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.

14. Chapter 14

Things were different after winter break.

There were the obvious signs – the Hogwarts Express was heavily guarded going north, with one Auror stationed every five or six compartments. The Daily Prophet was exploding with information about the terrorist and his followers.

The so-called Voldemort was a halfblood, or a Muggleborn. He had never gone to Hogwarts – no one at Hogwarts around his age remembered him – and his brand of fanaticism would never have been tolerated at Hogwarts. The Daily Prophet wasn't sure where he had gone for schooling – possibly an American or Australian school – but it certainly wasn't Hogwarts. It was also possible he had gone nowhere for schooling, not being wealthy enough to go abroad or intelligent enough to win a scholarship, and he never completed any homeschooling curriculum in Britain, either. He was an angry nobody lashing out against society, and regrettably certain other dissatisfied parties had been drawn into his action. Bridge had likely acted as a nexus, pulling together the most dissatisfied elements of Wizarding British society, giving the so-called Voldemort a free field to recruit members for his crazed organization.

Draco was not convinced. He should have been convinced – this was the Daily Prophet, and the Daily Prophet was the most important and upstanding paper in Wizarding Britain. It carried award-winning journalism, and it was acknowledged every year by the Ministry and a consortium of Wizarding British publications for its contributions. It was a critical news source for Wizarding Britain, and it could not have become such if it lied.

But it also didn't make any sense, and Draco knew it. He remembered the pamphlets that had been tossed on the train in September, and the words of the so-called Voldemort just didn't reflect the words carried by Bridge. Bridge was a paper that promoted blood equality and widespread emancipation – idealistic and unrealistic bleeding heart nonsense that even the Light faction had never fully supported – and carried reports from the Muggle British Parliament and the International Confederation of Wizards. It published Muggle book and film reviews, though Draco still didn't know why anyone would read them. Bridge never promoted violence, instead only raising ideas, and even if Draco wholeheartedly disagreed with those ideas and thought it was absolute rubbish, it was a very different kind of rubbish than the so-called Voldemort had produced.

Millicent snorted when she read the Daily Prophet now, her anger evident even to those who didn't have his gift, and Blaise, too, exuded a different sense. Blaise still smiled, he still joked and teased and he acted very much the same, but his feelings were something else entirely. Over the past two and a half years, Draco had gotten used to a sort of gentle amusement from him, with occasional hints of disapproval or, where Abbott was involved, yearning mixed with joy. Now, Blaise carried a sharp focus combined with iron determination, and he was more likely to be annoyed than amused. Even with Abbott, the notes of joy were gone, replaced by soft uncertainty, though if anything the two of them were even more sweet and sickly in person than they had ever been. It was as if they thought they only had these few moments, these few months, these few years to be together, as if they expected the other to be torn from their grasp the minute they looked away. Blaise was a fixture at her side at the Hufflepuff table now, and whatever their problems had been before the break seemed to have been resolved and replaced with simple desperation.

Draco had caught them, lips locked and kissing madly, in one of the empty classrooms one day. Blaise had been sitting on a desk, Abbott standing between his knees, and one of his hands was sunk deep into her blonde hair. The other cupped the small of her back, trending lower, and Draco didn't need to get a closer look to know that her hands were certainly inside his robes.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat loudly, and they sprung apart, Abbott's hair in disarray and her lips swollen, while Blaise hurriedly straightened his clothing. Draco pointedly looked into one corner of the classroom, away from his friend and his friend's mate. "I am walking into this classroom, and I have not seen anything unusual that I, as a prefect, would need to discuss with anyone, but I do suggest taking this somewhere a little more private than an empty classroom off the Great Hall."

Abbott giggled, a little out of breath. "Of – of course. I really have to go, Blaise. Thank – thank you for explaining the Transfiguration assignment to me."

"Be careful, Hannah," Blaise replied, his voice slow and concerned. He wasn't speaking as if from a script, his worry genuine. He smoothed down a lock of her hair.

She nodded, gave him a trembling sort of smile, and disappeared out the door.

Draco came into the classroom, leaning against a desk as he faced his friend. Blaise didn't speak, his eyes fixed in the direction that Abbott had gone.

"You have time," Draco chided his friend gently. "A lifetime of time. You can take it slow – you don't need to do everything with her now, particularly not somewhere where you'll shock the underclassmen. Are you even engaged, yet?"

Blaise shook his head and gave him a tight smile of his own, though Draco felt a stabbing sadness coming from him. "No." A pause. "Things became clearer to me during the holidays – shifter politics are proving to be a greater obstacle than I had previously imagined. Suffice it to say, Hannah and I, we are somewhat akin to the Romeo and Juliet of shifterkind."

Draco blinked. "The who?"

"Ah – it's a Muggle play from the early 1600s. Not well known, among wizards, even if it did include what was obviously a Draught of Living Death." Blaise looked up to the ceiling, his dark eyes considering. "Perhaps Tristan and Isolde will be a better reference for you?"

Draco paused to think, but he nodded – he was familiar with the tale, though it was a very old one, and he didn't remember the details. Somehow, the love that Blaise and Abbott shared was a forbidden one, and Blaise wasn't sure they would ever be able to be together, not publicly so. He rested one hand on his friend's shoulder.

"You'll work it out," he said, shaking his head slightly. "You're smart, and you love her. If you were Gryffindors, the Headmaster would already be meddling to see that you both got Head Boy and Girl for our seventh year."

Blaise laughed, a small chuckle that somehow felt sad. "If I don't fuck it all to hell, anyway."

It was unlike Blaise to swear, but Draco let it go. Clearly his friend was under stress, and in the current circumstances, Draco couldn't even blame him. It seemed like the terrorist was weighing heavily on everyone's minds.

Draco and Pansy hadn't been at the Ball when the attack happened. They, and most of the people they knew, had been sent home before the wards for Blake's ill-advised duel to the death had gone up.

"It's not an appropriate thing for you to see, Draco," his father had told him sternly, motioning for him to take Pansy out of the Ball. "And certainly not for Pansy. You must take her home."

Pansy had been terrified, heavy waves of it rolling off her. "Aldon can't duel," she had said, her voice a little higher-pitched than usual, even if her face was calm and her tone was even. "Aldon doesn't know how to duel. We have to stop this, somehow."

His father had fixed her with a calm, steady gaze. "Only Blake and Lestrange can decide what comes next," his father said finally, and Draco knew it was true. He, too, had been taught about formal duels of honour as a child. Once challenge had been issued, only the duellers and their seconds could back down. It wasn't just a matter of honour, but a magical rite as well. He even knew that Pansy knew it, but she was looking for a way out, any way out, for her childhood friend.

The news they had awoken to was worse. Pansy had heard from her father, after she had stayed up most of the night waiting, that Blake had survived his duel through much luck, and he had taken the opportunity to swear himself to the Muggleborn girl who had come with him to the Ball – the one that Draco remembered mostly being scared and anxious the entirety of their short conversation. It was a perversion of one of their oldest and most romantic rites, that Blake had the audacity to use it to propose to a nobody Muggleborn girl, but some part of Draco felt that he had to respect him for it. It was a resourceful, ambitious move showing exactly why Blake had once been sorted into Slytherin House. He could admit that he had gone to bed slightly pleased that Blake had survived, though he wondered if he ought to have felt such a sentiment.

But the lists of the dead had come out that morning, and Draco had grimaced to see Augustus Rookwood on it. He couldn't say that he was very close to the Rookwoods, but Edmund Rookwood was a friendly acquaintance, if not a friend, so of course he had needed to go and pay his respects in person at the funeral. Edmund's face had been heavy with sorrow, and he accepted Draco's condolences with little more than a stiff nod. Instead, Alesana had thanked him graciously on both of their behalves, exchanging a small hug with him as she accepted his card.

"I apologize for Edmund," Alice had said, murmuring in his ear. "We are... overcome with grief. His father was so young."

"I understand," Draco had replied, and he did. The feelings coming off the both of them were overwhelming, almost more than Draco could stand, and he hadn't been able to go anywhere near Rookwood's mother. Instead, he had gripped Pansy's hand and anchored himself to her own wavering emotions for the entirety of the ceremony, to keep himself from completely falling apart in public. It was, fortunately, the only funeral he had had to attend in person, though he had helped his mother with her formal correspondence expressing sorrow for the others.

For the first time as long as most could remember, Lord Riddle and Dumbledore were on the same side. Both Lords had rallied their people, agreeing to hold set aside their other differences until the resolution of the civil unrest, as they were calling it.

"The so-called Voldemort is a threat to all of us," Lord Riddle had said, reading off prepared remarks in the Wizengamot. "He does not respect our institutions; he does not respect our law. Rather than push for his ideas openly, he resorts to violence. While we might have many disagreements among ourselves, the rule of law is our foundation, and the so-called Voldemort will not respect that. All witches and wizards across Wizarding Britain must stand against him and his followers, and any information about either him or his followers should immediately be provided to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"I thank the SOW Party for their words," Dumbledore had added, standing up on that same day to provide the remarks of the Light faction, and even his public avoidance of Lord Riddle's given name, which Dumbledore was wont to use in the Wizengamot, had shown that they stood together on this issue. "We are only as strong as we are united, weak as we are divided. We remain vehemently opposed to the Save Our World party in many, if not most, respects, but in these times of turmoil it is appropriate to hold these other matters in abeyance. The space for dialogue exists only so long as our institutions are protected. In the matter of the so-called Voldemort, we are in agreement that his actions should be condemned, and he and his followers brought to justice."

