality in Muggle Britain and both Muggle and Wizarding America. Some half of marriages end in divorce in America."

Aldon stared at him, his lip curling in disapproval. "But the vows – the oaths—"

"Sometimes it is better for a bad marriage to end, and for people to go their separate ways, than it is for two people to keep struggling." The Lord Black tilted his head, thoughtful. "It isn't that it doesn't happen here, Aldon – you can name as many families as I where the resident Lord has set his Lady up in a separate household, sometimes even sending her abroad. Or families where the wife runs away and disappears. And those are the good cases, Aldon – those don't include bad marriages where two people stay together because Society demands it, or where one party abuses the other."

Aldon's eyes narrowed, and he made a sharp motion to get up. He wasn't going to listen to this. "I would never hurt her, Lord Black. Never."

"Sit down, Aldon. I never said you would." The Lord Black shook his head, waving for Aldon to sit back down, and his voice brooked no argument. "I don't think you would, or not intentionally so. I got sidetracked. My point is, Francesca comes from a very different culture – even if she enjoys reading books that endorse traditional ideals of romance, and even if she dreams about having a prince or knight come sweep her off her feet, she is still a very modern girl. She expects to date for some years before she marries. She expects to marry, oh, probably no earlier than her early twenties, judging by what Hermione considers normal. She expects to be able to get a divorce, if things go badly. You cannot treat her the way you would someone from our background, Aldon. Can you not see how, with those expectations, finding out that you proposed to her in a way that would have bound her into a permanent marriage after only having known her a short time would be seen as a trap? You did to as much to her as some proponents of the Marriage Law would like to do to you."

Aldon flinched, but his mouth firmed in denial. He didn't. He hadn't. And it wasn't like that, because he loved her. That was the difference – he loved her, and she cared for him, so theirs would be a love marriage. But he supposed that, if one omitted certain key facts – their months of late-night talks over communication orb, their mutual feelings for each other, their blood-statuses, the impact of the Marriage Law on their futures – it could perhaps be taken in that light.

"I – I appreciate that perhaps I should have prepared her better." The words twisted out of his mouth, reluctant, as he looked up from his mug. "But she didn't have to respond, and she didn't. And had she, I would have taken care of her, Lord Black – I would have treated her better than anyone else in the world. And with my blood-status – with the Marriage Law – it's our only chance."

"It's your only chance here, and only until we can get the Marriage Law repealed – unless you have given up already on having the law repealed?" The Lord Black raised his eyebrow, skeptical. "Continue justifying yourself, Aldon, but your excuses are thin. I am telling you now that, regardless of how you think she should feel about it, she very much feels like you attempted to trap her. You betrayed her trust in you – she never thought that you would try to trick her."

Aldon's eyes fell back down to the table. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know if there was anything to say to that. He still needed to talk to her, to explain himself, but if that was truly how she felt, then he would have to think much more carefully about how to approach it. Perhaps he should withdraw for the evening, think through what he needed to tell her and how he would go about doing it.

"Did you really do it for those reasons, Aldon? Because you loved her, and because you saw it as your only chance with the Marriage Law passed?" The Lord Black was expressionless, his voice devoid of any inflection, but his words stood on their own. "Or is it also that, now that you have publicly sworn yourself to her, you are legally considered to be married to her and no one can attempt to force you into a marriage?"

"No. Absolutely not," Aldon snapped, his head jerking back up, but his core wavered, irritated, because that had been in his mind tonight. His behaviour tonight had been intended to dissuade any marriage proposals, to paint himself as such an unsuitable marriage partner that no one would dare attempt to use the Marriage Law to trap him in a marriage he did not want.

Exactly what the Lord Black said he had tried to do to Francesca. But his case was different, because he loved her. He loved her more than he thought he had ever loved anyone before.

He had loved Ed, but he had swallowed his feelings, buried them where they wouldn't hurt him, barely admitting those feelings to himself. It was too obvious, early on, that his feelings for Ed would come to nothing, so Aldon hadn't let himself care as much as he would have otherwise. Ed was his first friend, his oldest friend, his best friend, but he was never anything more than that, and he never would be. Aldon had never loved Harriett Potter either, as much as he told himself otherwise at the time. Harriett hadn't made him feel the things that Francesca made him feel – Harriett had always been capable of taking care of herself, and Aldon would never have even considered fighting a duel on her behalf. Anything he had told himself in the process had only been his justification for prying into her affairs, for trying to stay close to her when he was nothing to her, nothing next to her. That final night, he certainly had not had any problem sending her off on her own, after springing her from the wards.

