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.

13. Chapter 13

Neal shook his head, heading back to the knot of his family after seeing Aldon off through the Floo. His friend had been stiff, stubborn, but Neal could tell that Aldon was hurt by his apparent rejection. He saw the Blacks leaving as well, with John and the other Scamanders; that meant it was an appropriate time for him and his family to take off, too.

Maybe one dance with Yuki first, though. She had refused the first dance, turning her nose up at the crowd, but now that people were starting to clear out, maybe she would be more amenable to the idea.

He cut across the floor, heading to the cluster of his own family. There were a few others mixed in with them, now – the Heir Goldenlake was there with them, getting along famously with Graeme and Dom and one of the younger Naxens. Will was listening to Tina rant, probably about the eighteen different ways that she wanted to murder Aldon Blake, while Jessa, Fei, and Yuki were laughing over a plate of the overpriced, bland hors d'oeuvres that were being served at the event.

Kel, however, was staring off across the ballroom, expression guarded. Neal knew that expression – Kel didn't tend to show a lot of her emotions across her face, but there was a way she held herself that stood out when she was worried.

"What's up?" Neal joined her, nudging her with one shoulder. She was fingering her necklace, which Neal knew to be her naginata, shrunk so that she could sneak it into the Ball. Yuki had hers on her too, though they had argued vociferously about whether it would be useful in close quarters fighting.

"I'm not sure…" Kel's voice was pensive, even as her eyes flicked over the ballroom. "Something feels off, but I'm not sure what."

Neal turned to look out over the ballroom, his guard coming up. The crowds were thinning – it wasn't just the Blacks and Scamanders who seemed to think calling it a night was appropriate. Before, a number of school-aged witches and wizards had been present, but many of them seemed to have left as well. Their parents had probably sent them home before they could watch a gruesome possible duel to the death.

He couldn't see anything that was strange or suspicious in the least, but Kel had always had good instincts. If she was standing here, convinced that something was wrong, then she had seen something, heard something, to make her believe it, even if she couldn't describe it. He was about to turn to his mother to ask, when one of the walls exploded out at them.

"The Floo Room!"

Someone was screaming. Neal whirled around, drawing his sword, wind alive, seeing a young man, handsome, only his age, standing in the rubble with a cold, hard look on his face. Behind him, Neal could see two dozen mages, their faces covered by masks, wands out.

Someone on the other side of the room screamed too, and Neal glanced over to see a different group of mages, all masked even if a third of them were in formal Ball dress, blasting into the crowd on the other side. A pincer movement – they were being flanked.

"Yuanling, take your father and go." His mother was already snapping out orders, her eyes scanning the sides of the room for an exit. "No, the Floo is gone, there is only the exit to No-Maj London big enough. We need to hold it to get the guests out!"

"We also need to provide support, a diversion!" Graeme was yelling, his wand already tucked away in favour of his broadsword. Will was beside him, pale, his sword in his right hand and wand in his left, and both the Heir Goldenlake and his friend, Naxen, had drawn their wands. Wind whipped around their group – both Neal and Will, now, but there were also shield spells courtesy of Dom and Kel. "We need to draw fire away from the exit – we need to hit back, so they don't go after the crowds!"

"Even the No-Maj entrance isn't big enough for a full evacuation." Kel's naginata was out, but only in a guard position – she couldn't swing it in such crowded quarters. "I can't – I can make it larger, I think, with my earth magic, but I need to get closer and I'll need someone to provide me cover when I do."

His mother looked around, her fan drawn from her robes, and her mouth tightened. She did not like what she saw, and she shook her head, a small, birdlike movement. "Fei Long, Yukimi, Tina, go with Keladry. Secure the exit, then Tina, return with Baird and Yuanling back to Queenscove and prepare for injuries. Yuanren, you are the Lord Queenscove – you must lead your brothers and Domitan on the counterattack."

"We'll be with you," Raoul Goldenlake said, already throwing up a shield spell to shunt away the tide of people running – where to, Neal didn't know. "Gareth and I will be with you. Tell us where to go."

"With Yuanren," his mother decided, one eye towards their wands, and Goldenlake nodded. "Guard their backs and provide ranged cover. I will—"

She hesitated, looking at the two groups, and Neal saw the problem – while she had divided them primarily on gender lines, that was more an issue of fighting skill and experience. She was aiming to get the weakest of their group out of battle, with just enough guards that they would be protected – but once they evacuated their weakest fighters, the ones sent with them would be alone, unlikely to be able to fight their way back to the rest of the group.

Kel and Fei were among their strongest duellers, but if Kel was occupied breaking them out, they had only Fei to defend them. Jessa was fourteen, nowhere near done her training, and while Yuki had learned traditional casting, she had done so largely as a matter of culture and was not a fighter. Baird Queenscove was a Healer and had no experience duelling, and to his knowledge, neither had Tina. A glance at Will confirmed the last point – Will was staring at Tina, his expression terrible and afraid, though he gripped his sword with a white-knuckled hand and Neal had no doubt his brother would obey his orders. Neal needed both his brothers, Dom and his mother with him. But securing the exit was critical, and they needed people both to help on the diversion and to hold the exit.

"I will go with your daughters, Lady Queenscove." The voice was calm, a mellow alto. The speaker was middle-aged, with light brown eyes that matched the curls falling around her shoulders. She held herself with confidence, a short, dark wand in her hand. "Riddle's people broke their formation at the Muggle entrance – it must be secured."

Neal's mother hesitated. For all that she spoke with reason, the woman didn't look like a fighter in the least. Her robes were a rich violet, her build curvy, not one that spoke to hours spent training in either lists or a duelling arena. But she held up her left hand, and a heavy silver ring, one which, seconds ago, Neal would have dismissed as a wedding band, spat sparks, a shape so quick he couldn't identify it, into the air. He heard his mother suck in a breath, and he glanced over to see that her expression had changed to one of co-mingled respect and caution.

"Stormwing," his mother muttered, eyes narrowing, and Neal whipped his head back around to look at the woman. He had heard of the mercenary organization, of course, they were legendary among soldiers, Aurors, anyone who made their living fighting. They said that more than half the people who attempted Stormwing training dropped out before they made their Service Year, and that one in four died on Service. He would never attempt it himself; those who went for Stormwing training were the desperate, those desperately running away from something or desperately running towards something. But if they survived, they were the terror of the battlefields, mages trained exclusively in the art of war. Most threw their talents behind whoever paid them the most.

Neal understood his mother's reluctance.

"Your attributes," his mother said, her voice clipped. "Your name and attributes, please."

"Lina Avery," the woman replied, a little distant as she focused her eyes on the exit into No-Maj London. She made a quick, small movement with one hand, and Neal heard the sound of Blasting runes going off. "Duty, tolerance, and caution. My torture limit is thirteen minutes and forty-four seconds. I swear to you, Lady Queenscove – your family will be as safe with me as I can possibly make them."

Neal swallowed uncomfortably. Stormwings were tortured to the brink of insanity, just to see how long they would take to break, then trained in the art of withstanding torture. Almost fourteen minutes was long to hold under a Torture Curse. Tabernak. Who was this woman, and why was she in Wizarding Britain?

"Very well," his mother said, making a snap decision. "I will trust my husband and daughters to your care. Yuanren, focus! I will go with you – where do we attack?"

Neal swallowed again, taking a deep breath, and focused on the scene before him. He wasn't good at this – he had never used the training instilled in him as a child, though a fair amount of it related to battle tactics. Kel would be better at this, but she was gone with the Stormwing, and it was her magic they needed to stabilize the exit to break out of the Ministry. He had to make a decision, and he looked over the crowds – people were screaming and fleeing, a chaotic mess where no one could tell friend from foe.

"The group near the elevators," he decided, throwing himself forward and pushing people out of his way as he strove towards them. They were closer to him, and the motley crew of Riddle's associates struggling from where they had broken their position at the No-Maj gate were too far away. There would be too many casualties in that corner if he didn't do something now. "Fire – I need someone to throw me some fire!"

Fire billowed into existence in front of them, with either Graeme or his mother tamping it down just enough that the people nearby had time to dive out of the way, and Neal didn't hesitate in pressing his advantage. He blasted a gust of wind in the same direction as the flames, blowing them into the masked invaders, creating a path forward.

He and his brothers, his cousin, his mother, Goldenlake and Naxen slammed into the side of the attacking flank, the hot air and scent of fire blowing around them. Neal caught only glimpses of the others in the next hour – he was caught, fast, duelling a hulking, slope-shouldered man who spat spells at him in Old Slavic, while his brothers, Graeme and Will, were taking on two men who looked and sounded so similar they had to be brothers as well. Will had both his wand and sword out, his movements quick and efficient while he tried to find an opening, any opening, and Graeme wore a tight, strained smile as he deflected a spell with a whirl of his blade. Dom and the wand-users were behind them, guarding their backs, and Neal saw Dom Summon a flock of tiny crows which swarmed the nearest masked intruder, digging holes into his face. Goldenlake and Naxen were holding their own – Naxen a little slow, but shields flickered into existence, not only around them but around his brothers.

His mother was beside Lord Dumbledore, her fan snapping out the tiny, vicious fire and slashing spells that she had become famous for in her Tournament, almost thirty years ago. She moved almost as well as she did thirty years ago too, cat-like, her footwork pristine as she pelted spell after spell at the wildly laughing witch in front of her. Mei Ling Song rarely blocked, instead dancing, almost whimsically, around the spells being thrown at her. Lord Dumbledore's magic, by contrast, was elaborate, showy, but still effective as he raised walls of jagged glass, of thorns and briars, as he sent shaking, rolling waves through the floor.

Neal only caught sight of the entrance into No-Maj London once – what was once an elegant set of red elevators was smoking, a crater of blast runes and debris with a set of very rough stairs leading outside. The Ministry would have to come up with an explanation for that, or the No-Maj government would – a gas explosion, maybe, but streams of people were getting out, heading into the night, away from the battlefield in front of them. He couldn't see his father, his sister or Tina anymore, but Kel and Yuki were still there, with Fei and the Stormwing, controlling the crowds through some combination of intimidation and magic. He saw the Stormwing Depulso a man who was trampling a woman in front of him in his desperation to get out, throwing him several paces back.

Near the Floo Room, or where the Floo Room had been, Neal saw Lord Riddle in combat with the young man, the only unmasked intruder. The Lord Riddle's expression was cold, determined, while the young man's face was frozen in cruel hate. Green light fired between the two of them, and the others around them gave the pair a wide berth – whoever the young man was, both he and Lord Riddle fully intended on killing the other, and no one wanted to be caught in a poorly aimed Killing Curse.

Each of these moments were flashes, instant glimpses that Neal saw but that he could do nothing about. He was too focused on his own fight, on dodging or blocking the spells coming at him and finding an opening to strike back. Fighting a battle was nothing like fighting a duel – in a duel, he had only to keep an eye on one opponent, and in this battle, he felt like his eyes were everywhere, his attention shattered onto small pieces, watching his back as well as the opponent in front of him. He thought Dom saved him at least once, one of his little conjured crows taking a spell for him, and someone was throwing shields up for him while he dove into whatever openings he could find. More than once, Neal, too, flicked a shield spell at one of his family members.

His blade bit into flesh, a feeling that he would never truly become accustomed to, but he pushed forward. Between him and Will, the temperature in their corner was plummeting, and it was taking a toll in their opponents. He was fine – he and Will were naturally impervious to their own element, and Graeme and his mother had their fires protecting them. One of them, Neal hoped, would think to shield Dom and their other allies. The masked man he was fighting was panting heavily, his breath appearing in the air, starting to shiver, and Neal hoped he gave the man frostbite.

They were falling back – their opponents were falling back, and Neal didn't realize when most of the room had cleared except for the people who were still fighting. There were bodies on the floor, but Neal couldn't bring himself to look at them, still too occupied with the man fighting him. He didn't hear any order to retreat, but the man hissed, Neal's piercing spell slamming into his side, just before he twisted and Apparated away.