Only Bridge had any contrary view, taking the opportunity to attack the Ministry, the Wizengamot, and the Daily Prophet. It was plastered on the front page of Bridge a week after the remarks in the Wizengamot.

While the editors of this paper are appreciative of both the SOW Party and the Light faction's remarks on the current terrorist situation, it in no way detracts from the past several months of inactivity. The so-called Voldemort has been active in Wizarding Britain more than a year; as early as the 1994 Quidditch World Cup, there was an attack on Wizarding British soil, and attacks continued through the Triwizard Tournament. As noted in our front-page release on November 17, 1995, there is strong evidence linking not only these attacks, but the attack on the Hogwarts Express and on the Bulstrode Mansion on Halloween to Voldemort.

The Ministry and the Wizengamot's repeated reassurances that there was nothing of concern, that these incidents were merely a string of "copycat incidents", has put us all at risk. These previous actions are not ones that the public should forget.

Despite the comments made by both the Light faction and the SOW Party encouraging unity, there is no evidence that these platitudes are anything more than sentiment. Bridge encourages the Ministry to act on their words and begin a dialogue with other overlooked segments of society, particularly, internationally trained halfbloods and Muggleborns, and to work together for a resolution to the terrorist issue.

Bridge categorically denies any and all connection to the so-called Voldemort. Bridge is an association of persons from many different parts of Wizarding British society: halfbloods, Muggleborns, and purebloods, some of whom attended Hogwarts and many of whom did not. Bridge stands wholeheartedly in support of blood equality and further integration with both our Muggle neighbours and the international community, as evidenced by our weekly columns on the happenings of the Muggle British Parliament, on the International Confederation of Wizards, and on current Muggle culture. Based on the information available thus far, Voldemort is a pureblood supremacist singing a line only a little more extreme than the SOW Party itself.

We encourage our readers to take all reasonable precautions for their safety, to cooperate with the Ministry and to provide any information known about the so-called Voldemort and his followers to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. However, in so saying, we also encourage all our readers to remember and to reflect on the steps that have brought Wizarding Britain to this point and to advocate peacefully for change.

The piece was signed off by what looked like a full roster of writers for Bridge. Chimaera and otter were there, as was kelpie and dachshund, simba who wrote the Muggle culture columns, trout who covered the Muggle British Parliament, griffin who reported primarily on International Confederation of Wizards. There were even names there that he had never seen before, hawk, rabbit and wolf among them. A long list of pseudonyms, which shouldn't have meant anything to Draco since they couldn't even put their names to their beliefs, but somehow the columns of names had force.

The Daily Prophet published a response to the Bridge statement a week later, though it never once referred to the other paper, only instead to certain comments which had been made by certain members of the wizarding community. Prior to the attack on the Ministry Unity Ball, it had not been certain that there was an active terrorist threat in Wizarding Britain. It could have been a series of copy-cat incidents, since the attacks were, until last September, separated by months of time. Nothing had been certain, and there had been no need to alarm the whole of Wizarding British society. Further, widespread panic and alarm would have made it more difficult for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to investigate and control the situation, and the Daily Prophet had acted appropriately in only reporting on the news that could have been verified at the time. The Daily Prophet was the foremost leader in news for Wizarding Britain and had a responsibility to its readers to publish only information which could be verified.

It made sense. Draco might not fully believe the Daily Prophet's words on Voldemort and his followers, but the explanation of why they not reported on it previously was one that made sense. The Daily Prophet was the most trusted news source in Wizarding Britain, and there was no conclusive evidence before the Ministry Unity Ball. Unnecessary panic was in no one's interests, and some measure of secrecy had to be allowed for the government to do its work.

Millicent didn't see it that way.

"They were just trying to keep everyone safe, Millie," he argued, holding up the paper when she brought it up. "They couldn't have been sure, nothing was sure, and they didn't want to cause a panic. A panic wouldn't have been helpful to track them down."

Her nostrils flared, and her dark eyes glittered dangerously. "And my cousins and aunt were worth the price of that secrecy?"

"I'm not saying that," Draco said, backpedalling quickly and trying to figure out how to say what he wanted to say in a way that she would understand, that wouldn't offend her. "I mean – I understand that you're upset, and you're right to be. But there is an explanation, and it isn't an unreasonable one. We should hold together in times like these."

Millicent snorted, closed her book, and stood up. They were in the Slytherin Common Room, in a corner. They weren't talking loudly, but her words seemed to echo anyway. "I don't accept that explanation," she said flatly. "And I am shocked that you do. We're done, Draco. I have nothing left to say to you."

She walked away, heading to the sliding entranceway that would take her to the rest of the school. Blaise wasn't there either, no doubt off with Abbott somewhere.

"Very smooth, Dray," Pansy said, looking up from her Arithmancy, a coolly amused glint in her eye.

He sighed, setting the paper down. "Was I wrong, Pans?"

His fiancée tilted her head, thinking about it, and eventually shook her head. "I don't know. But you oughtn't have raised it with her. She's still hurting."

"I just…" Draco sighed again, pulling out his Defense textbook to work. Umbridge had been pulled from school, needed for several high-level prosecutions, and replaced by a sharp, intelligent Auror named Shafiq. "I worry she's getting into the wrong crowd, Pans. She's falling for everything Bridge says."

Pansy made a noncommittal sort of noise, flipping the page of her textbook. "Just leave her alone, Dray. Let her work things out for herself."

Millicent didn't speak to him again. He had thought that maybe she just needed some time for things to blow over, but she had meant it when she said she had nothing left to say to him. From that point onwards, her meals were taken with an array of her other friends, the Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Gryffindors with whom she shared her International Relations and Wizarding Law classes.

The only good part, Draco thought sourly, was that it would be over soon. With the attack on the Unity Ball, the so-called Voldemort and his followers had come out into the open and had provided enough evidence for the Ministry to track them down and prosecute them. The Lord Parkinson himself was serving as the lead witness against several witches and wizards, including the Lady Bellatrix Lestrange, Lord Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov. They hadn't arrested the so-called Voldemort yet, but they would, and it was only a matter of time.

And things would go back to normal, or as normal as things ever were, without Rigel with them.

XXX

Caelum hated everything.

He hated Aldon Blake, formerly Rosier, his disgusting halfblood bastard cousin who didn't know his place. It was unfortunate that Blake was still related to the Rosiers by blood, because it meant that Caelum could not cut this connection off from himself, not truly. He and Blake shared blood, and the feeling that gave him made his skin crawl. He wanted to cut open his veins and command that every particle he shared with Blake disappear, and if he didn't think that this might kill him, he might have attempted it.

He hated that Blake hadn't just taken his insult in stride. Every other halfblood would have let it lie – even Harry Potter, who would have commented on it, would have ultimately let it go with only words. No other halfblood, or possibly pureblood, would have called him onto the field of honour over a simple comment.

His words were even true. Blake's mistress was barely a step up from an animal – her accent and dress made it clear just how poorly she was aping her betters. She didn't even have a wand, not that Caelum had been able to see. He was only saying what most of Society was thinking – he was not the only one to think so, and him saying so openly at least let Blake know that this was what his former compatriots thought of him.

And Blake had dared to call a duel over it, instead of accepting it and doing what was proper: getting himself and precious Muggleborn mistress out of Society.

There was Blake, but there was also his mother, Bellatrix Lestrange. Even at the end of the duel, when Caelum knew he had lost, his hatred for his mother had still easily eclipsed his hatred for Blake. This, he considered, made quite a lot of sense – he hated Blake for the events of one night, but he hated his mother for his entire lifetime.

Caelum would have vastly preferred withdrawing the insult over duelling, and he would have done so, if his blasted mother had not gotten involved. They were only words, and Caelum had not really cared to duel over them. Like all Durmstrang students, Caelum had a grounding in attack and defensive magic, freeduelling, and the Dark Arts, but he had never enjoyed these subjects. They reminded him too much of his mother, who would have no doubt adored those classes, and Caelum had preferred to lock himself in the Potions laboratories as much as humanly possible. He hadn't wanted to duel Blake, and he had been relying on making a silent, honourable exit through the negotiation of seconds, the agreements for which were never publicly disclosed.

But then his dear mother had gotten involved, and those plans had turned to dust. The best possible offer he had been able to give, with her vicious pleasure and excitement hissing in his ears, had been an offer for Blake to withdraw his challenge, no questions asked. Rookwood had thought he could convince Blake to accept, so off he had gone, while Caelum hoped, for both their sakes, that Blake would accept.

He hadn't. Instead, Rookwood had come back with a blank expression, only shaking his head when Caelum asked. And Caelum had had to fight a duel, and Blake had had several prepared runic charms and some new type of shielding that blocked almost all of Caelum's spells. Blake had even had a ritual knife, and he had been prepared to draw it and use it, invoking his own blood to set the arena on fire.

If it were not for those things, Caelum thought he could have won. But Blake had had both them and a streak of luck on his side, and the Dark Arts that Caelum had learned at Durmstrang and at his mother's feet had not stood up to a simple tackle and forearm pressed against his throat. Blake hadn't killed him, but he had done worse: he had taken his wand, and a life debt in front of a thousand notables of Wizarding British Society.

It was humiliating.