He would never have done that with Francesca. He would have followed Francesca to the ends of the earth, throwing himself between her and every possible danger.

Aldon had probably, to some extent, fallen in love with Francesca Lam from the moment he first set eyes on her. The attraction he had had from those first moments turned, later, into something deeper: she wasn't just beautiful, she was smart, and her inventions were fascinating, intellectually stimulating, utterly brilliant. A hundred conversations later, and his feelings had deepened into something even more: as sweet and sensitive as she could be, she was also like him. Francesca Lam, just like Aldon Blake Rosier, raged at the world; she wanted to tear it down and remake it in her own image, turn it into a place where she could be. Francesca was everything he could have ever wanted for himself, if he had known what to want for himself before.

He had dwelled on thoughts of her for months. She intruded when he picked out what clothes to wear each morning, when he rode the Muggle Underground to work, when he sat down in his ergonomic desk chair and opened his laptop to work on the ACD. Of course, he had to think about her when he interacted with her invention, but it was more than that – every time he looked at his ACD, it was almost as if he felt her there with him, whispering in his ear, her small hands on his as she pointed out bits and pieces of the circuit, her giggles light and soft and not at all hurtful when he said something particularly ignorant. He had come to look forward to their stolen minutes, their lost hours, talking together late at night, sharing parts of themselves that hadn't been shown to anyone else.

In his dreams, she would be there with him – she would be beside him while they worked on her ACD together, she would be curled up beside him while they talked in bed, her head pillowed softly against his shoulder. That was the future he wanted for himself, and he would do much to have it.

And she had kissed him. She wouldn't have spent hours on communication orb, talking about everything under the sun with him, if she hadn't cared for him. They had something there, Aldon knew it. Perhaps he had made a mistake, but there was something there between them, and Aldon would fix it. He had to fix it.

"Well," the Lord Black said, a touch ironic, as if Aldon's silence despite his vehement denial had settled the matter. "I'm sure that, now that the rush has worn off, you'd like to be released from your oaths. Fortunately for you, since she didn't accept, that is still possible. Francesca is generally very reasonable – I'm sure we can walk her through releasing you from your vows before she goes back to school. But not tonight, Aldon. I'll explain it to her tomorrow—"

"No." Aldon's voice was quiet, a surprise almost to himself. "No, I don't want to be released from my vows."

The Lord Black blinked, taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"I don't want to be released from my vows." Aldon took a deep breath, feeling the resolve settle in him. She had cared for him, and he loved her. He would fix this, and he would win her over again, and he had sworn those oaths exactly as he had meant them. Before witnesses, and with no expectations. A request only with no bearing on my oath. He wouldn't come back, not even a day later, asking her to release him from them because she had rejected him. He did not want to be that sort of person, and Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier would not be that sort of person. "What will you require from me, for your silence on this matter?"

The Lord Black's eyebrows were raised, both of them, giving him a wide-eyed look. "You… don't want to be released from your oath."

"No, sir." Aldon hesitated, thinking over what he could offer. He didn't have much money, not by what the Blacks had, but he could still afford to pay something. It would eat into what he had, but it wasn't as if he used a lot of his money regularly, not with Christie covering all his living expenses. But what about other things? There were a dozen courting gifts that he could send to Francesca in America, and he needed to plan for the future as well. He would win back his position in society – his status, his wealth, his power. It could be years before his father died, but a hostile takeover of the Rosier Investment Trust was not wholly out of the question. No, money wouldn't work, he had too many plans that required funding, and anything he didn't spend needed to be set aside for the future.

He didn't have enough influence anymore to promise to throw his weight at anything, particularly after a night spent setting his own reputation on fire. He still had a few connections, but they couldn't publicly do anything to assist him – they were only useful for gathering information. He could promise the Lord Black information, but that was always a tricky gamble for a Lord, since Lord Black had no idea what information Aldon might have. And all Aldon had was bits and pieces presently, not a full picture, nothing useful.

Lord Black watched him, curious, silent as Aldon considered his options.

"I'm willing to swear a Vow of Undisclosed Debt," Aldon said finally, lifting his cold tea to wet his dry lips. It wasn't an offer he had made lightly. Even if, by the general rules of how debts worked, the Lord Black would only be able to exceed the parameters of the favour he had granted Aldon, in this case his silence, by so much, it was still a risk. "Please, Lord Black."