Neal panted, looking down for a second at his bloody sword, then flicking it once with a grimace to Vanish the blood. A spell he had been taught as a child, a part of his morning routine over the past eighteen years, but never one that he had had to use for its given purpose.

"The Anti-Apparition Wards went down," he heard Dom say, and he had never been more grateful to hear his cousin's voice. He turned around, and while Dom was holding a cut on his arm, a little wan, he seemed to be fine. Goldenlake and Naxen were with him, both grim-faced as they looked at the carnage around them. "They're gone. Whoever they were, they're gone."

Neal nodded, sheathing his sword and drawing his wand. A quick glance at his core, and he grimaced again – he was down well below of his normal levels, under a third left, so he would need to triage carefully. Whoever he could get back to Queenscove safely, he would have to leave to his father.

His mother's eyes were narrowed, her expression almost haughty as she looked around. She exchanged a few words with Lord Dumbledore, who looked no happier, before shaking her head and scanning for her family. Neal swallowed, hurrying over to his brothers – Graeme had one arm around Will's shoulder as he pulled him forwards. Will was pale from blood loss or something worse, his breathing erratic, and Neal wove his wand in the fastest diagnostic loop he had ever cast.

"A blood curse, really?" Neal raised an eyebrow at his next eldest brother, reviewing the results with a small sigh of relief. It was a bad curse, but they were lucky. Lucky that the enemy had retreated when they did, lucky that Neal was a Healer specializing in Emergency Healing, lucky that, as bad as the curse was, it was easily countered if found in time. As it was, the curse was winding its way through Will's bloodstream, seeking his core, where if it nested, it would start turning his blood into acid. It was intended for a slow, painful death, one where Will's own blood would eat him from the inside out, supported by his own magic, and no Healer could extract it then. Neal shook his head – if he wasn't here, if he wasn't also a Healer, there was a very good chance that Will would have died.

His magic ran through his brother's veins, a Light counter-spell dissipating the curse into nothing, but Neal didn't have time or the magic to search for every last trace. Instead, he set up a containment barrier around Will's core, just in case he had missed a strain – with the containment barrier, anything he missed could be gotten later. "No magic, Will. Nothing until Papa clears you – blood curses are bad, and while I've blocked off your core just in case I missed parts of it, Papa needs to run two or three more screens on you before he can lift it and you'll breach my containment barrier if you do any magic. You couldn't have dodged the spell?"

"Was shielding Graeme," Will muttered, his accent thick, resting his head in his hands. "I'm not – was never as good as the two of you at duelling."

Neal shook his head, wrapping his next eldest brother in a tight hug. It had been close – too close. Will was easily the more uptight and annoying of his brothers, but he was his brother. "Get Papa to check you when you get back to Queenscove. Graeme, can you Apparate him back? Leaky Cauldron, then Floo, otherwise you'll be trekking for an hour over the grounds."

Graeme nodded, putting on a jovial grin even if his eyes were worried, and he pulled Will away with him. Graeme was fine – nothing but a few scratches and bruises, and Graeme would have said otherwise if he wasn't. "Come on, little bro. You know what this means tomorrow, right? It means I get to beat you into the dirt, because you haven't been practicing enough in Geneva!"

Neal heard Will groan, and he smiled a little despite himself as he turned to see who else might need him. Dom looked fine too, and the Checking Charm Neal threw at him came out clear.

"I'll go with them, see they get home," Dom said, shaking his head at the Checking Charm. "I'll see Kel, Yukimi, and Fei home too, though Fei looks pissed."

"Knowing her, she thinks she didn't see enough action." Neal laughed a little, even if it came out weak, unreal. "She got shunted off into herding evacuees, instead of getting to hit people."

Dom shook his head with another sigh and headed off. Dom and Fei weren't directly related, nor had they met before, but they had bonded close over the holidays. Neal took another look in the direction of the stairs upwards, outwards, into No-Maj London, and noticed that the Stormwing was gone.

"Lord Queenscove, Lady Queenscove." A pause, and the voice continued, dipping a little in wary resignation. "Lord Dumbledore."

Neal fought to keep yet another grimace off his face – Lord Riddle's voice was distinctive, and Neal did not want to deal with a political game tonight. Neal was a Healer, an Emergency Healer, and he should be making himself useful taking care of people. There were at least four or five people he could see who needed his help, but he could hardly ignore the most powerful politician in Wizarding Britain. Or rather, he shouldn't.

His mother slapped him on the shoulder, her glare easily understood. Neal winced, before turning around to face Lord Tom Marvolo Riddle, head of the SOW Party.

"Lord Riddle," he acknowledged, his words short. Lord Riddle still somehow looked well-dressed, composed, even if Neal knew he had been exchanging Killing Curses with Wizarding Britain's resident terrorist threat not even a half hour ago.

"I thank you all for your assistance, tonight," Lord Riddle said, and he even sounded genuine. His expression was worn, grave, and Neal could see behind him that Healers were Apparating in. There were still bodies littered across the floor, but not so many as Neal had feared. The worst struck were where his group had been, where they had been taken entirely by surprise, and Neal thought most of those had happened before he had gotten involved. "It has been … a challenging night. I had hoped that my precautions would be sufficient; we were aware that the Ball would be a risk, and I had as many Aurors and others alert as possible."

Neal felt his eyebrows pinch together. They were bait, that entire night. Even if the Lord Riddle wasn't lying, Neal thought he was taking wide liberties with the truth, and he wondered vaguely what Aldon's gift would have thought, if he were here. Lord Riddle had known, as well as Neal and Aldon and, probably, the Lord Dumbledore, that the terrorist would not resist the target, and he had set them up to draw the terrorist out. Maybe it was even a good idea, tactically speaking, but Lord Riddle could not pretend that this whole scenario had not been set up in advance with an open prospect of casualties.

"You were betrayed." Neal's mother said, her voice matter-of-fact, nodding her head towards the Ministry elevators. "One of your people leaked your plans, hid people in your Ministry."

Lord Riddle's eyes flashed, his expression twisting in cold rage. "I am aware. They will be caught, and tried, under law. Still, I am… grateful for your assistance. The casualties would have been worse, were it not for you and your family. And you, Dumbledore."

The elderly man examined him for a minute, blue eyes piercing over half-moon glasses. "We disagree on a great many things, Tom," he said finally, his voice neutral. "But I, too, will not stand for wanton destruction or loss of life."

Riddle studied Dumbledore for several long seconds, before nodding. "In that, we can agree."

He turned around, back to where Healers were still Apparating in, to confer with his own people. Lord Malfoy, Neal saw, was still alive and present, with Lord Parkinson nearby. A man with greasy shoulder-length hair was kneeling beside one of the fallen, putting a vial of potion to the man's lips, and Goldenlake and Naxen were fanning out as well, checking on the casualties. Neal sighed, heading to the nearest fallen body.

Not merely stunned, or Petrified, or anything so kind. Dead. Neal leaned over, closing the man's hazel-brown eyes, before he turned to the next fallen form. More bodies than survivors, in his section, but there was one that was still just alive, into whom he poured magic to stabilize. The woman would need long-term care, but she would live, he thought. He hoped. There was enough death, tonight.

"You can stop now, Lord Queenscove." The voice interrupted his reverie, with a touch on his shoulder. The woman was dressed in blue, traditional Healer's robes, even if they were cut in the Wizarding British style. "You've been fighting too – you're drained, and the emotional impact of what you saw tonight shouldn't be underestimated. Go home. Lord Riddle had us prepared to come in, and we can manage from here."

Neal hesitated, glancing back over the room. Healers dotted the room now, briskly moving about and levitating bodies into a neat row at the back, treating the survivors. There was a line of stretchers, already half-full, of people who needed to be transported to St. Mungo's, and more Healers kneeling beside others, checking them over, conducting triage.

She was probably right, but he was a Healer too, and he should do everything he could before he left.

"You must be running low on magic," the Healer prodded, not unkind. "You've done a lot here, my lord. Go home. Look after your family."

Neal peeked at his core and winced – he was down below a fifth of his magic. She was right – as much as he didn't want to admit it, she was right, and there was little more that he could do. Even at Queenscove, he had to hope that his father was able to manage without much help, because he didn't have much more to give. He nodded, a little reluctant, and his mother caught him by the elbow. "Thank you. Good luck."

At Queenscove, Neal was immediately assaulted by Will, hand in hand with Tina and with a curious spark in his emerald eyes. He was looking better, much to Neal's relief, though the expression on his face was odd – it was intent, part anger and frustration, part desperation, part nervousness. Neal raised his wand, thinking of another diagnostic charm, but—

"Neal, are you sure you can't make your damn castle give Tina and I a room to share?" Will's words were quick, sharp, and Neal frowned at him, glancing at Jessa, who was still in the room. She was fourteen, and while they were awful at excluding her from things she shouldn't hear and things she shouldn't do, they usually made at least a token effort.

"I know what sex is, Neal," Jessa said, rolling her eyes and waving one hand for them to go on.

"Do we need to beat someone up?" Graeme asked, a strain of hope in his voice, and Neal laughed. Graeme had been wanting to play overprotective big brother practically since Jessa was born, and terrifying Jessa's boyfriends was top of his to do list. "Please, please tell me yes, Jessa."

She only rolled her eyes again. "And that's why I won't tell you anything when I start dating. I can look after myself, Graeme."

Will prodded Neal in the side, drawing his attention back to him. "Room, Neal. I nearly died today, and I want to share a room with Tina tonight, and I want to shut the door. Are you hearing me, mon petit frère?"

Neal sighed, rubbing his head, giving up. "Yeah, mais comme je t'ai dit, there's only so much I can order Queenscove to do. It doesn't want you sharing rooms because you aren't married – it disapproves. It was built before the Conquest, it has certain ideas, and it just won't do it. Sorry."

Will nodded, and from the expression on his face, he hadn't expected anything different. He never had. Neal raised an eyebrow, but then his brother let him go and turned to face Tina. Will drew his wand, casting a wordless Summoning Charm – a moment later, a small wooden box flew into his hand.

"Tina," his brother started, dropping to one knee and flicking the box open to show a shining silver and diamond ring. The setting was unique, non-traditional, the metal hugging the diamond all the way around. "I was going to wait. You said you wanted to wait until our careers were settled, so I waited, but goddammit Tina I have been in love with you since I was fourteen years old and we've been together since we were fifteen and we went through the Tournament together and we've lived together and fought together and do our groceries and our laundry and our taxes together. I nearly died tonight, and I do not want to spend another night without you. Marry me. Please, Tina."

Tina blinked, and Neal saw her eyes were shining a little. "I – we saw this ring when we were in Paris. A year ago. You hated it. We went back to our hotel and argued over bezel settings until I dragged you to bed. You said you thought I should have something timeless and elegant, not blocky and sculptural."

"But you'd be the one wearing it, I'd hoped. And you liked it so much I went back and bought it," Will said, holding the ring out to her. "I – I was going to surprise you, in a few years."

"Consider me surprised," Tina replied, and she was sniffling. Neal glanced over at his other siblings, his cousins – he had no idea what he was supposed to do. Was he supposed to pretend like he wasn't there? Or were they supposed to do something else?

Graeme shrugged, but he was grinning, and Papa was hiding a smile behind his hand. Mama had one arm around Papa's shoulder, while Jessa looked like she was suppressing laughter. Fei had turned around, exasperated, while Dom was awkwardly looking anywhere but at Will and Tina. Kel and Yuki had both managed to school their faces into expressions of polite interest, but their eyes were dancing.

"That's not a yes, Tina." Will said, still kneeling on the floor, his voice mixed worry and hope.

"Do I need to say it?" Her voice was thick with tears, and she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe – much cleaner than Will's, Neal saw. "Goddammit, Will. Yes. Yes, all right? Yes."

Neal let out a breath that he didn't know he had been holding, his heart melting a little, and he was about to start the applause when Will stood up, whirling around to face him, Tina's hand already locked in his. "Is that enough, Neal? Is that enough for your damn backwards conservative castle? Can we go to our room now?"