Caelum had gotten out of the cursed Unity Ball as soon as he could after that, shaking Rookwood off as the man tried to Heal him. He didn't need Rookwood's Healing, Caelum was perfectly capable of Healing himself, and off he had gone to do it. He had been surprised that his mother hadn't followed, looking to punish him for his loss, but he hadn't looked further into it, too grateful to get out to bother.

It turned out, of course, that his mother was simply ignoring him in favour of bigger plans involving an attack on Wizarding Britain. Caelum had woken up to the news of the attack, and he had barely had time to begin contemplating the likely future he had as the son of a known terrorist over a cauldron of Draught of Peace, when Blake had invoked his life debt and used it to order Caelum to integrate himself in the same terrorist network as his spy.

Caelum owed much to his mother for his present, distasteful situation. Blake might have been the one to challenge him to the duel and the one who now gave him orders based on the life debt, and he would never forgive Blake for it, but his mother was the ultimate driver in his present circumstances. Without her, he wouldn't have entered the stupid duel to begin with, and without her and the attack, he wouldn't now be contemplating the grand doors to his hated childhood home, where the Voldemort was hiding, under his father's protective wards.

The Lestranges, as well as most of the more recognizable members of Voldemort's followers had been arrested and were being held for trial. His mother hadn't had the foresight, or maybe she simply hadn't cared, to cover her hair or tie it back during the attack. Her hair, and her hysterical laugh, were distinctive and she and both his father and uncle had been arrested. At least, with their imprisonment and with the several weeks of quiet information that Caelum had been coaxing out of the family house-elves, Caelum had finally worked out a plan to carry out Blake's orders. His life debt, and his magic, demanded it.

But that was not something that Voldemort could know, and he forced the thought away, focusing instead on his hate. He hated Blake, and he hated his mother. He hated that Blake had challenged him to a duel, and he hated Blake for humiliating him in front of all Wizarding Society. He hated his mother for a lifetime of abuse, and he owed her revenge for it.

He walked into the Lestrange manor, looking around with a sharp eye. He hated this house – he hated every part of it. He hated the foyer, where there was a troll leg acting as an umbrella stand. He hated the long, Persian rug running the length of the front hallway, and he hated the expansive main hall, the one with the Lestrange coat of arms over the mantle and the stupid, not even correct, Latin family motto that one of his less than educated ancestors had managed to devise. He hated everything.

Caelum Lestrange was hate incarnate, and that was what Voldemort would see.

The Voldemort was staring into the fireplace, a young man not much older than Caelum, if not even a little younger. He wasn't quite as tall as Caelum, but he had broader shoulders, more muscle, and a warmer tint to his skin. He wasn't alone – a cursory glance told Caelum that there were a half-dozen others in the room, none of whom he recognized. If he didn't hate his childhood home anyway, he would hate the fact that they were present, these unknown persons in the Lestrange mansion.

But, since he would be completely satisfied to burn the Lestrange mansion to the ground, preferably with his family in it, so he couldn't say he cared that much.

"You've left the wards open, my lord," Caelum said, his voice low and almost a little mocking, though he swept a far lower bow than he would have done in any other situation. If this man had won his mother's loyalty, that meant he was insane, insanely powerful, or insanely cruel. Since he had attacked the Ministry Ball, Caelum would guess all three. He liked that – someone as powerful as Voldemort would understand Caelum's all-encompassing hate, his rage, and his need for revenge. "Or, as the Lestrange Heir, I can bypass the wards in any case."

The self-proclaimed Voldemort turned to him. He looked to be about the same age as Caelum, but Caelum couldn't help wondering if his mother had had sex with him yet. The Voldemort could have been described as handsome, Caelum guessed; his nose was strong, and he was square-jawed, a typical look of a strong Eastern European pureblood. His eyes were so dark that Caelum thought at first that they were black, but on second look they were closer to a very dark blue. He wore the slightest smile on his face as he looked into Caelum's eyes, and Caelum didn't need Occlumency to know that his thoughts were being read.

Caelum didn't care. Caelum Lestrange was made of hate, and he had nothing to hide from Voldemort. Nothing at all, and surely this man would understand Caelum's impotent rage, his fury, his desire for power and revenge. Not power for power's sake, but the power to hurt people – especially Blake, for his humiliation, and that went triply so for his mother, for everything she had done to him before.

"Your mother is one of my most loyal servants," the Voldemort said, and there was something almost a little odd about his syllables, as if he cherished his 's's more than most. He lingered over them, not quite enough to stand out, but a few milliseconds off how any other person would have said those words.

"My mother is insane," Caelum countered, bringing his hands behind his back, flashing back to his entire lifetime – his mother, beautiful but uncontrolled. His mother, improving her torture curses on him. A treasured memory, of the one time she had almost gone too far, and Caelum had turned it back on her. He savoured that moment, that memory, that feeling of enjoyment when he heard her screams. "She is also stupid, and she lacks control. It is because of her that she and most of your most high-ranking members have been arrested – she is too recognizable, and she sings like a bird, unthinking."

There was a hint of a smile on the young man's lips – second-hand pleasure at the torture, Caelum guessed. It was an enjoyable memory. "And you, Caelum Lestrange, would do better?"

"I hate my mother," Caelum said, letting his anger and rage seep to the surface, wearing it openly on his face. "My mother might have been your best enforcer, but she is loud and stupid and unstable. I would have done better than be arrested at the Ministry Ball."

There was a long silence, where Voldemort studied Caelum with dark, pitiless eyes. "I have been concerned about your mother's … fanaticism. She has also slipped in the questioning of two prisoners."

Caelum snorted, looking away, disgusted at the very thought. "My mother, torture for information? She would never be able to do it. She enjoys the screams too much."

"But you could?"

Caelum looked back at Voldemort, measuring. "I could, my lord." He kept his voice light, noncommittal, because he wouldn't, not without certain assurances. He wanted his revenge on Blake – he wanted the chance to prove to Wizarding Britain that he, too, was someone to be feared. He wanted power, and he would take whatever chance he could get to have his revenge on his mother, too.

He was from Durmstrang, and he knew an array of Dark Arts, and he had learned torture at his mother's feet.

Voldemort's face lit with a small smile, one that was not friendly in the least, but one that Caelum hoped he understood. "Come," he said, his voice clipped, leading Caelum downstairs into the cellars. "We have captured an employee of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and I need to confirm where my people are being held – the Dementors are our natural allies, of course, but I would not like to tip my hand too soon. Once I have your mother back, I will allow you to exact my punishment for her errors with the Ministry Ball."

Caelum returned the smile, chilly, drawing his wand as he followed – or, not his wand, but a replacement that he had purchased from Gregorovitch only a week ago, and one which he was surprised to find was almost as good a match for him as his Ollivander wand. "I look forward to it."

He didn't recognize the Ministry employee in front of him, but it only took three hours to break him. He was not his mother – he was far more creative. He didn't need to resort to the Torture Curse.

There were 27 bones in a human hand – 54 in two hands. Caelum broke every single one of them. He had also ripped out the man's fingernails, toenails, and teeth, and blinded him permanently before the man gave up everything he knew, including the location of Voldemort's followers, as well as quite a lot of information that Caelum simply did not care about.

It was easy. It was so shockingly easy, and Caelum fought back any thoughts of fear, or disgust, or horror at what he was doing. He couldn't afford to feel these things, or think about anything at all, not with Voldemort's eyes on him the entire time, watching with enjoyment as Caelum drew out the pain with the mastery gained only through a lifetime of first-hand experience. Instead, he sank, almost as he did when his mother tortured him, and he was nothing. He was nothing, and he was hate.

He hated everything, including this snivelling waste of a wizard in front of him. He secured himself in his hate, and his only words were calm demands for information, his only thoughts focused on emptiness and hate. Only at the end, when Caelum was sure he had gotten everything that the man had of value to offer, did he turn to the Voldemort. His new commander, if he was lucky and had proven himself.

"A quick death, my lord, or would you prefer otherwise?" Caelum said, uncaring. "He has given us, I think, everything of value."

"It matters not," the other man said, rising from the chair he had been sitting in for the last three hours. "I have an assault to plan on Azkaban, and negotiations with the Dementors to attend. Do as you will, Lestrange."

There was a hint of approval in his voice, and Caelum smiled, satisfied. He looked back at the weeping, blind Ministry employee, flicked a simple Avada Kedavra at him, and put the poor bastard out of his misery.

That night, the life debt tugging at his magic, he penned his first report to Blake – a short note of only three lines, coded and sent with his youngest house-elf, one sworn to absolute secrecy. Infiltration successful. Attack on Azkaban planned to free prisoners. Negotiations with Dementors ongoing.

He rubbed his eyes, feeling a queasy chilliness seeping through his chest. His hands came away damp, but he mastered himself with a lifetime of practice.

He hated everything.

XXX

Aldon stared down at the note, which he had decoded with ease. Lestrange was in, and he was also getting information from other sources – from Cameron, still funnelling him pieces of information from both Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic as kelpie, from Abbott, his primary liaison with the Shifter Alliance, who were widely connected within both the Ministry and the Daily Prophet, and from Zabini, still at Hogwarts and with his ears open on SOW Party news. Millicent Bulstrode, too, was passing information, though she had no names for the persons with whom she was corresponding, and her most useful information was that passed to her by her uncle at the International Confederation of Wizards.