There was a long moment of silence as the Lord Black considered it, and then he shook his head. "No need. I'll be silent, for now, and have no fear that Archie will tell her anything either – he doesn't know the old rituals, and while he knows what would have happened if Francesca had accepted, he doesn't know what did happen. But she will find out eventually, Aldon, and she won't be happy about it."

Aldon nodded, taking a deep breath and reformulating his plans. He shouldn't see her tonight: she was too much in shock, too frightened, it was too late to be appropriate, and now Aldon had to plan out what, exactly, he should tell her about what had happened, what lies might be the most suitable and palatable to her. He would reach out to her tomorrow and apologize for frightening her, and with luck, she wouldn't realize what his vows meant until years after it mattered. "Thank you, Lord Black. I – I think I will be going now. Plans to make."

"I somehow don't think your plans will go as successfully as you think they will, but fine." The Lord Black sighed, standing. "I'll walk you to the door. You can come to me at any time, Aldon. And do call me Sirius."

Christie was already asleep when Aldon let himself into her penthouse, and Aldon thanked the world for small mercies. At least he didn't have to explain himself, or what had happened, to her, or at least he could leave it until the morning when he, no doubt, would be on the front page of the Daily Prophet again. And he could plan his next steps tomorrow, when he had a night of sleep and a clearer head.

XXX

"Your son, Evan, is a dumbass." Lina stared out at the duelling arena, still aflame, as Evan's dumbass of a son knelt at the feet of a Muggleborn girl and professed his love for her. Aldon was so much like Evan – he looked like Evan, of course, a fact that had long disguised the circumstances of his birth, but it went so much farther than that. Aldon had also inherited many of Evan's traits: a calculating mind, a talent for business and politics, a certain ruthlessness. A taste for alcohol, though he had regrettably not inherited Evan's ability to drink copious amounts of liquor and show no sign of it whatsoever. A propensity for falling in love with beautiful Muggleborns, if that was a heritable characteristic.

Watching him grow up, Lina knew well that Aldon had also inherited many things from his mother, Christina Blake, far beyond his unusual gift. His sharp intelligence could only have come from her, because while Evan was clever, Christie was far more intelligent than Evan could ever hope to be. She also thought that Aldon's more academic inclinations had come from Christie – certainly, neither the Evan Rosier Lina had known at school, nor the one that she had come to know over twenty years of marriage, had ever had any interest in the theoretical.

"Eveline, he is your son, too," her husband replied tightly, keeping his voice quiet, breathing heavily through his nose. She glanced over at him, sidelong – his expression was frozen, a rictus of uncaring hiding the abject terror he had felt over the last fifteen minutes of duelling. Lina had read it, instead, in his tensed shoulders, which were only now starting to relax. Evan Rosier was grateful beyond words that, minimal duelling experience or not, his only child had made it out alive.

Lina looked back over the duelling arena, where the Muggleborn girl had now thrown a runic fire spell at her adopted almost-son. Aldon was fine, if only because his new friend, the young Lord Queenscove, had gotten involved and countered the spell with one of his own. Aldon was a complete and utter dumbass.

Still. Lina twisted the heavy steel ring on her left hand thoughtfully – not a marriage band, though she pretended like it was in Wizarding Britain. Over the last hour, Aldon had challenged the Lestrange Heir to a formal duel of honour, held his ground through the negotiation of seconds, and run the gauntlet of a duel to the death. She almost smiled, remembering the moment in which the boy she had helped to raise drew his ritual knife and invoked blood magic to light the arena on fire. It was exactly the kind of thing his namesake would have done, and for a single, nostalgic second, Lina had seen a flash of her old partner-in-crime, sandy blonde hair flying as blood dripped and fire ripped across the floor.

"Yes, I suppose he is, isn't he?" she replied, her voice infused with surprise, and something like pride. She had never wanted a husband, let alone a child, and Lina Avery, born Eveline Avery and now known in Wizarding Britain as Eveline Rosier, would have won every distant mother award in the universe. But she could not regret what had become of her life. She didn't regret Aldon, not if these were the decisions he made. "He certainly didn't get his balls from either you or Christie."

Throwing himself into a duel for which he was ill-prepared, resorting to blood magic, and somehow staying alive when he should, by all rights, be dead – that was Lina Avery, all over, before she had learned caution. The part where he knelt in a room full of the most powerful people in Wizarding Britain, a hard, blazing look on his face as he defied everything that had been expected of him, as he somehow took something that the last half century of politics had turned disgusting and made it look like a dreamy romantic fantasy, well, that was perhaps even more wildly courageous than anything Lina had ever done.