Neal paused, thinking about it, as Tina started laughing, even while wiping her eyes. Is that enough for you? Look, ring and everything. It's almost 1996, Queenscove. Bend a little.

The castle made a grumbling sort of feeling at him, but there was a snap, and the two rooms Will and Tina had had merged into one. Neal grinned at his next eldest brother. "Guess it is, Will. Congratulations."

XXX

The Daily Prophet was worse than Aldon could have imagined.

He had thought that he would make the front page. He had happily broken a half-dozen etiquette rules, approaching people he didn't have the status to talk to anymore without invitation, bowing to the wrong degree, holding Francesca far too closely to be decent. He had co-opted the dance floor for a public performance, detracting from other entertainment. He fought a duel against his pureblood, noble cousin, and he had dared to win it, and then he had taken the opportunity to swear himself to a Muggleborn girl in a medieval magical rite that hadn't been seen in centuries. He had thought it was practically a guarantee: he would wake up, and the Daily Prophet would be trumpeting his insanity – or his disgrace.

UNITY BALL ATTACKED, the front page screamed instead, and there was a picture of Lord Riddle, hair in slight disarray, speaking to reporters against the backdrop of the destroyed Ministry.

Aldon seized the paper, skimming it, but the headline said everything he really needed to know. Late at night on the 28th of December, the Ministry Unity Ball was attacked by unknown, masked intruders… estimate a force of more than forty witches and wizards who remain unidentified… sixteen deaths reported, with a further fifty-two witches and wizards in the care of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies.

Lord Riddle had released a statement condemning the attack – horrific attack on a charity event, perpetrators to be caught and prosecuted to the full extent of the law, unforeseen tragedy, we thank the assistance of the many witches and wizards who remained to defend the guests. It was rote, exactly as Aldon would have expected, though his eyes lingered on the special thanks to Lord Dumbledore and to the Lord Queenscove and family. Lord Dumbledore, too, had commented, stating in the strongest terms that the attack was heinous and reprehensible, and that all effort should be expended in bringing the perpetrators to justice.

Aldon shut his eyes briefly, issuing a wordless thanks that at least, he and Francesca and Archie had been gone before any of this had happened. Perhaps it was a good thing that he had duelled – perhaps it was a good thing that he had proposed, if it had gotten them all out before the attack happened. It had been close – another half hour, and they would have been in the fray. Queenscove had been involved, and Aldon knew that Neal had been planning on leaving shortly after he saw Aldon through the Floo. It must have been so, so close.

He took a deep breath, opening he paper to the next page to skim the name of the deaths. He hoped that none of Queenscove's family would be on the list – he hoped that, unlike most of the other attendees, their advance preparation had given them an edge and that they had come out unscathed. The list of names was vaguely familiar – he knew the Abbott family, who had lost two, he knew the Burkes, he knew the McLaggens, but he wasn't close to any of them.

Augustus Rookwood.

The name leapt out at him, and Aldon froze a second. He almost couldn't believe it – Ed's father was young, much younger than his own parents, only in his forties. How could he be dead?

He was high in the SOW Party. Augustus Rookwood had stood highest of the non-noble families, his position in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries placing him into Riddle's esteem. He had probably been high enough to have known about the risk to the Ball, maybe even involved in the plans. And now he was dead.

Ed.

Aldon took a shaky breath, then he pushed himself away from the kitchen table. He had the day off – with the holidays, Christie had deemed that rather than trying to come up with a schedule for the office, the office would just shut down for the week. Everyone wanted the time off, and they worked in research and development. Things could wait until January, she had said, and they could all go spend some time with their families. And it was a Friday, so the shops would be open.

He didn't know what he and Ed were, now. He didn't know if they were friends, or if fifteen years of friendship had disappeared with his disownment, crushed by Aldon's own choices over the last six months. All he knew as that Ed had been his friend, his best friend, and he owed it to him to send him his condolences.

There was a paper shop not far away from where he lived, stuffed full of journals and pens and cards. It was where he had bought his neat black notebook, warded with his blood, in which he kept track of all his new potential allies. Aldon took his time, over the card racks, picking out one that was perfectly solemn and yet elegant – one with shining golden script expressing his sentiments. He borrowed a pen, drafting a quick message expressing his sincerest condolences to his oldest friend, and took off to Diagon Alley to post it.

People didn't stare at him, in Diagon Alley. Not anymore. The Alley was uncommonly quiet, especially for the holiday season. There were few people out on the streets, the cobblestones slick and air cold, the windows frosted over on the inside with warmth. People didn't linger, chatting as they might have otherwise, and the few tea shops and restaurants that Aldon passed were empty.

The Owl Post Office only had a tired man behind the counter, the Daily Prophet opened in front of him, who looked up when Aldon walked in. Aldon held up his letter, wordless, and the man nodded.

"Condolences," he said, his voice rough as he fetched an owl. "Regular speed? Or do you need express, Mr. Blake?"

"Regular will be fine." Aldon shook his head, flipping the man a Sickle. It was staying within Britain, so express or not, it made no difference. The man offered him a sleepy-looking barn owl, and Aldon stuck his card onto a piece of twine with a Sticking Charm, then tied it to the bird. He nodded briefly to the man, who was picking up his newspaper again, and headed out to the streets to send the owl on its way.

He needed to do something. The morning after the attack, even with his own problems, Aldon needed to change, to adapt to the new situation, and perhaps it was better to let Francesca sleep in anyway. Francesca had always said she liked sleeping in, but there was never any time when she had to wake up early to have team meetings with Blake & Associates before she went to her classes. It was the holidays, and he should let her sleep before he called on Grimmauld Place and sought her forgiveness.

Instead, he had other ideas. Particularly, he had a certain set of letters which told him perfectly well who one or more people in Voldemort's terrorist organization were, and he had a life debt to use. And he needed information.

People didn't use life debts nearly as often as they should, he thought. Why hold onto them – for a better day, for a better favour? If one did that, then how would they know when the exact right time was to use it? And there was always the risk that the person owing the debt would find a way to get out of it somehow. Better to use the life debt as soon as possible, and Aldon knew exactly for what he would use his life debt.

It was good that Diagon Alley was empty. He chose the emptiest tea shop he could find, ordering himself a platter of tea and picking an isolated corner booth. It took a few minutes to weave the warding spell he wanted, one that was a little unusual – this ward didn't keep people in or out, only sound, and outside the booth it would sound like a perfectly mundane conversation about the holidays. Maybe it was a little unrealistic, but Aldon didn't have it in him to create a realistic conversation, because it wasn't as if he would ever normally be meeting with Caelum Lestrange. Once his ward was finished, he half shut his eyes, reaching into his core, sensing for the minor thread of connection that indicated his life debt, and he pulled.

Life debts were magical debts. One couldn't hide from the person to whom the debts were owed, and while the polite thing to do would have been to write a letter, Aldon had never liked Lestrange anyway. Of course he could compel Lestrange to come to him and receive his task, and he didn't deny that he felt a vindictive, vicious sort of pleasure at it, too. He even had Lestrange's wand, still – he had tucked it in his waistcoat, just in case he needed it for leverage. Wands were expensive, now, and critical for most witches and wizards to be able to use magic.

He poured himself a cup of tea while he waited. The shop stayed empty, the woman at the counter ignoring him as she straightened the tins of tea at the back. He wondered idly if Francesca would like this sort of place, once he had successfully apologized and won her back – she loved tea and kept nearly a dozen varieties close to hand. He would take her here, he thought, when she forgave him. If she forgave him.

She had to forgive him. They had had something there, between them, something made of secrets and circuitry, out of magical theory and Muggle science, out of a shared intense desire to be seen. She wouldn't turn her back on that – Aldon might have made a mistake, but she wouldn't turn her back on him. He hoped.

The tinkle of bells in the doorway announced Lestrange's entrance. His cousin was scowling, his posture slumped, dressed in stained brewing robes. Aldon half-smiled, nothing nice about it, and waved a hand to him.

Lestrange's face darkened, and he strode over to Aldon's booth, dropping into the other side with a disgusted look. "What in the name of Merlin are you wearing? You couldn't have dressed properly to come into the Wizarding world? You have turned into a Muggle."

Aldon laughed, a hard, sharp laugh. "A Muggle that has your wand and a life debt, one that I am invoking right now."

Lestrange made a noise, a low one of mixed annoyance and resigned rage. "And you couldn't have owled me? I left a sensitive potion on stasis, I'll have you know. Could explode, take Diagon Alley with it."

"Liar," Aldon said coolly, almost a little amused, his core rippling. "You might have been brewing, but it's nothing dangerous. A Healing potion for your wounded pride, maybe?"

Lestrange scowled again, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Get to the point, Blake. You're calling in your debt, fine, but I don't have to sit here and listen to your drivel. What do you want?"

Aldon took his time, topping off his cup of tea before filling a fresh one for his cousin. Another subtle jab – it was only polite to fill up a guest's cup first, and by not doing so, Aldon was implicitly showing his disrespect. He pushed Lestrange's cup across the table to him, though Lestrange made no move to take it.

Vanilla chai and victory. That was what he had ordered, and it was delicious.

"Voldemort," Aldon said casually, lifting the cup of tea to his lips. "Your mother is in his organization."

Lestrange stared at him, expressionless, but Aldon could tell from the way his shoulders stiffened that he hadn't expected that. Aldon waited, and it was a half-minute before his cousin responded.

"What of it?" he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I have little to do with my mother, Blake, these days. I am occupied with my apprenticeship."

That was news to Aldon, but he accepted it, nonetheless. For one, his core told him that Lestrange believed the statement, and for the other, he had always tried to avoid his cousin at any previous events. He didn't know Lestrange that well, and he was relying entirely on a life debt and his gift to work through this. "You have an access point into Voldemort's organization. It would be a small thing for you to approach your mother, ask to be introduced, join with him. I need information, Lestrange. I don't know enough about Voldemort, and I need to know more, and you are going to get in and provide that information to me."

Lestrange froze, and it was a moment before he let out a long breath. "You don't know what you're asking of me."

"On the contrary, I know perfectly well what I am asking of you," Aldon retorted, taking another sip of his tea. "Your letter was explicit – your mother is Voldemort's torture expert. It happens that I don't care. This is not a request, Lestrange. You owe me a life debt, and I am collecting on it."

Lestrange's lips thinned. "This is more than even a life debt, Blake. My mother is already out for my blood for losing last night's duel – I suspect Voldemort is little different. How the blyat do you expect me to involve myself in this organization?"

Aldon shrugged, pulling Lestrange's wand from his waistcoat and holding it up, before putting it down on the table in front of him. "I'll give you your wand back. Use the duel. Make up something about the shame and embarrassment of having lost to me so publicly, say that you need to get revenge on me. You were smart enough to get a Potions Guild internship, so I assume you're clever enough. Work something out."

Lestrange muttered something else, harsh syllables that Aldon didn't recognize but which he assumed were profanities. Lestrange didn't say anything, but he reached out for the cup of tea Aldon had poured him and downed it, choking a little on its hot contents.

"This isn't a request, Lestrange," Aldon reiterated, watching his cousin's ice blue eyes narrow, looking for a way out. "You will go join Voldemort's organization, and you will report to me when you've done so. You will provide me with regular reports including their activities, their plans, their organizational structure – anything and everything you learn about Voldemort and his people comes to me. You'll do what you need to do, say whatever you need to say to earn Voldemort's trust and remain hidden, and you'll tell me everything you find out. You will not betray me."

Aldon paused, thinking. He felt the life debt ticking away, taking his orders into account and writing them into Lestrange's magic. Lestrange's mouth was growing thinner and thinner, but Aldon couldn't see any way to make his final order tighter, not without potentially interfering with one of his earlier orders. It would have to do, and he raised his cup to his lips for more tea.

There was a long silence.