They simply called it terrorism, both in the Daily Prophet and abroad. People were to be cautious, and the populace knew to report anything unusual to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as soon as possible. The Daily Prophet was awash in safety and security tips, but the situation was only a matter of concern, not for panic. The Daily Prophet seemingly had orders to focus on the upcoming trials for Lestranges, the most prominent of those arrested, and the others. Similarly, the official position of the Wizarding British delegation at the International Confederation of Wizards was simply that certain dissatisfied parties in Wizarding Britain were active and that the Ministry of Magic was handling it.

Aldon had nearly laughed – before sending a copy of the Voldemort's own pamphlet from the Hogwarts Express attack to be published in Bridge with an incisive comparison of the SOW Party's own political positions over the last fifty years, then disseminating it to their connections in the ICW. Aldon wanted Wizarding Britain's reputation in the trash; if things went very well for him, he wanted a clean slate for the new Wizarding British government, and if things went very badly, he wanted to be able to call on international aid without going through the Ministry.

From his many connections, he knew that the picture painted by the Daily Prophet wasn't accurate. Whoever had been arrested, they were clearly only a small part of Voldemort's organization – people were disappearing, not often but here and there, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was overwhelmed. It didn't help that some employees, those who had international family or the lesser-blooded, the ones who had either finished homeschooling programs or who had grandfathered into the Ministry before the educational changes happened, were quitting and leaving. Things were much worse than the Daily Prophet said they were, and Aldon knew it.

He folded Lestrange's coded note. Based on the timing of the disappearance, as well as the information that Lestrange had been able to obtain, at least he knew what had likely happened to David Goldfarb, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement employee who had gone missing a week before. Abbott would not be happy to hear it – he had been a friend to the shifter alliance – but there was little he could do about it. At least the man's family would know what had happened to him. He sighed and sat down to pen a letter to Abbott in code.

At least there was one bright spot in all of this – he could now walk into Diagon Alley to post the letter without any risk of a marriage proposal. They wouldn't work on him anymore. No other marriage rite would work on him unless Francesca released him from his vows, which she wouldn't do because she knew nothing about it, and if he had his way, she never would. He would win her back before then, and they would do everything properly with one of the more modern and likely acceptable rites, and she never had to know that his vows went deeper.

She wasn't talking to him – not privately. They were still working on the ACD, having gotten back to it the second week of January, but they were at the point where they had put further developments on the ACD on hold in favour of figuring out a way to quickly match a wizard's magic to a particular electromagnetic wavelength, and there was no need for their private conversations anymore. Instead, it was all team meetings, early in the morning for her and around noon for him, and his mother was there, Albert was there, and he couldn't have the private conversation he needed to have with her. And when he asked if she would be available later for a conversation, she always had an excuse.

Dance was a primary one. She was preparing for a major competition, and she would be practicing late. And he knew how John got, if she didn't make it for dinner, and by then it would be so late, far later than he should be awake. And she had homework to do, she always had homework. And, in the open as they were, at a team meeting at his workplace, Aldon could hardly argue with her on it.

He had tried to call her anyway, late at night his time. She never responded, and he didn't even know if she heard him. His begging went nowhere, and neither did his orders for her to reply to him. He hadn't really expected the latter to work, but he had gotten frustrated, and those orders were usually immediately followed by a several apologies just in case she had heard them and was choosing to ignore him.

Calls hadn't worked, and neither had the multiple, carefully penned letters that he sent her. Those were full of effusive apologies, always wrapped around a gift of some sort. Books – he had slipped into the Flourish and Blotts and picked out a fine copy of the legend of the Light Lady and the Dark Lord, embossed in gold, and another week he had gone out on a limb and picked out a collection of traditional romantic Wizarding British legends, at least two of which had included the exact same rite he had invoked. The last one, he had tried to follow Archie's advice, and he had picked out a pretty journal for her at the paper shop and sent it across the ocean.

The silence hurt. It hurt, and it was awful, and he missed her. He missed their late night conferences, their private, shared moments of laughter – he missed how she had felt, when she was with him, whether physical or not. It was a constant ache, having her speak on their communication orb in the morning team meetings, and yet being unable to contact her otherwise. She was perfect, and for a glorious half-hour, she had been his, and he had stolen four kisses from her with the promise of more, and then it was gone. And he hadn't been able to fix it.

Yet. He hadn't been able to fix it yet, he corrected himself sternly. He would.

At least she was safe. The current terrorist threat couldn't touch her in America, and that was more than he could say for himself and anyone else remaining in Britain. He had redone the wards on his mother's penthouse, added yet another layer of security onto Queenscove at Neal's request, and then, because Archie had asked, he had reinforced the wards for Grimmauld Place as well.

"I hope you know that Masters in Ward Construction charge approximately five hundred galleons for this," he had said to Neal, with an effort at being biting and mostly failing. Neal had backed him up on the duel, which was worth far more to him than five hundred galleons, not that Aldon would ever tell him so.

"I'm still paying you a ludicrous amount of money every month," Neal had retorted in French, rolling his eyes. "And you're not a Master of Ward Construction, so stuff it."

Neal had taken to speaking near exclusively in French to him, still in that bizarre accent, which Aldon was fairly certain was catching. He claimed he needed to practice, and Aldon humoured him, sometimes, because Neal often didn't listen to him otherwise. Not that there was much left to teach him – he was going off into things that were far less likely to come up now, and he didn't know how useful these would be in a state of war anyway. He suspected that Neal knew that too, but Neal hadn't fired him yet, so he dug deep for lectures on esoterica on noble privilege and obligations and the Charter of Noble Rights. More than once, Neal tried to drag him out to his lists, but Aldon always refused.

He was busy. Information was streaming in, and Bridge was busy. He had the ACD, and he had letters and notes to code and decode, decisions to make about what information he needed to send elsewhere, what information should be published for the public, and how any published information should be phrased. He would take any opportunity he could to weaken the hold of the Daily Prophet and the Wizengamot, if he could. All of this took time, and even without Francesca's late night calls, he usually slept late and woke late.

It was a Saturday, closer to the end of January than the middle, and Aldon woke up to Stinging Hex on his left arm.

He grappled for his wand, on his bedside table, only to find it not there. He rolled over, his fingers already moving in an attack rune, summoning fire, but before he could finish it, a set of clothes hit him in the face – not his clothes, but a set of Muggle clothes reminiscent of what Neal wore when Aldon arrived too early at Queenscove and caught him coming in from the lists.

"Get up," he heard a familiar voice say, and his eyes sprung open and he jerked up, his arm where he had been hit with the Stinging Hex aching.

Alex stood in his bedroom, leaning against one wall, both his wand and Aldon's in his hand. He flashed a fanged smirk, showing Aldon his own wand. "Get dressed. It's already almost seven in the morning, and we're going for a run."

Aldon gaped at him, not entirely sure where he should start. What was Alex doing in Wizarding Britain? How did he get into the penthouse, into Aldon's bedroom, and what did he think he was doing, taking his wand and flinging clothing at him?

And he was certainly not going for a run. He had only done such things out of duress.

"Alex," he started, ranking his questions by priority and determining that his wand was the most important. He began forming another set of runes in his mind, ready to flick them off at his friend, another fire spell. "My wand back, please."

Alex flicked the spell away almost before it came into being – Aldon's hand had come up to throw it, and the rune was shattered, snuffed out with a twist of Alex's own wand before it could come to life. "Get dressed. We're going for a run." He turned and headed out of Aldon's bedroom.

"It's seven in the morning," Aldon called after him, picking up the clothes. He was not putting these on. He was not, he simply was not. "On a Saturday. I am not."

Alex poked his head back into Aldon's bedroom. "Yes, you are. Or I won't give you your wand back and trust me when I tell you that you are not getting it back otherwise. You might have been enough to duel Caelum Lestrange, but you are nothing compared to me."

Aldon scowled, getting up. He ignored the sweatshirt and sweatpants on the bed and headed for his trunk. He would see about this – after he was clothed in something that was not his pyjamas. With a coffee in him.

The lock of his trunk bit him. He blinked, and reached again, and it shocked him again. He frowned, drawing a runic Sight screen with one hand, and caught no fewer than nine spells over it. He considered it for a few minutes, his mouth tightening. He was good at runic spellcasting, and as someone who actively used it as part of his everyday magic, he had sometimes wondered if he might even be among the best in Britain. He treated it as a full method of spellcasting, which he knew that even many Runes Masters and Mistresses did not – runic casting was alive to him in a way that it was not for most. Six months working at Blake & Associates had only sharpened that.

But about half the spells locking his trunk, and therefore his clothes, were wand spells. Could he have broken them with runes? Yes, he thought, with a lot of effort and if it were not for the fact that his rune dictionaries were either locked in his trunk or at work. He cursed Alex, under his breath, and looked between his pyjamas and the clothes that had been tossed in his face.

To leave his room, he would prefer not to be in his pyjamas.

He cringed and reached for the sweatshirt and sweatpants. The sweatpants were black, unfashionable but at least nondescript, and his sweatshirt was blazoned with the crest of one of the local Muggle universities. City University of London, apparently.

Outside his room, he found Alex standing in his kitchen, chatting quietly with his mother. His friend wasn't bothering to hide his small fangs, but Christie didn't seem to be overly bothered. There was a small crease in her forehead, between her eyes, but he was reassuring her over something. Well, that explained how he had gotten through the wards, at least.

"Alex," Aldon began, his voice stiff. "Kindly return my wand and undo the array of curses you have laid on my trunk."