Lina, after all, had run. She had run, and for years she had run, torn between her duty, her family's expectations, and her own desires. She had run until the day when she, almost thirty-four years old, had slammed into a certain Evan Rosier, deeply in love with a Muggleborn woman, who needed someone to hide his affair from public view.

A marriage in name only, he had promised her. Something that would protect Lina's status in Wizarding Britain and maintain her family's honour; something that would let her conceal the fact that she had never had any interest in either men or women, that the very idea of sex repulsed her, that she would rather die than conceive, carry or bear a child. And Evan had even sweetened the deal for her, providing the seed money for her beloved company in France, which now turned a very nice profit for them both.

"Eveline…" Evan ground out. It was a risk, having this conversation in public, but they were careful. Lina had cast Muffliato on everyone within ten feet of them. Paranoia was also something that Aldon had probably inherited from her rather than either Evan or Christie, come to think of it. "You could show some concern for our son."

"Had he died, he would have deserved it," Lina replied, purposely flippant, her eyes skimming the people around them. No one was listening to them – they were the Rosiers, still climbing up from their fall into disgrace. A public disownment only went so far. "He had good chances from the beginning, Evan – he wanted to win more than Lestrange wanted to fight. At the level of duelling they both displayed, desperation is often the overriding factor for success."

Evan sighed. Lina had no idea why Evan was surprised at her attitude. It wasn't as if Lina had ever been a mother to Aldon. She had only played the role, now and then when Aldon was growing up, and she found that she liked the boy quite a lot better as a disowned adult than she ever had when he was her supposed child. She had always assumed that Aldon would simply follow the easy path that Evan and Christie had laid out for him, and she was rather pleasantly surprised to find that Aldon had his own ideas.

"Given the current circumstances, however…" Lina crooned, thoughtful, one hand checking for her wands, more out of habit than anything else. They were all she had carried tonight, and she felt naked. "As well as his performance went tonight, he will need additional training if he hopes to survive. I'll speak to someone about it, Evan."

Evan shut his eyes, a greater sign of his relief and gratitude than Lina had been expecting. She huffed a small, humourless laugh.

"Don't thank me. He certainly won't." Lina looked back out over the makeshift arena, where both Aldon and his prospective bride had disappeared, and where others had finally succeeded at wiping out the fires. Convenient, that Aldon and the girl were gone – it was one less thing for Lina to keep track.

"If I don't survive tonight…" Evan sighed again, a long breath of nervousness and worry. The plan tonight was simple: the Unity Ball would be attacked, and the SOW Party would save the day. Lord Riddle would capture the terrorist, containing the threat, and stability would be restored. Huzzah. "Take care of my family, Eveline. Both Aldon and Christie."

Lina huffed another humourless laugh. "Sentimentality," she said, her tone demonstrating exactly what she thought of that. Evan had a shit post anyway, guarding an emergency stairwell that had no prospect of glory and even less prospect of battle, so his death was unlikely. Nevertheless, there was a pointed pause, and she could feel Evan's glare on her. It was only a minute before she sighed as well, resigned, giving into his wordless demand. "I swore I would, Evan. I keep my vows."

She didn't look at him, instead scanning the ballroom, more than thirty years of active military, paramilitary and quasi-military service informing what she saw. The biggest weaknesses, and the points where Lord Riddle had stationed his strongest and most loyal wizards, would be the Floo Room and the public entrance into Muggle London – those were the only entrances that wouldn't severely bottleneck an attacking force. Lord Malfoy, along with Lord Parkinson, Severus Snape and a number of Aurors had the honour of guarding the public entrance from Muggle London, and Lina spotted Lord Dumbledore near that entrance as well. Glancing over at the Floo Room, she saw Augustus Rookwood, with the Selwyns and a few more Aurors.

She frowned in the direction of the Floo Room. There weren't enough people there. The Floo Room was a primary weak point, and it needed more than the dozen or so people than it had. Even with Professor Minerva McGonagall, a powerful witch and the Lady Ross, hovering nearby, it wasn't enough. They hadn't brought enough Aurors, and too many of them, like Evan, were stationed on minor entrances and exits of no importance, where they couldn't steal any glory in battle. Shit.

"Evan," she murmured, voice tight as she scanned the room. She could have sworn that Evan had said the Lestranges were supposed to be on the Floo Room too. The Lestranges, and more of their crowd. "Remind me who was supposed to be guarding the Floo Room, again?"