"This makes us even," Lestrange snapped finally, snatching his wand from where Aldon had set it on the table, not that he had much of a choice. "I do this, and this makes us even, Blake. After this, we don't talk. We aren't friends. We walk away. You never speak me again, and I do not speak to you. I don't want your Muggle pollution touching me."

"Done." Aldon smiled, one which held no humour in it whatsoever. He had what he wanted, and Lestrange could throw whatever verbal jabs he wanted at him. "By way of code – standard book code, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, fifth edition, London printing. Do you need me to explain it?"

Lestrange shook his head, standing up from the table. "No need. Page number, word number."

He didn't bother with a goodbye, his expression dark as he strode away. Aldon smirked, but didn't bother calling after him – his cousin wouldn't hear it anyway. Instead, Aldon finished his pot of tea, carefully unravelling his ward as he did so, then paid the bill and headed to Grimmauld Place.

Much to his dismay, Francesca wouldn't see him, and nothing Aldon said made Sirius, Archie, or John budge on the matter. And John broke his nose again.

XXX

Archie was exhausted. Exhausted and worried.

Before the Ball, it had been all preparations, including teaching Hermione to dance. Hermione had two left feet, and even teaching her the basics of a waltz had been hard, made harder by the fact that Hermione didn't like dancing. Or, more accurately, she didn't like formal dancing – he had caught her bobbing her head or moving her hips to No-Maj music more than once, humming along. She just didn't like the waltz. She thought it was elitist.

There was Dad, too – Dad was worried, and it seemed like nothing Archie could say would lessen it. He was disappointed that Dad wasn't reading Bridge, not in full, and while Archie trusted Dad not to say anything about their activities, he wished Dad was more engaged. Dad never said it outright, but he didn't have Archie's faith that Bridge would make any difference at all.

Archie was pretty sure that own thoughts, but what else can I do? hung equally in the air between them. They didn't need to say it. Maybe it was all Archie could hope for that Dad said nothing, even if he didn't help with Bridge, but he wished he could push him for more.

Then the Ball happened. Archie had relied heavily on Hermione throughout, but her carefully prepared arguments on blood discrimination seemed to go nowhere. The most they had been able to do was point out inaccuracies (so many inaccuracies) in the tale that the Daily Prophet had woven about the trial, about the Marriage Law, about the international reception of the same. Yes, Archie had been convicted, but Justice's decision and his sentence showed that Justice was prepared to strike the laws as unjust, they had only lost on standing. The Marriage Law was a rampant violation on the freedoms of Muggleborns and halfbloods, and had wide ranging effects for family law, for succession and inheritance, and for private international law. The international community overwhelmingly disapproved, and the third time someone dismissively told them that the resultant trade embargoes would have no effect on Wizarding Britain, Archie had surreptitiously poked Hermione on the side to keep her from losing her head entirely.

And then there was the duel, and Aldon's proposal, and now Chess was hiding in her room at Grimmauld Place with a truly monstrous stack of romance novels. She had taken a break from the ACD, though Archie wondered if it wasn't just that she looked at it and remembered Aldon, and he checked in on her every couple of hours with more mugs of tea as she plowed through too many romance novels, occasionally dissolving into tears.

She said she didn't want to see Aldon, and so Archie dutifully turned him away when he showed up, which was every day.

"Are you sure?" he asked, hesitant, three days in while John glared daggers at him, a comic book in his lap. Archie counted six empty mugs formerly holding tea, two stacks of comics, three teddy bears, and at least fourteen romance novels piled around them on her bed. "I think he just wants to apologize."

"I don't want to see him," she replied, rolling to turn away from him, book in hand. "Make him go away."

Archie sighed – far be it for him to try to change her mind, but he didn't like being the messenger. Better him than John, though. Archie didn't need to fix another broken nose.

"She said no, Al," he reported with a helpless shrug, sliding into the warm kitchen. Aldon was pacing up and down the length of the kitchen like a restless cat.

Aldon looked up at him, and if he were a cat, Archie thought he would be standing at Chess' door, meowing imperiously to be let in. "Are you sure?"

Archie raised his eyebrows, unsure what to say, though he couldn't help the slight laugh that escaped him. "Er, yes? Her exact words were I don't want to see him and make him go away. It's a little hard to misconstrue, Al."

"Right, stupid question," Aldon muttered, then he sighed. "I'm not – this isn't a situation with which I am familiar. I don't know what to do to make her speak to me. She doesn't answer her communication orb, either."

"John has the communication orb for now, I think." Archie slid into a seat at the kitchen table. "Give her some time. More than a day of time. Try something else, like an apology letter. Flowers. I don't know. Hermione says she doesn't like flowers, but she actually does as long as they don't make her sneeze, and Chess is way more girly so she'll love flowers."

"Perhaps," Aldon said, then he shook his head with a sigh. "Or gifts. Perhaps jewellery."

"Not now, Al." Archie frowned. Aldon sometimes just had no sense when it came to other people. "Jewellery is going too far, she'll think you're expecting something from her or trying to buy her forgiveness instead of actually being sorry. Don't do jewellery. Get a card and write a heartfelt apology in it. If you have to get a present, get something small that you think she would like. Something cheap."

"She's not cheap," Aldon said, his voice a little sharp, and Archie rolled his eyes. He was about to retort that he never implied she was, just that Aldon's poor sense of proportion was what got him into this mess in the first place, when there was a knock at the door.

Or at least it would have been a knock on an ordinary door, but this was Grimmauld Place. Hermione's house had an electronic chime, Potter Place's knocker gave off a heavy, raucous clanging, like swords banging on shields, but Grimmauld Place's bell gave off explosions, the sound of a chain of fireworks that went on and on, for a full twenty seconds. Aldon winced, but Archie just grinned at his reaction and got up to get the door. Dad was away at volunteering, so it was Archie holding down the fort.

The girl standing on the steps was his age, dressed in black velvet mourning robes, her golden-blonde hair standing out brilliantly against the dark fabric. Her eyes were large, brown, her face too round and pale. She shivered, standing on Archie's front step.

"Hello," she said, dipping a small, tremulous curtsey. "You – you must be Arcturus Rigel Black. My name is Hannah. Hannah Abbott. Um. May I come in?"

Archie paused for only a second, because the girl was shaking, and she didn't have a coat. Whatever she wanted to discuss, they could do it from the comfort of his kitchen. "Yeah, of course. Come on in."

She nodded, smiling a little, and followed him with tiny, quick steps inside the house.

Aldon stopped his pacing and bowed immediately when she entered the kitchen, a very proper noble pureblood's bow. "Miss Abbott. My condolences for your loss. Your losses."

"Oh. Thank – thank you," Abbott stuttered, dipping another tiny curtsey. "Rosier, right?"

"Blake, now."

"Oh, yes, that – that's right." Abbott nodded, glancing over again at Archie. "Er…"

"Please, sit," Archie caught on quickly, gesturing to the kitchen table, and Abbott nodded, taking Archie's empty chair, which was already pulled out. "How can we help you, Miss Abbott?"

The girl took a deep, shaky sort of breath, but the door knocker went off again – another twenty seconds of explosions, and Abbott flinched. "Oh, fudge."

"I'll go get that," Archie said, glancing over at the girl curiously. Abbott was already standing up, her expression resigned.

"I'll come with you. I – I know who it is, and it's me he wants."

Archie raised his eyebrows at her comment, as well as her tone and expression, but he didn't argue as she followed him to the front door. Her footsteps were patter-soft, not what he would have expected for such a large girl, and he opened the door to see a dark-skinned youth, thin and in elegant silk robes of blue trimmed in gold, covered with a heavy woolen cloak.

"Incarcerous." The whisper of the spell caught Archie by surprise, whizzing over his shoulder, slamming into Blaise Zabini, one of Harry's friends, binding him tightly. Abbott's voice hadn't been angry when she cast the spell, only a little sad, and perfectly calm; it was unnerving. "My apologies for this, Black; It's – it's shifter business. I'll take responsibility for Blaise – he's my mate. I hoped I had lost him before getting here. Levicorpus."

"Hannah—" Zabini's word was choked, as if he couldn't believe what was happening. His eyes were wide with shock, especially when Abbott tugged him inside with a gentle, yet firm, pull on her wand.

The girl shook her head, her mouth small and tight. "I'm sorry to you too, Blaise. Again. You shouldn't have followed me. Again."

"Er…" Archie drew the noise out, unsure what he should be saying, if anything. He barely knew Zabini, though he had always thought he was one of Harry's more tolerable friends, and he felt like he should object to this treatment of him. It all looked like an unhealthy and moderately abusive relationship from his perspective, and Harry would have wanted him to say something, he thought. "I don't know—"

Abbott stopped, sighing. "I – I know what it looks like, Black. We're shifter – things are a little… different, for us. I'll explain, I promise, and I'm not going to hurt him. I couldn't anyway, not really. He's predator, and I'm prey, and he's my mate, so it's… I'll explain."

"Hannah—" Zabini tried again, the word a low whine as he jolted along the hallway after her. She was very careful, guiding him skillfully through doorways without any harm, her eyes filled with a curious mix of pain, regret, and iron resolve.

"You aren't Alliance, Blaise," she said, her words tinged with frustration. "There – there are things you can't know, and I know you don't remember, but we've been through this before. I wish you would listen to me. I wish – wish you wouldn't follow me. There are things I have to do that you – you can't know about, and now I'm going to have to Obliviate you. Again."

Archie hesitated, but he shut the door and followed the two of them into the kitchen, where Aldon had his head tilted to one side in an open expression of curiosity. Abbott settled Zabini into another chair beside her, as if he were a child, running her hands quickly over the ropes and checking to make sure they didn't pinch him in any way. He overheard her asking if he was comfortable, but Zabini seemed too shocked, now, as well as confused, to respond.

"Interesting situation you've caught yourself in, Zabini," Aldon remarked, a half-smile on his face, but both Zabini and Abbott shot him a glare.

"Please – please don't mock us," Abbott said, her voice solemn and quiet. "It's not – it is what it is, Blake. I – I would very much appreciate if you did not mock my mate for this."

"Er, I think we'd appreciate an explanation," Archie broke in, with a look around the circle. "Look, I don't understand what's happening, and I've half a mind to call Dad or the Aurors or something. Your… mate?"

Abbott shrugged, a little uncomfortable. "We – we're shifters. We mate for life, and we – our instincts make the selection for us. I guess you could call it soulmates, but that makes it sound as if it's always the perfect partnership. It isn't. I – I have no choice but to love Blaise, but he isn't who I would have chosen for myself. I don't always like him, and I don't have to trust him. It – it may be different for him, because as predator, the instincts drive him harder than me."

Archie looked between Abbott, whose expression was still fixed somewhere between sadness, resignation, and resolve, and Zabini, whose face had been schooled into blankness.

"I do my best, Hannah." Despite his expression, Zabini's voice was a mixture of hurt and anger. "I love you. I treat you well. I am not sure what more you could want from me."

The blonde girl studied him for a minute, her forehead creasing with slight annoyance, before shaking her head again. "You're not Alliance, Blaise," she repeated, her voice quiet and firm. "And you don't – don't respect me. You mostly see what you expect to see, when it comes to me: your mate, and someone submissive, easily pleased, not very smart, a Hufflepuff. The fat – fat girl who doesn't really deserve you and is too – too grateful to have you. I hear everyone say it, you know. And I've – I've had to Obliviate you four times this year, because you've caught me on Alliance business."

"Er…" Archie broke in again, still not sure whether he should be calling anyone. This was all very odd, and very uncomfortable, and he didn't understand the issue. He glanced over at Aldon, a question in his eyes, but Aldon shook his head very slightly.