"Would you like some juice, Aldon?" Christie offered, almost a little tentative. "Or, I can get out the blender and make you a fruit smoothie for your run?"

Aldon stared at her, suddenly convinced that something was wrong. Or rather, that something was more wrong than it had been when he had first woken up to find Alex in his bedroom, in possession of his wand. He looked between his mother and Alex, who was smirking again.

"What, exactly, is going on here?"

"We're going for a run," Alex said, flicking his wand again and a pair of shoes, trainers as Archie called them, threw themselves at Aldon. Alex was already dressed in a thin, long-sleeved, Muggle sweatshirt of his own, as well as his own pair of sweatpants, a pair of trainers on his feet. Aldon guessed that his wand was secreted in Alex's large front pocket, and he briefly considered lunging at his friend – former friend, that was – for it. Yes, Alex was half a head taller than him and quite a bit more fit, but if he took Alex by surprise…

"Go ahead and try." Alex's voice was amused. "But you're not going to succeed. Christie, thanks for the offer, but he'll eat later. I don't want him throwing up before we're even halfway through the route."

Aldon scowled, glaring at both of them. "Allow me to repeat myself. What, exactly, is going on here?"

Christie glanced at Alex, obviously worried, but Alex favoured her with a slightly more open smile. "I'll handle it," he said, reassuring.

Christie nodded. "I will, er, leave it to you, then," she said, and she fled to the living room, a cup of coffee in hand.

Aldon turned his glare on his friend, who considered him for a moment before responding. "Suffice it to say, Aldon, someone who loves you very much sent me a memory of you making a fool of yourself in a duelling court and traded three months of war service to convince me to come and put you through boot camp."

"Who?" Aldon narrowed his eyes. His gift told him that Alex wasn't lying.

Alex shrugged, nonchalant. "Won't answer that. Promised I wouldn't. Shoes on, Aldon. Let's go run."

"I do not need training," Aldon said, his voice stiff, holding out his hand for his wand back. "As I am sure you saw, I won my duel. I'm quite busy, Alex, and you can tell whoever put you up to this that I am perfectly fine and certainly do not need boot camp. So do return my wand and undo whatever you've done to my trunk."

Alex didn't offer a response right away, instead leaning back against Christie's counter. A lazy, confident sort of smirk came across his face, one fang flashing in the open. "Know why that pretty girl rejected you at the end of your duel?"

Aldon swallowed, taken aback, but he refused to dignify that with a reply.

"She rejected you because she saw that duel," Alex said, his tone perfectly serious. "It was enough to murder anyone's affection for you. She could have killed you with that fire spell if your friend, Queenscove, hadn't stepped in. Why would she pick you after seeing that?"

"That…" Aldon sucked in a breath, feeling like he had been punched in the gut, not least because his gift hadn't reacted to Alex's bald statement. As ridiculous as it sounded, Alex believed it to be true. And Alex was right on at least one point.

Aldon wasn't a good dueller, and he knew it. He had told Francesca not to watch, but he didn't know if she had or not. Everything had happened so quickly after the duel, that he had never asked. But Neal said it was for other reasons, as did the Lord Black, reasons relating more to the fact that he had essentially proposed marriage to her right afterwards in a rite with wide-ranging consequences that she didn't understand.

He shouldn't have done that. He had been cursing himself for that for the last three weeks, now. Her running had nothing to do with his duelling prowess.

He focused on that thought. Neal knew Francesca, and he had said that Aldon had just taken his affections too far that day. Neal had never mentioned duelling being part of it. "How do you know Neal?"

"Met him earlier this week. Few heirloom-casters with his looks – I asked around." Alex shrugged again. "Not bad with a sword, your friend. He said your pretty girl has many admirers at school, most of whom rank well on the North American duelling circuit. She watches the competitions every year. After your duel, she knows exactly how bad you are at it."

"That – that's not…" Aldon pressed his lips tightly together. Francesca had never said that duelling skill was important to her. But at the same time, Alex was perfectly convinced that what he was saying was true. "She only goes because her friend, John, is on the circuit."

"Yes," Alex said agreeably. "And it is hardwired into women, to look for protectors and providers."

Aldon glared at him. He didn't think Alex was right, and neither Neal nor the Lord Black had mentioned the duel itself being an issue, but Alex wasn't lying, and he couldn't deny that, well…

Francesca did like that sort of thing. He had peeped at enough of her romance novels, both the ones he had spotted her reading, and he had also perhaps also looked up the titles that she was borrowing out of the Muggle public library near Grimmauld Place. A lot of historical romances, particularly with knights. Or Vikings. Or Scottish clan lairds. She was attracted to men that she thought could protect her, and that was obvious by what she read.

Even if it wasn't a reason for his rejection, it would… likely not be a bad idea for him to go along with what Alex had planned. When he won her back, he wanted her to have absolutely no reason to reject him again. His own vows wouldn't allow it, either: defend you with my wand, shield you with my name had been among them, and he could not defend her with his wand if he didn't learn, and quickly, how to duel. And winning back his manor, Rosier Place, for her would likely require duelling to defend his title.

They were also in the midst of war, and based on his piles of reports, things would only get worse. The Ministry was not in as much control as they made it seem, and Aldon was now the key informational node point between Bridge and several of their other allies. He couldn't rely only on the Muggle world and others' ignorance to shield him long-term and being dead would certainly be a wrench in his plans.

Six months ago, Aldon would have been happy to set Wizarding Britain on fire, and he hadn't worried too much about living past it. It was more important to him, then, simply to turn the world upside down for a chance at a better life, one of his choosing. If he survived, that would be a bonus, but seeing the whole pureblood edifice going up in flames was non-negotiable.

But then the ACD had happened, and Francesca had happened. And she had kissed him and given him a taste of something more – a future where she was by his side, and he had enough wealth, status and power to ensure that she had everything she ever wanted. If he wanted that future, and he did want that future very, very much, then he would have to fight for it. And in these current circumstances, with the Ministry seemingly powerless against Voldemort, having to fight was looking more and more likely.

He glanced down at the trainers.

He hated running. He hated exercise. He hated duelling.

He probably had no choice.

Alex tilted his head slightly, the smallest smile on his lips as he saw the change in Aldon's expression. "Let's go for a run."

"I'm meeting Neal today," Aldon protested weakly, trying a different tack. Maybe he couldn't put this off forever, but he could put it off today, to become more accustomed to the idea. "At nine. We're covering what acceptable dishes to serve at a formal dinner party today."

"I spoke to Neal. You're fired. You've taught him everything he needs to know to navigate Wizarding British society, and all of that will probably change in the next few years anyway. Instead, he will feed us and let us use his lists." Alex pointed down at the trainers. "Trainers, on. Now."

Aldon scowled again, looking for another way out which would also get him his wand and clothes back, but he didn't see any. Reluctantly, he reached for the trainers, sliding them onto his feet over his socks, dreading the feeling of water seeping through the thin material as they no doubt would.

Aldon's idea of a run was ten or fifteen minutes, interspersed with many breaks to sit down and catch his breath. Alex's routine was closer to an hour, a mix of walking, jogging, running, and full sprints. None of the sprints were very long, only a maximum of two minutes, but each time Alex forced him through another one, Aldon wondered if death might not be better. He treasured the few times that Alex allowed him to just walk, but none of those times were long enough – only a minute or two, and then Alex would force him to jog, then to run. Again.

"If you need to throw up, do it to the side, where the wind can't blow it back onto your face and I don't have to smell it," Alex said, not halfway through the hellish run, sounding very bored. "And don't stop running."

Aldon couldn't find the breath to reply, because Alex was pushing him onwards, but he thought that was very important information to provide. He did want to throw up, quite a lot, but he didn't think he could find the breath to do it. His mouth was dry from gasping, and he hated his shoes. His feet were soaking wet, because London in winter was always raining, and he couldn't tell if he was too warm or too cold. He was sweating from this much exertion, and his face felt too warm, but his sweat had soaked through his sweatshirt along with the damp misty rain, and the cold wind chilled him to the bone.

He hated running.

Maddeningly, Alex looked perfectly fresh, and he wasn't even breathing very hard when they ended at the Leaky Cauldron, where Aldon flopped over and leaned against the dirty, grimy window, panting for breath. He hadn't decided whether he needed to throw up, yet. He thought he probably needed to throw up.

"Good God, you're slow," Alex said, ignoring Aldon's heaving and hauling him through the front doors of the Leaky Cauldron. Alex didn't even seem to struggle with his weight, instead just shoving him closer to the fireplace. "Stop being so dramatic."

"I need a drink," Aldon choked out. His muscles burned and his legs were trembling. He felt faint, and he still wanted to vomit. "Vodka."

"No time," Alex said, holding out a pot of Floo Powder. "Neal is waiting for us. He's been excited for this for the last few days."

"He never said anything." Aldon swallowed another heave, finally feeling like it was more probable that he would not vomit rather than simply spewing the contents of his stomach over the Leaky Cauldron's floors. His stomach was empty, which did make not vomiting a great deal easier than he suspected it would have been otherwise.

"You don't talk to him during the week." Alex nudged his shoulder with the pot of Floo Powder, impatient. "I also beat him into submission. I like your friend. He attacked me with his sword when I visited."