"Rookwood, Lord Selwyn, Heir Selwyn, and the Lestranges – all three of Bellatrix, Rabastan, and Rodolphus. A third of the Aurors." Her husband's voice was stiff, catching something off in her cool, even voice. "Augustus was in charge – Lord Riddle believed his close connections with the Lestranges and the Selwyns both would lead them to cooperate."

"So where are the Lestranges?" She was already drawing her wand – not the one she used as Eveline Rosier, but short, dark one she preferred as herself. She scanned the room, searching for a wild mane of black curls – where Bellatrix was, she hoped that Rodolphus and Rabastan had followed. She caught sight of the woman close to the lifts, deeper into the bowels of the Ministry, and she swore.

It wouldn't have been unusual to anyone else, but Lina could see an attack formation from a mile away. There were too many people there, clumping, and as she watched, the doors to the lifts opened, silent from across the room, and another dozen people filtered out. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, and Lord Riddle really should have paid her, or someone like her, to conduct a full security analysis in advance of the Ball. He couldn't have, of course, because Eveline Rosier was supposed to be a good wife and mother. Eveline Rosier, depending on who one asked, merely vacationed in France for most of the year, home only when her son was home, or she assisted her husband with his business interests abroad.

It was Lina Avery who ran Blackthorn, her and Newman's security firm in Toulouse. It was Lina Avery who earned her living making assault and defensive plans. It was Lina Avery, heavy steel ring on her finger and tattoos down her spine, who was the Stormwing.

"We've been betrayed," she said, keeping her voice calm and casting her eyes over the situation anew, preparing to move. "The Lestranges – they're part of the terrorist organization. They hid troops in the lower levels of the Ministry, before the Ball. They're going to hit us from within, probably while more troops hit us from the Floo Room, sandwiching us in between. You must warn—"

A massive boom rocked the building, and Lina cursed again, her feet automatically widening into a more secure stance while Evan staggered.

Too late – it was too late, and the Floo Room exploded outwards. Stone and mortar flew everywhere, and Lina Avery caught her first sight of Wizarding Britain's terrorist threat – a young man, only Aldon's age, with a strong jaw and cold, pitiless eyes. Augustus Rookwood went down, his son leaping over him with a terrible look of fury on his face, and the Lady Ross' wand was out. Debris rose the air, arrowing back at the attackers like a storm of blunt, angry Bludgers.

"Stay here," she snapped at her husband, raising her voice over the din as people started screaming. He was pale, his hand shaking as he drew his wand. "Get your back to the wall and keep it there. Don't leave your position, and do try to survive. Aldon can't cope with claiming the title tonight, and that's even if he isn't already drunk somewhere. Your son is still a dumbass, but he'll do something even more intransigently stupid if he feels the wards snap to him tonight."

Evan swallowed thickly, nodding as he retreated two steps, putting his back against the wall as instructed, and Lina proceeded to ignore him. The cluster of witches and wizards with the Lestranges, near the lifts, were smashing into the unprepared crowd from the other side, and Lord Malfoy and the group near the Muggle entrance had broken their formation. Half of them moved to engage with the Lestranges, while the other half headed to reinforce the Floo Room.

"Fuck. Fucking untrained troops. Aurors aren't trained for this shit. We need to hold the Muggle entrance." She was already forming the runes for a blasting spell in her mind, firing them off into points around the Muggle doors. She needed to open the doors larger, make a bigger exit, giving people a way to get out. "I have to go."

"Be safe, Eveline." Evan took a deep breath, bracing himself against the wall, his wand up. "Our son needs you, Christie needs you. I need you."

"I've fought my way out of worse," Lina replied, dismissive, and she plunged into the fray.

XXX

ANs: My favourite beta-reader comment on this chapter was "oh no" followed approximately one paragraph later by "oh very no." Thanks, meek, as always for your exceedingly helpful beta! And also, congratulations to graveexcitement who was quite right with his theory. Extra thank yous this time to mercuryandglass, without whom Chinese names would literally all be awful, and to SHL for the useful information on highly questionable and unethical studies on invoking aversion reflexes in alcoholics (i.e. Aldon can't drink whisky but he can drink literally anything else still). Leave me a review, even if it is just screaming. Or maybe, especially if it is just screaming.

Next Chapter: Meet the liar / This dead black night / Our destiny revealed / Meet the enemy / It will never be the same (Meet the Enemy, by Eluveitie).