Abbott sighed again, catching the glance, and she turned back to them. "I really am sorry about this. I - I had hoped to lose Blaise before I got here, and I'm very sorry that you had to see this. I'm here today on behalf of the Shifter Alliance. We've been talking among ourselves for the past few months, but we weren't able to come to a resolution until, well…"

She looked down, plucking at the front of her dark robes, and her voice carried a hint of tears. "We lost four in the Ball attack. Two of my older cousins, and James Elcombe and Gail Stephens were Alliance, too. Four. It's obvious that – that the Ministry isn't looking out for us. I was sent to talk to you about the possibility of working with you, and with Bridge. They – they thought you would be more receptive to someone your own age."

Archie glanced over at Aldon, who by now had taken a seat at the table, his hawk-like eyes sharp and focused and his hands folded in front of him. Aldon looked between Abbott and Zabini. "What exactly are you thinking, Miss Abbott? What is your Alliance offering in return? I must admit that I know little of it, so if you would provide a brief explanation, it would be of help. And Zabini…"

"Please, call me Hannah. As for Blaise, he isn't Alliance, so – so I will be Obliviating him. I – I'm good at Memory Charms, so I'll – I'll give him a memory of us going out after the funerals, and it doesn't matter what he hears." Hannah shrugged a little, trying to be nonchalant, but Zabini's face was stony, staring at Hannah as if she had grown a second head. "He – he won't question it. I – I'm only Hannah Abbott, after all.

"The Shifter Alliance is what it sounds like – an alliance of shifters and shifter families. Not all shifters are part of it – Blaise's family split off some fifteen years ago. If – if you succeed in your plan for widespread emancipation, the Shifter Alliance would like a seat at the table in forming your new government so that we have a voice in politics, and we can express our concerns on wide-ranging issues that might affect us. As for what we offer – it may be easier to show you."

She pushed her seat back from the table, and a moment later, she was gone. Archie blinked for a moment, looking around, before a large brown rabbit hopped onto the seat that she had been in, then onto the table. The rabbit looked at them all with a steady eye, before jumping off the table and a second later, Hannah reappeared. "The Abbotts are – are rabbit shifters. Like rabbits, we also, er, have large – large families. That's why there are so many of us. We can pass you information without being detected – being a shifter isn't like being an Animagus, since it isn't a form of Transfiguration. We – we are as much our animal forms as our human forms. We don't get picked up by the usual magic detection spells, and we carry some part of our other forms into our human forms too. I'm a rabbit, a prey shifter, so I'm twitchy, but I have much sharper than normal hearing. And – and if there's more fighting, some of the Alliance can also fight in their other forms – we have bear shifters, lynx shifters, a few wolf shifters."

Aldon leaned back, seeming to think about it, but Archie didn't know what there really was to think about. He was still worried about Zabini, who was Harry's friend, but Hannah seemed so in control, and they were offering to help. And all they wanted in return was something that Archie wanted to give them anyway – a seat at the table. "That sounds … really good. I don't think there will be any problem with that at all. Aldon?"

Aldon shot him a glare, but he sighed and nodded, lips pressed together in a tight line. "I would hesitantly agree. I will need proof of your intentions, however, and at this point, we will need to see where things turn. The Ball is a major change, since the Ministry can no longer deny that there is a terrorist in Wizarding Britain. Please take that back to your leader."

"We don't have a leader," Hannah replied, with another quick shake of her head. "The Shifter Alliance is an alliance, and we conduct ourselves by consensus. I will take it back, thank you. Both of you."

"And as for Zabini…" Aldon's eyes shifted over to Zabini, frowning slightly. "He is not part of your Alliance, and so..."

Hannah nodded, a solemn gesture, drawing her wand. "You – you want to be sure, of course, that I Obliviate this conversation from his memory. That is not a problem." The look on her face was genuinely regretful as she raised her wand in Zabini's direction.

"Wait." Aldon's voice was sharp, his expression calculating as he looked between them. "That is not what I meant, Hannah. Is there no way for Zabini to join your Alliance?"

Hannah paused, lowering her wand. "Not – not immediately. Joining the Alliance is not an easy thing. Blaise would need to present his candidacy, and there would be three – three meetings for discussion where the Alliance could question him, where we would openly discuss whether we would accept him, then a private consensus discussion without him. The process takes, at minimum, five months. And Blaise has never shown interest in presenting his candidacy."

"It's my family, Hannah," Zabini said, his face creasing into a frown. "I could never—"

"And I – I will never leave the Alliance, Blaise," Hannah interrupted, her expression pained, but her voice firm. "I'm an Abbott; we are Alliance."

"But when we marry—"

"We'll never marry, Blaise." Hannah's voice was flat, but final. "Not – not if you aren't Alliance. I shouldn't – shouldn't even be seeing you. I had hoped that in time, you would see that and join. But your family gives you everything you could ever want, so – so…"

She shrugged helplessly, and Zabini looked like he had been slapped.

"I see," Aldon intervened, holding a hand up to stop the discussion. "But to ask, Hannah – is this meeting secret from our other allies? Would you work with one of our other allies, in support of a common goal?"

Hannah blinked. "Of course – or, I can't decide that by myself, but I expect we would. But that's different. Blaise – Blaise isn't…"

"He isn't," Aldon confirmed, but he turned and stared pointedly at Zabini. "But I could use someone in his position. I can always use more intelligence from within the SOW Party."

There was a cool silence, as the expression wiped off Zabini's face. He shifted, slightly, in his ropes. "You want me to spy."

"Among other things, yes." Aldon half-smiled. "Of course, I'd also expect you to swear your silence on this meeting, among other guarantees. It's either that, or the Memory Charm. I trust Hannah would weave you a very pleasant memory in lieu of this meeting, so I would understand. I wouldn't think very highly of you, but I'd understand."

There was a moment of silence, and Zabini glared at Aldon, his eyes hot with anger.

"You shouldn't have followed me, Blaise." The comment was tiny, barely over a whisper. "You – I wish you didn't follow me. Take the Memory Charm. Please. I'll – I'll give you a great memory, where you'll comfort me after the funerals and we'll – we'll sleep together in it, and you'll be happy. Happier."

Blaise glared at her too, then he shut his eyes, and swallowed. There was another minute, then he blew out a long breath. "I'll swear. I'll swear, and I'll pass you the information. What do you want me to swear on, Blake? My magic?"

Aldon smiled, and there was nothing nice about that smile. "Swear on your mate's life. If she's willing; if not, then your soul. Then, if you betrayed us, she would have to dispose of you, and think of how that would feel."

Hannah's eyes widened. "I – Blaise, please take the Memory Charm instead. Please."

Zabini shot her another look, his chin set. "I won't betray you. I'll swear it on my soul."

Hannah let out a small, high-pitched noise of surprise, her voice sharp as she cut in. "No! No – I'm willing. Have him swear on me. He – he's shifter. He'll struggle a lot more to betray me than you."

Archie stared at Aldon, his eyes wide at Aldon's cruelty. He would never swear something on Hermione's life, and losing a soul was a fate worse than death. The body would remain, breathing, eyes open but there would be nothing in them, and it was always left to the family to dispose of them. And for those who believed in an afterlife, there would be none. "Al, is this really—"

Aldon looked at him, and his face was firm, though he pulled his wand and, with a flick, sent Zabini's ropes unravelling. "Yes, Arch. Zabini is in the SOW Party, which provides both him and his family with substantial benefits. This means that he will be looking for an opportunity to betray us. Whatever protections we've built into Bridge, I do not want to test them, and that means taking every opportunity we can to secure our position. An oath is stronger than a Memory Charm, though I am sure that Hannah casts a powerful one."

Archie looked over at Zabini, who was looking away, quietly seething, but he wasn't sure what else to say. He didn't like it, but Aldon had a point – he did not want to see his other friends or allies arrested either. Sedition charges would be that much harder to beat, especially for people like Hermione, or Derrick, or Toby, who weren't purebloods and hadn't been educated at Hogwarts. He knew that, but it didn't make it better.

He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I don't like it, Al. I see your point, but I don't like it. I'm very sorry about this, Zabini – I'm sure that means nothing, but I am."

Aldon snorted, disparaging, and a second flick of his wand had a pad of paper and a pen flying into his hands. "We'll have you swear then, Zabini, on Hannah's life, at her request."

He took his time, scribbling lines and crossing them out, while Archie saw that Hannah had pushed her seat away from the table and slipped her hand in Zabini's. She wasn't looking at him, instead watching Aldon's hand fly across the paper, but he was watching her, a soft, pained look in his dark eyes.

It was fifteen long minutes before Aldon was done, putting the pen down and reading it over. He reached the bottom, then he went up to the top and started again, his head cocked to one side in thought, before he nodded and passed the paper to Zabini.

Zabini read it over once, his lip curling slightly to show gritted, white teeth, but he nodded. "Very well," he said, abrupt, standing and pushing his chair back to kneel at Hannah's feet. She held her hands out to him, and he folded his hands in hers.

"I hereby swear, in risk of the life of my mate, Hannah Michelle Abbott, that I shall not pass to any person, body, creature, or entity any news, any information, or anything said, heard, seen, or smelled in this conversation on this thirty-first day of December, 1995 at Grimmauld Place, nor shall I make any mention or reference to said conversation to any person, body, creature, or entity not currently present. I further swear, in risk of the life of my mate, Hannah Michelle Abbott, that I shall henceforth provide relevant and true information to Bridge on the actions, proposed actions, or other activity of the SOW Party, particularly as it relates to the ongoing terrorism in Wizarding Britain, to the best of my abilities and as far as I am aware."

He swallowed heavily, Hannah flinched, and even Archie could feel the heavy attention in the air as magic itself took the vow and bound the two of them to it. Aldon nodded, satisfied, and the room was solemn, uncomfortable, almost cold, as Zabini got to his feet and offered his hand to Hannah once more. She took it, unthinking, even if her expression reflected only resigned worry and nervousness.

"I think we ought to be going," Zabini said, his voice coldly polite, nodding towards Aldon and Archie. "Hannah?"

"Yes, sure." She smiled, trembling a little. "I will let you know what the Alliance says."

"A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, by Emeric Switch," Aldon said idly, the only one in the room that seemed unaffected by what had happened. "Thirteenth edition, for both of you. Page number, word number. It is best that we communicated entirely in code."

They nodded again, a brief acknowledgement, and Archie saw them through the Floo. When he turned back around, Aldon had his face in his hands. A moment, and he wiped his eyes and brushed his hair back, away from his face and only slightly mussed. His face was poised, unreadable.

Archie studied him. "You're not a very nice person, Al."

Aldon looked up, glancing upwards at the ceiling as if he could burn a hole through it with his hawk-like golden eyes. He didn't reply for a long moment, but eventually, he sighed and looked back at Archie. "I do not think that we have the luxury of kindness, in the times that are coming. But I wish that I could be kind, if only because I think Francesca would value it. Don't tell her about this, if you would."

XXX

"How many times, Hannah?"

They were walking down Diagon Alley, and Hannah had determined that ice cream was a necessity, assuming she could get past the shops and this conversation. Blaise was, as usual, following her. Her body had flinched at his question, but for mates, the body didn't matter that much – she could feel his upset, even though he looked and sounded perfectly calm, and she knew that he felt her resolve and her lack of regret in spite of her flinch.

She didn't like being mated. For some shifters, it was a thing of wonder, having a person that they knew would always be behind them, their partner in anything and everything, a support and a lover and a best friend all in one. It was the stuff of dreams, but for every shifter who had that story, there were three who didn't. Most learned to work with their mates, in time – it was only Hannah Abbott who had the misfortune to have Blaise Zabini, wealthy SOW Party near-aristocrat, smarmy know-it-all, as her mate. "How – how many times what, Blaise?"

"Did you Obliviate me," he replied, his voice low. "How many times did you Obliviate me?"

She looked up at him. For all that she outweighed Blaise by a stone, he was taller than her, and her gaze fell back to the cobblestone steps. "Six times. Twice – twice in our fourth year. More – more times this year, because I had more Alliance duties. I always tell you, don't I, when I have to go do something? And not – not to follow?"

"Yes, but—" Blaise fell silent, looking away, to the storefront of Eeylops Owl Emporium. He didn't speak for a moment, and the next question seemed almost to come from nowhere. "Have we slept together?"