Aldon frowned. Alex shouldn't have been able to gain access to Queenscove, not without Neal being fully alert to it long before he reached the gates. The outer wards of Queenscove were an hour's hike away from the main walls inland, and though the seaward wards only stretched out to his ravelins, the sea approach to Queenscove was rocky and treacherous. And there was the fortress itself – thick double walls, something that Neal called the killing field, traps set to go off in every gate or window. Even the Floo, a weak point, Neal had demanded that Aldon password three times over, and Aldon had written in the fireplace's explosive collapse spell himself. "How did you get in?"

"I was invited – not through the Floo, so I Apparated and walked. He ambushed me near one of his ravelins." He paused, looking away thoughtfully. "I broke his cousin's jaw in the Tournament."

Aldon wasn't sure what to say to that, so he reached for the pot of Floo Powder, grabbed a handful, and Flooed to Queenscove.

"Aldon!" Neal's voice sang at him, as Aldon, with a surprising lack of grace, nearly toppled over out of the fireplace. This was why running was a terrible idea. His legs felt like jelly, and he hadn't even been hit with a Jelly-Legs Jinx. Neal sounded far too chirpy for this hour of the morning. "You're late. I'm firing you. I decided I've learned enough noble duty to do me for a lifetime. Crissez formal dinner parties, and formal correspondence, and formal everything. Keep the change."

Neal was leaning against the head table in his great hall, balancing his sword over one knee, dressed rather incongruously in a pair of grey sweatpants with a red sweatshirt emblazoned with the picture of a beaver and the word Roots. His eyes were shining in mischief, and he wore a wide grin on his face.

"I hate you," Aldon informed him calmly. "I build you a near fail-safe warding system, and you repay me like this?"

"Et moi, je t'aime aussi," Neal replied cheerfully, Summoning a glass of water and handing it to Aldon. Aldon looked at it blankly, and Neal waved a hand at it. "Drink, and you'll feel better."

"Wrong kind of drink," Aldon muttered, raising it to his lips anyway.

"You said once you were a recovering alcoholic." Neal crossed his arms over his chest, letting his sword levitate on a puff of wind, raising one eyebrow. "You said your best friend, before you were a known halfblood, would put you in rehab if he caught you with another drink."

"Ed doesn't need to know." The water was tasteless, clean, and even if Aldon had never liked the taste of alcohol, he knew that water would never give him the same freedom from inhibition that alcohol would.

"Yeah, I'm still not giving you a drink," Neal said, conclusive, his eyes shifting to his fireplace where Alex was now stepping out of the fire. "What did you do, Alex? I thought you were only doing a 5K run. Even in intervals, it shouldn't have taken you this long."

"We did only do a 5K run," Alex replied, mildly disgusted. "Aldon is an argumentative snail."

"I ran. Do return my wand to me, now," Aldon said, finishing his glass of water and setting it firmly on the table. He did feel a bit better with water, or at least he wasn't panting like a dog. "And now, since I no longer have a consulting job, I will be going. I have a stack of reports to read, research to do, correspondence to write..."

Neal laughed in delight, standing up. "Is that what you did, Alex, steal his wand? Mama and I already ate, but I'll ask the house-elves to reheat breakfast for you."

He turned away, flipping his sword into non-being, heading to the kitchen while Aldon fixed his former friend with a glare. "Wand," he repeated.

Alex merely followed Neal with a secretive sort of smile. "No," he said. "Breakfast."

Aldon scowled and went after them.

Neal had put out a spread of food that Aldon thought he could never eat, even in the best of circumstances, without wanting to throw up: eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes with real maple syrup. It was too heavy – all he wanted was a croissant and a cup of coffee. He wrinkled his nose and reached for the pancakes alone. Alex already had five eggs on his plate, as well as toast and several slices of bacon and a few sausages, while Neal was hovering over a coffee. Aldon glanced around for Neal's mother, a common presence that he enjoyed having nearby, if only because she kept Neal in line during lessons and actually seemed interested in the minutia of noble etiquette.

"Mama found a job in Edinburgh teaching Mandarin – Saturday mornings only," Neal explained catching the look. "Off terrifying other hua qiao into speaking their heritage languages, for once. She'll be back by two, no doubt infuriated by someone's inability to construct a proper sentence."

"It is difficult to retain a language if it isn't spoken regularly." Alex didn't have coffee, Aldon saw – instead, there was only a tall glass of orange juice near his plate. "You were waiting with your sword. Do you want to be beaten again that badly?"

"Well, I didn't exactly get revenge for Fei on Thursday, did I?" Neal grinned. "Besides, the more practice I get now, the more likely I am to pummel Graeme into the dust the next time he shows up at Queenscove."

"Would either of you care to explain what it is that you think you're doing?" Aldon broke in, his eyebrows creasing together as he reached for the carafe of coffee. "I am not – I do not—"

"I thought you'd have already explained it to him, Alex," Neal replied, glancing over at Alex while taking a sip from his mug of coffee. Whatever had happened in the past few days, clearly Neal and Alex had become friendly, though Aldon had no idea what that meant for himself. He shouldn't be surprised – Neal seemed to be the type to make friends easily. Too bad the man didn't seem to have any interest in applying it politically. A Hufflepuff, if Aldon guessed correctly – or possibly a Gryffindor.

"I did, he just hasn't accepted it yet." Alex's voice was almost amused, and Aldon couldn't help dropping his eyes to Alex's front pocket, where he could just see the handle of his wand poking out. Alex was sitting too far away from him, and there was a table in the way of him trying to grapple for it. Not that he could grapple for it anyway. Catching his look, Alex smirked, pulled out Aldon's wand, and set it on the table – just out of Aldon's reach.

Aldon scowled.

"He is right, you know," Neal said idly, looking at Aldon, but his green eyes were serious. "Look, Aldon – we're in a war, no matter what the Ministry and the Daily Prophet are saying. You know it, Mama agrees, my old sword tutor would agree too. That duel, even if you won, was outrageously stupid. It showcased your weaknesses, both your lack of any real combat skills and your emotional weaknesses. You fell for a taunt, and you showed the world exactly who was most important to you. If you want to survive, you need something like real training, and whoever it was that paid for this one, they knew what they were doing." Neal waved a hand at Alex.

Aldon looked down at his plate. Emotional weaknesses – he didn't need to think to know about what Neal was talking, or to whom he was referring.

"She's in America," he said weakly. "She's safe in America."

Neal and Alex exchanged a glance, one that Aldon hated to see. Neal chewed on his words for a moment, picking out what to say. "To be honest, Aldon, depending on how things go, I don't know that even being in America will be safe. AIM security isn't very tight – it's disguised as an elite No-Maj boarding school, and there are walls and wards, but America hasn't fought a magical war since the Grindelwald Wars. Even in the Grindelwald Wars, the main fighting happened in continental Europe – Wizarding America hasn't had a magical war on its soil in well over a hundred years. I would put money that John and Kel have a guard on Francesca and I think that she's still in the duelling dorms, but if someone really wanted, it wouldn't be very hard to get at her. And with you being you..."

Aldon swallowed, eyes falling to his plate with his half-eaten pancakes. If his enemies captured Francesca, that would be a very strong incentive for him to do whatever they demanded of him. And with the information he had, he would, if he were on the other side, certainly attempt to get leverage on himself. His thin pseudonym and the barriers posed by Muggle technology only went so far, especially when his network of informants was growing.

"Stormwing analysis says she is fine for the moment." Alex reached for his glass of juice, not looking at Aldon and appearing to ignore him entirely. "Bridge may be gaining in acceptance, but it is not important enough for Voldemort's focus. He is inclined to attack the Ministry and the Wizengamot first, who hold his followers. Similarly, the Ministry will not be prioritizing Bridge. And while AIM's security may be lacking, it would be a challenge to make it into Wizarding America at all – MACUSA keeps a close eye on Wizarding points of entry, and Muggle America is little different."

"Stormwing analysis?" Aldon couldn't help but ask, skeptical. He had never heard the term, and while the rest of what Alex said seemed logical and was in accord with the information he had from both Lestrange and his Ministry contacts, he couldn't help but be a little apprehensive.

Neal grimaced a little. "Stormwings are a mercenary order," he explained, with a small shake of his head. "Crazy, the lot of them. Utterly insane. Warmages – not Aurors, who are more of a police force, but warmages."

"I like Stormwings," Alex said, reflective, reaching for an extra bit of toast to soak up his egg yolks. "We work with many of them in the Order. Their analysis is sound."

"You would. Dhampir are equally bonkers."

Alex flashed a fang, but Neal only returned his pointed stare with a smile. There was a moment of silence, then Alex shook his head and turned back to Aldon. "To return to the topic, you have time now to learn some combat skills. I am being paid to see that you do. We can do this the easy way, or not."

Aldon narrowed his eyes, considering his options. On one hand, Alex and Neal were speaking sense, but on the other… physical activity. "I have a job. I have other things to do."

"You're on half-days at work. I spoke to Christie." Alex's voice was firm. "Your mornings belong to me. And if you don't complain too much, I'll let you play with these."

He pulled out his own wand, made a lazy Summoning motion, and two dark, metallic objects came flying towards him. One was long, large, the other one much smaller. Aldon didn't recognize them immediately – they weren't something he had grown up with – but it only took a few minutes for him to recognize their shapes. One he recognized from a glimpse in the Triwizard Tournament as something very close to what one of the AIM players, the one who had gotten attacked in the very first Hogwarts game, had used; the other, he recognized from Muggle television.

Guns. A sniper rifle, as Alex had called the large one, and a handgun. Aldon's eyes widened.

"You're already proficient in two casting styles, and I can see you have tricks." Alex was smiling slightly, watching as Aldon reached out, almost hesitant, to pick up the sniper rifle. "Magic is good, but wizards rarely expect to see a Muggle gun, and guns cause a lot of blunt force trauma very, very quickly. Guns also require less focus, a bullet travels faster than a spell, and sniper rifles have a much farther range than any spell."

The weapon was heavy – heavier than Aldon had expected, though he ran one hand down the long barrel, testing the feel. He had seen enough of Christie's detective shows to know not to look down the barrel, and he looked through the sight, attached at one end, pointing it in the direction of one of Neal's windows.

"Que Dieu vienne m'aider, if you blow out one of my windows…" Neal said, but his heart didn't really seem to be in it. Aldon put the sniper rifle down, reaching instead for the handgun – it was much lighter than the sniper rifle, though still heavier than he expected, and he turned it over in one hand, only for Alex to reach out and grab the weapon from him.

"Don't point it at someone unless you're willing to shoot them." Alex's voice was calm, but serious, his hands expertly checking the weapon over before setting it back on the table, beside Aldon's plate. "And never point it at yourself, especially in magical environments. Guns misfire more often in magical environments than in Muggle ones and aiming is harder because ambient magic affects a bullet's trajectory. Stormwings who use guns have an ongoing argument over which bullets are best, but that doesn't matter for you yet because you need to learn to aim first."

"Finish your breakfast and we'll head out to my lists." Neal grinned, reaching again for his mug of coffee. "Queenscove managed to magic up some fun targets, and when you've tired Alex out, I'm going to hit him with my sword."

"I wouldn't count on it." Alex smirked, reaching for a pitcher of more juice. "I doubt either of you can tire me out."

Aldon turned back to his pancakes. They did have a point, he thought reluctantly, and it was good to see Alex again. And if he managed to win Francesca back to Britain, then it would be better if he were able to protect her, and it would likely be necessary. It didn't look like he had any other options, and he supposed it could have been worse.

It turned out that he had a good eye for shooting things. Better with the sniper rifle than the handgun, but he enjoyed target practice. And Neal gave him a shoulder holster for the handgun, which fit in very well with his waistcoats, and didn't ruin the lines of his clothing.

XXX

Francesca was back at AIM, and life was grey.

She didn't know how else to describe it. It wasn't that the world was grey – the winter sun over AIM was still warm, far warmer than it had been in London, and there was no rain, no snow. The grass was still green, if a bit more faded than it was in the spring and summer, and the wooden plantation houses that made up most of the buildings at AIM were still homey and welcoming.

Life went on. Francesca still had classes: Magical Theory IV, Rune-Casting V, Song-casting II, Mastery Charms V and Standard Potions, Transfigurations, Herbology, Defensive Arts, half of which were heavily accommodated and graded on a pass/fail basis. She had daily dance practice, where she and Javier were working through the finer points of their choreography. She was still stalked, from class to class, by Duelling Club members who were a little too overprotective of her and chattered to her about all manner of things that she didn't really care about and immediately forgot. She was still dragged into the dining room for meals, sitting with John and his friends, and with Archie and Hermione sometimes, and AIM food still made her insides twist and hurt.

She was still careful. Someone tried to Trip-Jinx her again in January, but she caught the flash of light and simply used an air-hardening rune to jump over it before going on her way, and Seaver caught up with her not long after that. She still studied, both for her classes at AIM and for the home-schooling curriculum her parents had her on, and she still worked on the ACD. She still read romance novels and drank tea and hung out with John and his friends in the Holmes Wing common room. Life was the same – everything was the same as it had been before winter break, really.

But it wasn't, because everything was grey. She felt like she was just going through the motions of everything. Her classes were too long, and even if she studied and did the problem sets and she still passed everything, none of it was interesting. She was a robot, programmed to take in data and spit out answers, and she did it as well as she had ever done, and then she went back to her dorm and pulled out the latest problem for the ACD and started working on it. There were papers sent to her on the newest materials from her dad, too, which would expand the range of magical frequencies for which she could make an ACD function.

The papers should have interested her. She should have been all over them, obsessive, and instead she merely read a few of them every night so she could have something new to report at her ACD team meetings every other morning. The specialty teas that she normally loved seemed to have lost their flavour, and she had lost all ability to read her romance novels. Or, rather, it wasn't that she didn't read them – it felt more like she would stare at the words, and she would understand each and every one of them, but the sentence as a whole would have no meaning. It was almost as if she was tasting the words and finding them as flavourless as her tea.

John was worried about her, but Francesca didn't know how to reassure him. Everything was grey, but nothing was wrong. Everything was as it always was, and it was fine. It had always been fine before, so why should it be different now?

It's different now because you think it's different now, John had said, frustrated, a few weeks into the winter term. You're not happy. I'm worried. Maybe you should go out more. Join a new club, meet some new people.

I don't like people, Francesca reminded him, turning back to the book that she wasn't reading so that she could flip the pages. "I'm fine. I'm just… I don't know. It'll blow over."

It was stupid.

She had only known Aldon for a few months. A few short months, and he had already integrated himself so thoroughly into her life, and he hadn't even been there for most of it. Not physically so, anyway, and even those evening calls, they had only been an hour long or so, just the hour she could squeeze between dance practice and dinner. She had more than enough to fill that time, so she didn't know why not talking to him was making such an impact in her life. It shouldn't have. She and Aldon were never anything, so why should it?

But it made a difference. The morning team meeting calls were the worst, where Aldon was there and she had to keep it together, professional, because these were the ACD's funders and they needed to keep the project moving. It helped that he wasn't alone, and that their Charms Master, Albert McEvoy, had the lead of this part of the ACD project, because she could focus on Albert and on explaining the finer details of No-Maj materials engineering to him. But Aldon was still there, his very presence an overwhelming shadow, and every insightful word from his mouth, on magical theory or runes, burrowed into her brain. And at the end of every call, when he asked if she might be available to talk later, she fumbled for her excuses.

She didn't want to talk to him, not one on one. She didn't want to read his letters, penned in a flowing hand on pretty, high-quality paper, wrapped around books and other delicate stationary. She didn't want to be assaulted with his words, she didn't want to hear his beautiful sharp accent echoing sweet kindnesses around her stupid brain, she didn't want to be reminded of what could have been and wasn't. She didn't want to feel that tenuous connection they had made over the Atlantic, something they had formed through the ACD, over their shared secrets and desires and interests and hopes and dreams, because she couldn't think of that without remembering how he hadn't listened to her and how he had tried to trick her and betrayed her trust. So, she had dance, and she had classes, and she had a thousand things to do in that hour between dance practice and dinner that used to belong to him.

They were never anything, so she couldn't even say she had a broken heart. And she didn't have any of the signs of a broken heart – she wasn't crying over her memories of him, because she didn't have any real memories of him. She wasn't consuming bucketloads of ice cream and chocolate and cookies like heroines did in books. She wasn't angry at him – she didn't want to yell at him, or throw things at him, or get back at him in any way. She wanted nothing from him, nothing other than what their ACD contract specified, and all they had to do was get things back on a professional footing.

Things were just grey. That was all.

It was after dinner, a bowl of beef ravioli sitting heavily in her stomach, and Francesca was sitting at the long harvest table in the Holmes Wing common room, a stack of papers her father sent her by her side. Getting papers at AIM was a nightmare, so her father sent her them in stacks, a dozen at once, and it took Francesca most of two weeks to get through them. This one was a review paper, nearly fifty pages long, and Francesca was stuck on page six.

She couldn't focus. She kept reading the same lines, something about the non-reactive properties of argon gas, over and over again without it penetrating her head. It would take her forever to get through this paper, and her dormmates had a chronic inability to be quiet so she could try to focus.

Kel was sitting a few seats down from her at the long harvest table, dealing a game of poker. Her dormmates liked gambling too much, she thought sourly – it felt like there was a game every few days, though logically they could not be that frequent. Kel wasn't allowed to play anymore; she had a near perfect poker face, and they booted her out after she had won too much off the rest of them. John wasn't allowed to play either, on account of his Legilimency, so he was sitting beside Kel while she flipped the third of the three cards on the table, sprinkling commentary and trying to hide his laughter.

They were distracting.

"River," Kel said, her voice bored even if her hazel eyes were intent, flipping the card to show a seven of diamonds. "Seaver?"

"I'm out," the dark-skinned boy said, shaking his head and folding his cards on the table.

"You have no sense of risk, Seaver!" A wide grin split Owen's face as he pushed half the chips in front of him into the pile. The stacks collapsed, rattling as they spilled across the centre of the table. "I'm raising – by however much this is, I forgot what the blue ones were worth again."

John guffawed, slapping the table. "He knows exactly how much it is. He's just playing the fool again. He knows perfectly well that he just upped the pot by $16.75. You going to take that?"

Francesca sighed, looking back down at her paper. Half of John's amusement at these things was in the sheer amount of trouble he caused. The trick with John at poker was just to ignore him – he said a lot of things, but most of it was utterly meaningless. Sometimes he did tell the truth, but just as often he lied, and in this case, John was lying. Owen did have a good hand this time, two pairs – but no one believed he did, because he had won two hands already on sheer bravado.

She scanned the line again. Argon is primarily used as an inert shielding gas in welding and other high temperature industrial processes.