Hannah laughed, a little twitter that she couldn't help but let escape, but she clamped down on it quickly when he glared at her. "No – no. I mean – where would we have done it? I – I always thought it weird, that you just accepted those fantasies as real. They – they're pretty weak, because I don't – well, I've never had sex, so I don't even know what to weave. You – you had caught me meeting with an Alliance contact at the Shrieking Shack, that first time, and – and it was the best I could come up with, because why else would we have spent two hours inside the Shrieking Shack? And there was a bedroom, and a bed, so I – I panicked, okay?"

Another silence, and Blaise wasn't looking at her, but there was a bit of a rueful look on his face, and his grip on her hand was warm, firm. "I did always think those memories were a bit odd." Another brief pause. "You are… not what I expected."

Hannah shrugged. People outside the house tended to expect Hufflepuffs to be passive and submissive – someone brave, or clever, or ambitious surely would have one to one of the other houses. Growing up surrounded by family, however, Hannah had always thought practicality and kindness were more useful than any of the other houses' traits. If Blaise didn't see how sensible it was to have a common room anyone could get into, so no first-years or inebriated seventh-years were left out in the cold, so there were no pranks because there was no challenge to it, well, he wouldn't be the only one.

Hannah was a prime example of a Hufflepuff. She was chubby, her face too round, and until last year she had always kept her hair in pigtails. People joked that she didn't know any other hairstyles because she was too stupid, or that it was perfect for her, a little pig with pigtails. Her marks were middling, and Professor Moody had famously yelled at her last year in Defence to just plant her wand and see if something grew from it, because growing a bush would be faster than trying to shield. She liked cookies and ice cream and cake a little too much, and it showed in her waistline. She was twitchy, skittish, not brave or smart or ambitious or important enough to be worth much thought.

But Hannah didn't care what her teachers or classmates thought of her. She was skittish, and she wasn't very clever, and she was pants at duelling, but did it matter that Blaise would triumph in a formal duel against her in seconds when she had Obliviated him six out of six times with him none the wiser? Hannah knew who she was, she had always been who she was, and she had a warren's worth of family and friends who welcomed her with open arms when she came home.

Blaise wanted an answer.

"I – I haven't changed, Blaise," she said finally, without looking at him. Blaise wasn't in her community of family and friends. Blaise was her mate, but he was on the outside, and he didn't really know her or respect her. She had heard the things his friends, other Slytherins, said about her, and Blaise never argued. "You just – you never saw. And I let you believe it, because – because it was easier. You aren't Alliance, Blaise. It's – it's easy to hide in plain sight when you think I'm stupid."

Fortescue's was only a few steps away, and Hannah let them into the shop. Even when it was cold, she couldn't resist ice cream. Old Mr. Fortescue smiled to see her enter, rising from his seat behind the counter, and Hannah ordered herself a large chocolate cone, picking up two of the tiny wooden spoon-like sticks so that she could share. Blaise waved her away when she reached for her wallet, so instead she went to her favourite seat, by the window, where she could watch the people passing by outside. She handed one of her spoons to Blaise when he came to join her.

He took a few bites of her ice cream, but he left most of it for her. He always did.

"I would rather have had the truth," he said, reaching out to grasp her hand. "I have to love you either way, but I would have rather had the choice to know you and develop a relationship with you. Even if it isn't always happy."

She glanced at him, gave his hand a squeeze, and took a bite from her waffle cone. It was sweet, but not too sweet, and he sighed and reached over to break a piece of it off for himself.

XXX

Belgrade was chilly this time of year, but Alex left his window cracked open. The breath of fresh, freezing, air invigorated him in the mornings. There was a dusting of snow on the ground, outside – not as much as he used to seeing at Hogwarts, in the highlands of Scotland, but far more than his mother and grandparents saw in the south of England.

Alex much preferred snow over rain. Snow, he could always brush off, but cold rain sunk into his jacket, into his clothes, bringing a chill that even his dhampir constitution found difficult to shake off. Belgrade in snow was a treat, a white cloak on the mix of old-world estates interspersed with the more modern socialist block buildings. Belgrade was a chaotic mess, a perfect place for The Order to set up its headquarters, which they did in an ancient, sprawling complex a ten-minute walk from the Sava River.

In the Muggle world, they called it a school – a very old, very elitist university that did little by way of research, conducted no tours, and accepted no applications for admission. But with nearly everyone within headquarters appearing between the ages of twenty and forty, it had seemed to the Council many years ago that being a school would provide the appropriate cover in the Muggle world. Alex wasn't so sure, but whatever the Muggle world thought, no one cared enough to investigate so long as the appropriate bribes were paid, and any individual Muggles who climbed over the high outer walls were quickly caught and Obliviated by either their on-staff Stormwings or by Alex himself. Technically, dhampir were neither Muggle nor magical, but something other: they were accepted, in a very general sense, by the magical world, but they were nearly entirely Muggle. Out of a fighting force of nearly two hundred and fifty dhampir, there were only two who were also wizards.

Alex hadn't gotten leave this year for the holiday, and no matter how beautiful Belgrade was under a layer of snow, he would have taken the rain to see his mother and grandparents. It wasn't even that he was on mission, this holiday – Unit 8 had simply been pulled for coverage duty while the other units, those that were not on an active mission, went on leave. At least two units always had to remain in Belgrade on alert, in case of vampire attack.

His mother had offered to fly to Belgrade to see him, but Alex had refused. Madeline Willoughby was known to vampire-kind as the mother of Captain Aleksandr Willoughby Dragić, wizard and dhampir, and Eastern Europe would always be dangerous for her. Any travel into vampire territory necessitated a guard, and over the holidays, they were too short-staffed to manage it. Even as unit captain, he couldn't justifiably order his dhampir on guard duty just to see his mother, no matter what Elodie, his second, said.

But it wasn't as if he was doing much else right now, either. He trained in the mornings, putting his unit through their paces, but let his people off for the afternoon, as much as possible. He had four people on afternoon shift every day running both guard duty and monitoring the city, but otherwise they were free to do as they pleased.

He squinted in the distance, suddenly, picking up a familiar, winged shape. An owl – they didn't get many of those. Even the Stormwings, of whom they tried to keep at least one or two assigned per unit, tended not to receive any mail. Few of them remained in contact with their families, and while their oath ties were stronger than those of blood, the secretive group did not tend to attract people inclined to much talk.

It took him a few seconds to realize that the owl wasn't only flying to Headquarters, but that it was aiming for his window. He flung his window open, letting the eagle owl soar in, dropping a small package on his desk. He didn't recognize the owl; his mother and grandparents had one, of course, a beautiful snowy owl, but this one was unfamiliar. The owl shook itself, hooted at him, and hopped onto the ledge of his window before taking flight once more – no return message needed, apparently.

Alex pulled out his wand for a cursory check of the letter. Vampires did not typically communicate by owl, and the wards should have caught anything sent with malicious intent, but one never knew. He would rather be paranoid than dead.

His spell came back clear, with no hint of anything wrong, so he reached over and pried the package open. There was a letter, on a folded piece of parchment, as well as a vial of memory. He reached for the letter, first, and unfolded it.

Captain Dragić, he read, and he blinked. Few people in the wizarding world knew him by that name, or of his position in the Order. He glanced to the end of the letter, checking the name of the author – Lina Avery. Beside her name, there was a mark that he would recognize anywhere, a small silver bird with razor wings. Not a sign that most people would know, nor one that anyone would use lightly. Lina Avery was not a Stormwing he recognized, but she was a Stormwing nonetheless. He went back up to the top, reading from the beginning.

I am not aware of how informed you might be of current events in Wizarding Britain. Briefly, we have a terrorist situation. There have been multiple attacks: on the Hogwarts Express on the first of September, on the Bulstrode family at the end of October, and now there has been an attack on the Ministry-held "Unity Ball" at the end of December. We also have burgeoning unrest – you may be aware that, subsequent to the Arcturus Rigel Black trial, a new paper called Bridge has been making the rounds of Wizarding Britain, advocating for, among other things, widespread emancipation. I believe that our mutual friend, Aldon Blake, once known as Aldon Rosier, is involved.

The Ministry of Magic has taken little action at present to handle the threat posed. The Ministry Ball was obviously intended to be a trap, but it was poorly executed. The terrorist was able to take the Ministry by surprise, and there were multiple casualties as a result. I expect open war now, between the terrorist, the Ministry, and possibly also the Light faction and Bridge. I write you, therefore, to request a personal favour.

Alex blinked again. A favour? He didn't argue with the analysis – Stormwings were trained to analyse battles and wars as they unfolded, and to plan strategies of attack which, hopefully, led to success without heavy casualties. He had worked with many of them, and he had no reason to doubt that, whoever this Stormwing was, her analysis was correct. He had heard some of the news from Britain, from Aldon in his rare comm orb calls, from his family, and from the one or two copies of Bridge he had obtained, but he hadn't paid much attention to it. Compared to his missions cleaning up from the conflict in Bosnia, it just hadn't seemed very important. Even if the situation had deteriorated to the extent that she had described, though, he didn't see how that led to a Stormwing requesting a favour from him.

Aldon is untrained in combat. You know this as well as I – he has never been strong at offensive magic, and I worry about his ability to survive a war. I enclose the following memory of his last attempt at duelling for your edification. Would you consider taking a brief leave in order to train him? Despite myself, I care for Aldon deeply, and I would rather not see him die in the flames of war.

I will give you a call on Friday, the fifth of January, to discuss.

Alex set the letter aside, picking up the vial of memory and examining it with a keen eye. The silver liquid was thick, viscous, glittering with bands of sparks. Whoever Avery was, she must care deeply about Aldon to give up a memory, and he was curious. He had little else to do today, and he may as well view it.

He strode out of his quarters. Rikash, the Stormwing and other magic-user attached to Unit 8, was not in his chambers, but Alex found him talking to Barzha and Hebakh, the Stormwings attached to Unit 10, in the library.

"Rikash. Barzha, Hebakh," Alex greeted them with nods. Technically, Stormwings were not under the Order's authority, and they were not sworn to the Order. They were consultants, hired and paid very well for their skills in tactical analysis and assault planning, as well as for providing magical backup on missions. "Would any of you happen to have a Pensieve I could borrow? And have you heard of a Stormwing called Avery? Lina Avery?"

Rikash shook his head, the bone beads he had woven into his blond hair rattling. "No, Captain, on both points. Barzha? Hebakh? More your thing than mine, I imagine."

"I do not have a Pensieve," Barzha said, her words accented with a faded hint of her lost Kurdish. She shifted in her seat, brown eyes thoughtful over an aquiline nose. "I can tell you a little about Avery, though. She finished her Service a year before me, in 1963. I remember when she was at the academy, she was rarely seen out of sight of one of the other trainees, what was his name … I've forgotten. Sandy light brown hair, French. He died during their Service, a year later, and I heard a rumour that she chose her attributes in his memory: duty, tolerance and caution. Not the standard Stormwing choices."

"I was in the same year," Hebakh added, his tenor coldly clinical. He was a nervous man, his eyes always twitching towards the openings of every room. "I was curious about her, so I followed her career for a few years. She took a few contracts in the late sixties and early seventies: one in Russia, another in the Middle East, a high-risk hit in Wizarding Africa. In the mid-seventies, she opened her own firm, Blackthorn, based in France, which provides security analysis work. Most of it is legitimate work for the wealthy, testing the security of their estates, but they've taken on less upstanding work for the right price. You may use my Pensieve, Dragić."

He pushed away from the table, heading out of the library. Alex nodded his thanks to the other two, before following Hebakh to his quarters to retrieve the stone viewing plate. He promised to return the item later, to which Hebakh only shrugged, uncaring, before returning to the library to pass time with his colleagues.

Alex returned to his quarters, setting the Pensieve on his desk. The cork of the vial came off with a flick of his thumb, and he poured it into the Pensieve. The liquid memory rolled in the stone dish, and Alex took a deep breath before plunging his face in.

He fell into a grand room, one that he recognized only by description. The Fountain of Magical Brethren was distinctive, and Alex couldn't help but flash a fang in annoyance. He was part creature, and he couldn't help but see himself just as much in the cowering creatures shown in the fountain as he did in the wizard, the reigning king. They were in the Ministry of Magic.

He turned around, eyeing the witches and wizards floating around him. They were dressed in their finest robes, which meant that it was a formal Wizarding Society event. There was a commotion, in front of him, and he saw the telltale flash of wards going up.

He pushed his way forward through the crowd, almost amused as his body slid through the various witches and wizards in front of him. He was only a ghost from the future, not actually there. At the front of the crowd, where the ward line must have been, he saw Aldon, flanked on one side by brown-haired man in the traditional surcoat of Chinese heirloom-casters, a sword at his waist. He didn't recognize the man, but an heirloom caster with those looks would not be difficult to identify.

At the other end of the warded area stood Rookwood with another man, one that Alex didn't recognize. He stared at Rookwood for a moment, taken aback, then glanced back over at Aldon. Something was wrong here, very wrong, because never would Alex have imagined that Aldon would be standing opposite his oldest and best friend across a formal duelling arena.

It had taken him a moment to recognize it, because as combat-trained as Alex was, he had no formal duelling experience. The setup was clear, open, and Alex couldn't help but wrinkle his nose. While exhibition dueling was dull, of almost no practical use, and not something in which anyone was likely to be injured, Aldon was not a dueller. This could not end well.

An older man walked into the arena, as did both Aldon and the other boy. There were formalities, then Aldon and the other boy bowed to each other, and the spells started flying.

Then Alex swore, a liquid stream of guttural Serbian, because this was no exhibition duel. The unknown boy opened with the Killing Curse, and Aldon let go of a spell, a runic ice shield that he had to have had prepared in advance. The ice caught and shattered, and Alex grimaced.

Aldon was a fool. He didn't even use his wand to defend himself, though he pulled out two runic attacks, an ice spell and a lightning paper charm, in quick succession. Alex heard the other boy casting and swore again as he realized the other boy cast in Old Slavic – unlike Aldon, Alex spoke both Russian and Serbian, and he had some training in Old Slavic. The other boy was Durmstrang-educated, and none of the spells he was casting were minor curses.

There was a poison kill-spell that fortunately only scored Aldon across one arm, and Alex gritted his teeth. Did Aldon even know how to block? And where was his footwork? His feet were too slow, and with his Muggle-style formalwear, Aldon should have outstripped the other boy considerably in speed. But instead, the fool was standing there, almost stationary, while the Durmstrang wizard threw spells at him meant to boil his blood, shatter his bones, and curdle his brains. Whoever Durmstrang was, he was Dark.

Aldon was Dark too, but Alex didn't think he knew those curses. Instead Aldon was now firing back pitifully weak spells in return – Pertus, Depulso, Everte Statum. The only positive thing Alex could see was that Aldon at least had a shield, now, and he was finally starting to move his feet.

Alex saw the heirloom-caster on Aldon's side of the dueling arena readying his sword, pale and white-lipped, and he hoped against hope that the heirloom-caster would intercede into this horror. Heirloom-casters were all trained from childhood in the fighting arts, and judging by the spells being permitted without comment, this was intended to be a duel to death. If this duel didn't turn, and soon, Aldon would not survive. Not unless he pulled out stronger spells, or more technique or desperation than he had been showing to up until now.

Though Aldon's shield was holding. Alex took a second look at it, his eyes narrowing, then he swore when he realized that it wasn't a shield at all. It was a low-level ward, made faster and without the movement indicative of warding. Aldon had something new on him that gave him a defensive edge. That was something, not that a defensive ward would do much beyond prolong his end, considering his seeming inability to attack with any force.

He had survived, Alex reasoned with himself. He had to have survived, otherwise an unknown Stormwing wouldn't be writing to ask that he be trained.

It didn't make it any easier to watch. Alex spotted weakness after weakness – Aldon was slow, he was panting heavily after too little time, he missed three quarters of the opportunities he had. He had some new magical technique and a few tricks on his side, but it wasn't enough.

He watched as Aldon pulled out a ritual knife, casting a smokescreen to shield him as he did something. Fire roared into existence, ripping across the floor, and Alex sucked in a breath. That was an expensive spell, and if Aldon had gained any advantage by conserving his core and relying on weaker spells and prepared materials, he had now squandered it away.

Durmstrang, fortunately, wasn't particularly good fighter either. He had barely moved from where he had started, despite the fires littering half the floor. It took him far too long to use a spell that broke Aldon's ward, and Alex saw the precise moment he did. There was a solid half minute where Alex stood, watching, tight-lipped, because Aldon was neither attacking nor defending – it was clear as day that he was defenceless, and Alex had no idea how Durmstrang had missed it. Aldon's pulling out of a spent paper charm did nothing to hide his helplessness.

Somehow, though, Durmstrang had missed it, or maybe now he had simply focused his attention on the Unforgiveable Curses. Alex doubted Aldon's ward would hold up to them, in no small part because Aldon himself was finally dodging as well as relying on his ward. The end, when it happened, was pure chance – a kamikaze sprint from Aldon, a slip and fall from Durmstrang, and in Aldon's first display at something approaching competence, his friend had used his forearm and weight to cut off Durmstrang's windpipe and end the travesty.

He couldn't believe he had been attracted to Aldon, at one point in time. He wanted to bang his head against the closest wall at his friend's sheer foolishness. Alex could have polished off either him or his opponent in less than a minute, though he would have fallen back on his physical abilities as much as, if not more than, his magic.

The memory didn't end with the end of the duel, however, and he strode forward, watching curiously as Aldon took the opportunity to propose to a very pretty girl. She bolted, a look of horror and betrayal on her face, turning and throwing a torrent of fire at Aldon with a paper charm when he tried to go after her. Aldon survived, if only because the heirloom-caster behind him drew his sword and saved him.

Finally, the memory faded out, and Alex fell out on the floor of his quarters. He pulled himself up with an annoyed, aggravated sigh, running one hand through his messy hair.

Whoever Lina Avery was, she was right. Aldon was not prepared for war – he had won this duel largely through luck and desperation. He did need training, and he likely wouldn't get it of his own free will: he had never liked duelling, and he had too much pride to see his own weaknesses. Alex would have had to drag him through every part of it.

He wished he could consider the favour. He had the leave banked for it, but Unit 8 was due to start a three-month tour in the mountains of Georgia at the end of January, and he had only made Unit Captain recently. His dhampir needed him, and his responsibilities kept him with the Order. He couldn't go haring off to Wizarding Britain, even if it was on the verge of war, even if one of his only friends in the world was involved. Even if, with Rookwood presumably out of the picture, which he was judging by the fact that he was standing on the opposite side of the duelling arena, Alex might very well be one of the only people that Aldon might have allowed to kick him into shape. It wouldn't be responsible for him to do it, no matter what he might want.

A week later, he took Avery's call in one of the offices in the administration building.

"Dragić," he said, short, picking up the telephone. "You must be Avery."

"I am," the woman replied, with a hint of amusement. Her voice was a medium alto, easy on his ears, but Alex thought he could hear the slight undercurrent of danger under it. She was a Stormwing, and all Stormwings who survived had proven themselves dangerous. "You must be Alexander Willoughby Dragić. I am pleased to finally meet you. You enjoyed the memory of my dumbass of a son quite fortunately not dying in his latest escapade?"

"Your son?" Alex repeated, surprised, sitting down behind a heavy, wooden desk and leaning back in the office chair. The desk was empty but for the telephone, a pad of paper, and an array of cheap, plastic pens.

"It so happens that within Wizarding Britain, I am known as the Lady Rosier," Avery replied, flippant. "Obviously, he isn't actually my son, though mysteriously he seems to have inherited some of my more reckless traits along with his mother's brains and his father's business sense. Too bad he didn't inherit anything like talent in Defense, though as you could see from my memory, he does have a certain something."

"He nearly died," Alex said flatly, looking around the bland room. The Order didn't give anyone their own offices, since they were often away on missions, but rather there were a series of offices available to any dhampir who needed to do work. Few dhampir used them – only unit captains, their seconds, occasionally Stormwings. The Council were the only dhampir to have their own offices, in a separate wing, for their work. "He won by sheer luck, Lady Rosier."

"I prefer Lina. Lina Avery. And be fair to him – he did go in with a few tricks, and he was desperate. And he must have known, or guessed, that Lestrange was not a strong dueller." Avery paused, and Alex thought he could hear something else in the background over her connection – something mechanical. "Christie, what is with your coffee machine? Sorry about that, Dragić. I'm trying to get myself a cup of mediocre coffee. Have you considered my request?"

Alex turned to look out the window, a small one looking out onto the dhampir training grounds. It was busy, because the training grounds were usually busy, dhampir and Stormwings both keeping themselves in shape. "I have, and I do wish I could help. Unfortunately, my unit is committed to a three-month mission tour in Georgia beginning next month – I am unable to request leave now. Perhaps this summer."

Lina made a thoughtful noise on the other side, and Alex heard another woman's voice in the background, explaining something about the machine in question. "A three-month mission tour – for anything specific, or just the usual patrol, identification, and extermination campaign?"

Alex blinked, looking back at the black rotary phone on the table. "The usual campaign, but nonetheless, I am captain and one of our two magic users – I could hardly leave my unit for the campaign."

"Who is your assigned Stormwing? And your second?" Lina asked, and there was another noise of whirring, and a beep. "I completed my Service with the Order, Dragić, as well as a few tours every now and then – I know the command structure, as well as many of the captains and their seconds."

Alex paused for a moment, thinking it over, but it was true that most Stormwings took some tour or other with the Order. The Order always had work, they kept on contract nearly a quarter of all Stormwings worldwide, and Stormwings tended to know each other by reputation, if not by name. And the unit captains and their seconds were often well known. "Our Stormwing is Rikash Moonsword, and my second, Elodie Pepin Vasilova."

"I know Elodie. She's very experienced, though I would have thought she would be Unit Captain by now. We served together in my Service. You can confirm that with her, if you like." Lina hummed, and Aldon blinked again – there was always the possibility that she was lying to gain his trust, but it was also true that Elodie was very experienced and quite a lot older than Alex. That was why she had been assigned as his second – the Council was of the view that her experience would balance him well, and Alex would trust her with his life. He would confirm with her, though, to be sure.

"I will pass your regards onto her, if you like," Alex said, cordial. "But as you can appreciate…"

"No, wait." Lina cut in, with a click of her tongue on her teeth. "What if I replaced you, for the tour? Have Elodie lead your campaign in Georgia, and I will take your place as second magic-user. Moonsword has a good reputation – he chose compassion as one of his attributes, so I am confident that I can work with him. You take a leave and train our dumbass son so he might actually survive what comes. I'll pay you for it, on top of taking the tour. Name your price."

Alex paused. "You want me there very badly."

There was silence on the other end, but Alex was content to wait. Offering to take his tour was no small thing, particularly since she wouldn't be paid for it, and offering to pay him more on top of it spelled desperation.

"You know Aldon, Dragić." Lina snorted finally. "He doesn't take advice well, and he's smart enough that he's gotten away with it thus far. This latest escapade is likely to embolden him, since he did win, and he doesn't know enough fighting to know that he revealed the exact extent of his pitiful, practically non-existent duelling skill to his enemies, as well as his friends."

"I do know him." Alex stared up at the ceiling – the administration building was nowhere near as nice as the rest of the Order's campus, with the barracks and other living spaces being far nicer. It was a Soviet block, cold concrete barely hidden by the soft furnishings within. He still didn't think that he could get away, but she made a good argument. "Does Aldon know?"

"Does Aldon know what?"

"Does he know what you are? He has never mentioned it to me." The ceiling was thin, pockmarked with small black spots. Alex thought he could probably break through them if he tried. Either a defensive weakness, or if they thought a little more creatively, a useful escape or attack route. "Or that you are making this request of me."

There was another pause on the other end, and he thought he heard someone offering Lina milk and sugar. "No. He knows neither what I am, nor that I am calling you. He is currently out – he likes to work late, much like his father. Should you accept, it is likely better if you show up as a surprise and simply force him along with whatever your plan might be. We'll give you whatever you need, as long as Aldon figures out some survival instinct. Keys to the penthouse, a place to stay, an unreasonable salary… What do you want?"

Alex laughed – he didn't laugh often, and it came out rusty, a little rough around the edges. "You are desperate."

"Obviously."

Alex laughed again, looking back out the window. Lina was right in her analysis of Aldon, to Alex's experience, and it wasn't that she hadn't come up with anything he had expected. He did not like the idea of Aldon heading into wartime with the amount of fighting expertise that he had shown in his duel, and he admitted that leave, even if it was to train an ungrateful fool, would be nice. He wouldn't be able to get Aldon active for more than a half-day every day, he expected, which meant he would also be able to see his mother and his grandparents. And he could see the situation in Wizarding Britain for himself, ensure that his mother and grandparents were safe. And convince them to move farther abroad, if they weren't. His mother would fight him on it, no doubt, but his father would have expected it of him.

Alex barely remembered his father, but they were words burned into his memory. Every time Drago Horvath Milosević had gone on mission, he had kneeled down and told Alex, very seriously, to take care of his mother. And Alex would.

It came down to higher level approvals. Lina had offered to take his place on tour, with Elodie leading Unit 8. It was not a bad proposal – Alex had no delusions that he was Unit Captain largely because of his status as both a dhampir and a wizard, and Elodie had far more experience than he did. He had been working cooperatively with her for a half-year, and she would care for the unit as well as he did with strong magical backup. And it was only a patrol tour, nothing complicated. He shouldn't go, not so soon after he made Unit Captain but perhaps if the Council approved it as an exceptional circumstance, it could work.

"I'll put in a request with the Council," Alex said reluctantly, leaning forward in his chair. "If it's approved, I'll call you. What's your number?"

XXX

"So, there's that," Lina said, hanging up the phone in Christie's kitchen and reaching for the mug of coffee that the woman had poured for her. She looked over at Christie – lank brown hair framed a heart-shaped face, and her expression was worried and upset.

Lina had always liked Christie – far more than she liked Evan, if she were honest. Christie was a good woman, kind and loving, and Evan had never deserved her. Evan was a coward, Christie all too trusting, and together they made a recipe for pain. Even after Aldon was born and Christie had done the only sensible thing in the entire relationship and broken it off, she had never truly moved on. Lina would have liked to see the woman meet someone else, have someone else fill her life in the same way, but for Christie, there was never anyone like Evan. They had been having relapses into their relationship for years, and as annoying as it was, Lina fully blamed Evan for it. Evan had a silver tongue, and he could be incredibly convincing when he tried. And when it came to Christie, he tried.

Evan should have told all of Wizarding Society to go fuck itself and married her. They had been together a dozen years before Lina had come into the picture, and Evan considered Christie the love of his life. He did as much as he could for her – the penthouse around them spoke to his generosity, and he had always sheltered her with his political reputation, keeping her hidden and safe. But he wouldn't risk his position in Society, or his wealth, for her.

When Lina had been given Aldon, Christie's eyes tearful and broken as she sprinkled a dozen little kisses over her baby's face before handing him over, Evan had promised that he would give Aldon the world. Lina, in turn, had sworn to hold him to it – Aldon would have the damn world, if she had to rearrange things to make it happen. Then, after Christie had left, sobbing the entire way, she had turned to Evan and told him flat out that if it ever came to a question of Aldon and Christie or him, she would pick them. Every time, she would pick them.

He had, remarkably, agreed. And told her to do what she needed to do to keep them happy and safe.

"Are you sure?" Christie fretted, turning to the coffeemaker to pour herself her own mug. Her hands trembled. "It's going to be war, and I don't know this Dragić fellow. I'd rather have you here with us, Eveline."

"This is more important, Christie," Lina said, lifting the mug to her lips. "You don't know Aldon as well as I do – the list of people who might have the ability to force him through boot camp, that I know of, are Edmund Rookwood and Alexander Willoughby Dragić. Of the two, I prefer Dragić – he's dhampir, they're trained in defense nearly from birth."

"What about you?" Christie was adding two sugars and cream to her coffee, which Lina always thought destroyed the flavour of it. "Couldn't you train him? Tell him what you are?"

Lina snorted. The coffee was delicious, and it was just like Christie to keep expensive coffee that she didn't even like in the hopes of pleasing her guests – Aldon most likely in this case. "Me? Christie, I won every distant mother award in the books. Aldon doesn't even like me. I could tell him, but he wouldn't listen to me. Aldon trusts Dragić, so Dragić can talk sense into him that I can't."

Christie let out another worried sigh. "Well, if you think it's best…"

"I do." Lina took a drink of her coffee, tasting the heavy, dark, bitter flavours with pleasure. "Where did you get these beans? I want some."

It took a week for Dragić to get approval, and another week for the appropriate details to be ironed out. Despite Lina offering him whatever he wanted on a silver platter, whatever it was in the Rosier power to give, the dhampir had only asked for a minor stipend, naming a price that was not only very reasonable, but was far less than what Lina would have charged for a three month extermination campaign. But, she supposed, since she was also providing her services for free, perhaps he was still doing better than her.

"Are you sure about this, Eveline?" Evan asked, hovering in the doorway as she pulled out a heavy wooden trunk from underneath her bed. Aldon had never come into her rooms, not that she was often in Britain anyway. She had trained him very early on not to enter them and she didn't think that the thought had ever occurred to him since.

"Why wouldn't I be sure?" Lina asked, flipping open the lid of her trunk. "You want your son to survive. This gives him the best chance of it."

There was an array of things within the trunk that Aldon, and most of Wizarding Society, would have gaped at. She glanced through, finding a pair of jeans, a loose crewneck t-shirt, and a leather jacket with lots of padding, and tossed them on her bed. She would put those on for the flight, and she pulled out another three sets of Muggle clothing – that would be enough. A Muggle passport, from the République Française came flying out as well, along with a driver's license, a debit card and a credit card. She smiled a little at the last two – Étienne had helped her set up much of her Muggle identity, and it had been the early sixties. The bank had refused to give her, a woman, a credit card until he slammed his hand on the desk and said that he was her husband, and if they would give him one then they ought to give her one, so that she could go buy their groceries, thank you. It was an outright lie and they had had to Obliviate the poor Muggle after, but she had kept the accounts out of convenience, under the name Lina Ducharme.

She pulled out her crossbow, checking it over professionally, and set it on the bed. There was no better way to stake a vampire from a distance than with a crossbow. The gears needed oiling and the bowstring needed replacing, but it was in better condition than she had expected, given it had been sitting in her trunk unused for two decades. After the crossbow came two guns – not machine guns, which jammed and misfired too often in magical environments, but large-calibre handguns with her specially made bullets that didn't fall quite as far off course in magical environments as commercial bullets did. She popped open the lid of the box holding her bullets – there weren't many of them, and she would need to cast more when she got to Serbia.

Evan sighed, but he didn't argue with her. He had long since learned not to argue with Lina, and his job in their partnership was to cover her tracks and keep her secrets, as she kept his. And he would – Evan was a coward, but he was a master of lies, and if it was necessary to protect his family, Evan would build an ironclad cover story for them. "Be careful, won't you? With the Lord Voldemort situation, we need you here, at home."

Lina looked up at him, considering, noting her long-time friend's brow was creased in worry. She had a great many problems with Evan; he was a coward, and his treatment of Christie left much to be desired. But on the other hand, she also knew how deeply he loved both Christie and his son, and how hard he worked to ensure that they had every material need or desire they had satisfied. Penthouses in Marylebone were not cheap, nor was the security firm he paid to keep Christie safe. Nor were the bribes he paid to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement trackers to keep them providing innocuous and pitiful reports of Aldon's less than kosher activities to the Ministry, that his son could continue to fly under the radar.

Evan Rosier had simply placed his role as a provider and protector above his role as a lover and a father. With his reputation and place in Society, telling Society to go fuck itself would have impinged on his ability to protect and provide as conservatives withdrew their investments from his company, as they hesitated over his contracts and cut their deals with him. Evan traded much on his reputation and goodwill, and so much of that was tied into the regime of pureblood supremacy. He considered the money and support he could provide, as an upstanding pureblood in Wizarding Society, to be more valuable than living true to himself, and to Christie and Aldon.

It wasn't a decision that Lina liked, but it was a decision that she could understand. She had done worse. She had entered a fake marriage to preserve her wizarding identity, her status and her family's reputation. After her Service, she had had enough loss; she hadn't wanted to be thrown out of her family, much as she disliked them. She had come home, grieving, until the marriage question reared its ugly head again, when she left and took contracts, one after another, but always coming home. Then it would happen again, and off she would fly, and for years she had been torn, not knowing where to be, who to be or what duties to fulfill. Until Evan had swooped in and handed her the perfect solution.

She had a very happy life, and Evan was a big part of that. She might have problems with him, but she owed him, and he wanted Christie and Aldon to be protected. And she would do what she needed to make sure that they were, and that Aldon would have everything for which Christie had once given him up.

"You had the wards refreshed recently," she said, not a question but a firm statement. "Riddle is still hale, and the Ministry is at open war. Dumbledore has said that he and his faction will not stand for wanton violence – for once in the last half-century, they may actually be on the same side. It isn't perfect, by all means, but it is better I go now than six months from now. If there are any issues that can't wait for me, call Alastor Moody. Give him my name – my Stormwing name – and tell him everything. He'll laugh his ass off, but he chose righteousness as an attribute and he's a halfblood, so he'll help you, and not for too dear a price. As for Aldon, trust Dragić. It's no small thing for a dhampir to request leave, especially a unit captain, and they're sworn to protect the weak. Keep your head down, Evan, and remember what we talked about."

He nodded, slowly, his mouth a grim line. He knew, and she nodded in reply. "I'll go set the groundwork for your cover story. Formally, you're restructuring our Romanian subsidiaries because they've been bleeding money for years."

"Sounds dull," Lina muttered absently, ignoring Evan as he left and turning back to her wooden trunk. At the very bottom, she pulled out a ritual dagger, carved with the runes that permitted easy channelling.

Étienne. She could just see him in her mind's eye, brushing sandy hair out of his face as he drew his dagger, this dagger, a pissed off look on his face as he plunged after her in combat, scars lining both of his bare arms. He was her best friend through her Mastery in France, then Stormwing training; a halfblood trained at Beauxbatons, where alongside magic, he had learned rage.

My blood spends as well as yours, he had always said, flipping the dagger. Halfblood or not, my blood speaks for itself.

They were crazy – crazier than most people who attempted Stormwing training. There was Lina, desperately running from her obligations, and there was Étienne, desperately running to prove that he wasn't lesser, seven years of abuse at Beauxbatons haunting him. There was nothing romantic about the two of them, but something else, something more, the bonds of shared discontent and insanity linking them. She would have died for him, as he would have for her.

He did die for her.

She took the knife and tossed it on the bed alongside her other necessities to be packed. Blood magic could be useful.

XXX

AN: Wow, I think that might be all the secrets I've been hiding for like two novels? But look everyone, it's Alex! Who is happy to see Alex back? I'm happy he's back, if only because he's crazy in a very particular sort of way which I enjoy. Thanks as always to meek (who was only barely convinced to let me keep his phone conversation with Lina, because apparently most long phone conversations in fiction somehow turn into sex), and to the usual round of subject matter experts! Please leave me a comment or review, though I don't think this chapter is very good at engendering screamin (you will scream enough later, I promise).

Next Chapter: Take me from this world / Save me / What if we all die young? (Worth Dying For, by Rise Against)