That wasn't relevant to the ACD. Or was it? She wasn't sure. She should know, this shouldn't be this much effort, but she didn't. She reached for her mug of tea, but it was empty; her teapot was empty, too.

"I'm out too." Merric sighed, and there was the slap of cards being put down. "I would rather play another round than go all in."

"Same," she heard Esmond add. "I've got nothing anyway. Fals?"

Francesca wanted more tea. She stood up, heading to the little kitchenette along one side of the Holmes Wing common room, cleaning out the old tea leaves and pulling out a plain black tea from the common stores. If she couldn't taste the different flavours, there was no point in using any of the finer teas. She filled her iron teapot with water and traced a heating rune on the side, turning around to watch the others as they played.

Faleron was staring at his cards, glancing between the two in his hand and the three cards on the table, a look of intense concentration on his face. He was a seventh-year now, in general education since he planned on studying wizarding law after finishing at AIM. They had shared a dorm since Francesca was in second year, and he had flirted with her, on and off, since her third. Sometimes the flirting made her a little uncomfortable, but she had never felt threatened by him – not like Aldon.

Faleron teased her a lot, asking her out and sometimes making a fool of himself while he went at it. It was a bit of a joke in Holmes Wing now. How many times could Faleron get rejected in one term? They were awkward encounters, but they were over quickly; everyone would laugh, Faleron would wince comically, and then he would laugh, and things would go on. They weren't even serious attempts, Francesca thought, not when she had turned him down so many times before. But she never worried, with Faleron – he knew where the line was, and even if he pushed it sometimes, he never crossed it. He would have never tried to trick her into marriage the way that Aldon did. He listened.

He was good-looking, as things went, with dark hair and chocolate-brown eyes, not quite as tall as John or other duellers, with a lean form. He dressed, outside of uniform, in straight-legged jeans, boots and knit, open cardigans over a collared, button-up shirt. A Southerner born and raised, he spoke with a drawling accent that Francesca thought she had heard more than one girl at school sigh over. He was good with his wand, making top eight of the AIM Trials, and she had seen him duelling at every duelling tournament she had gone to before that, too. He usually made top sixteen on the circuit, sometimes top eight, and he was aiming for a podium finish this year. Kel and John both thought that, if the ladders worked in his favour, he could make it. And he was nice – she could always count on him to give her a ride into town if she needed anything.

Faleron sighed, looking at his cards, then at his small stack of chips. "I'm all in," he said, pushing all he had into the middle of the table. "I don't have $16.75, so you'll have to make do with the $9.50 I have."

"Good choice," John lied blithely, his eyes dancing, and Francesca suppressed a snort, turning to check on her tea. The water was hot, so she tapped in the proper amount of tea to let steep, cancelling her fire rune.

"Two pairs," she heard Owen say, triumphant. "Ha! Kings and sevens, Fals, which beats your twos and sevens."

"Damn," Faleron replied, and she turned back around to see that he had tossed his two cards onto the table, a rueful look on his face. He saw her watching and sent her a soft smile. "You couldn't have let me win, Owen? How will I get enough money together to take Francesca on a proper date, if not gambling for it?"

Faleron wasn't as good-looking as Aldon. He wasn't as sharp, and his accent was different, but he was nice. He listened to her. He was friendly, and he was safe.

"It's not like she's going to date you anyway," Merric scoffed, tossing his two cards into the pile where Kel was gathering them for a new deal. "Give it up and go join the rail, cuz."

Faleron wouldn't hurt her the way that Aldon did.

"Why not?"

Her words were quiet, but from the reaction, it almost as if she had yelled them. The entire table turned to look at her – John's eyes were wide, worried, but she wasn't looking at him. She didn't want to know what he was trying to say to her, mind-to-mind. Kel had raised both her eyebrows, the most surprise that Francesca thought she had ever seen on the famously impassive upper-year, while Owen's jaw had dropped. Merric, Seaver and Esmond, too, were wide-eyed, exchanging looks between her and Faleron, who looked as if someone had hit him over the head.

She cleared her throat awkwardly, looking back down at her iron teapot, touching the handle timidly to see if it was too hot for her to pick up. "Just, um – why wouldn't I?"

"You never—" Faleron coughed, cutting himself off. Francesca picked up her teapot, bringing it over to her spot at the table, catching sight of his face. He was blushing, slightly, watching her warily. "I mean, well. Would you like to go on a date? With me?"

"Are you asking me on a date?" Francesca sat back down at the table, pouring herself a new mug of tea. The steam was warm, with mild scent of sweet honey.

There was silence, and Francesca pulled her review paper back to her. Page six. Argon gases. She felt, more than saw, Faleron stand up from his seat and move to sit in the chair across from her.

"Yes." His voice was firm, and she glanced up at him, sidelong. He was pink, but his dark eyes were intent, and there was no flirtatious smile dancing about his lips. "Yes, I am asking you on a date."

"When?"

"Oh my god," she heard someone mutter. Owen, probably. Possibly Esmond. She ignored them, looking back down at her paper.

"Saturday?"

"Fals, you're tutoring the beginners who wanted extra help in duelling on Saturday," John interrupted. Francesca didn't need to look at him to know that his heavy brows were pushed together in concern and disapproval – that was clear enough from his tone. "Chess, can we talk?"

"Merric will cover me for the beginners, if Saturday works," Faleron replied, his words quick, though Francesca thought she heard Merric sputter. "Francesca?"

"Saturday works." Francesca shrugged slightly, giving up on the section on argon gases and moving on. Argon gas made green-blue lasers. That was all that was really important about argon gases.

"Saturday, then. I'll meet you here at eleven. We'll go somewhere."

"Okay."

"Chess…" John's voice was low. "Can we talk about this?"

Francesca sighed heavily, but it was Faleron who spoke first, sounding defensive. "I'm not sure what there is to talk about, John. Francesca can make her own decisions. It's just a date."

"It's not her I'm worried about, for once," John snapped, pushing himself away from the harvest table. "Chess."

His voice was insistent, and Francesca knew he wouldn't let it go until they had talked. She pressed her lips together and stood up, leaving her papers and tea behind.

They didn't bother going anywhere more private. In the duelling dorms, their mental link was an open secret, so they only moved to an empty corner of the room. Francesca leaned against the armrest of a leather armchair, while John crossed his arms over his chest, glaring into her eyes.

She was assaulted by his thoughts, his feelings, more than words; he was unnerved, and worried, and a little upset. There was a moment of mental grappling, then she fell into his mindscape of New York City, the mental clouds surrounding his complex of towers misty. It took her a moment to find his avatar – on top of a building near Times Square. A twist of her mind, helped by him temporarily shifting distances, helped her glide to the rooftop where he waited, looking no happier in avatar form than he had in person.

Are you sure about this? He asked, his expression clouded. Look, Chess, I know the holiday was rough on you, but…

What does the holiday have to do with this? Francesca looked away, walking to the edge of the building where she could see the shining lights of Times Square in John's mindscape. She had always liked Times Square. So I accepted a date with Faleron. So what?

He really likes you. John crossed his arms over his chest, following her. A lot.

And that's a problem because…? The lights of Times Square, even in John's mindscape, were blinding. He could have toned them down, but he loved realism in his mental world. The crowds were still there, the yellow taxicabs and the hustle and bustle of life in New York City.

It's a problem because I don't think you feel the same, John replied, mental voice sharp. You're using him to run away from your own feelings, and that's not fair to him. He's a decent guy, Chess, and if you're going to go on a date with him, you should give him a fair chance. He really likes you, and he's not – you shouldn't date him just because you're feeling lonely and want an Aldon-replacement.

Francesca whirled around, incensed, her dark hair swinging. What do you propose I do instead then, John? Go back to Aldon? And I'm not – I'm not lonely. I'm not anything.

John's eyes flashed, and he shook his head, his chin stubborn.I don't know what the answer is, but hurting others just because you're hurting isn't like you. You're better than this, Chess.

I'm not planning on hurting him, Francesca snapped, taking a step back as if she had been struck. Faleron has been begging me for a date for years. He's getting a chance to try to convince me and that's more than he's gotten before. Maybe you should tell him this, let him decide what he wants!

You know damn well what Faleron would say, and it's that he would take that chance, rebound or not. John shook his head, mouth carved in a hard, disapproving line. If you're going to do this, give him a fair chance. He deserves that much. If there's no universe in which he's going to win you over, you need to get back out there and cancel that date.

Francesca glared at him, not knowing how to reply. She was offended that he would imply she wouldn't give him a fair chance, angry that he was calling her out to tell her this when he didn't have any better answers for her, annoyed that he was interfering with her decisions. It was just a date – just one date, and it didn't have to mean anything. Faleron had more of a chance now than he did before, and how could she possibly know whether he could win her over without giving him a chance to win her over? I'm not listening to this, John. I'm going back to my room. Tell Faleron whatever you want about me, and let him decide.

Chess… John's mental voice pleaded, but she was already jumping off the side of the building, falling towards the crowd below, back into real life. One look over at the harvest table showed that her dorm-mates were playing poker again, a thin veneer covering their curiosity while they threw surreptitious looks at her and John, though Kel was trying to keep them distracted. Faleron's expression was cool, tight as he glared across the common room, but he lit up with a smile when he saw Francesca break away, returning to the seat across from him.

She piled her papers into a rough stack, drawing quick levitation runes on her teapot and mug. She glanced up at Faleron, who was watching her with a new hint of worry. "I – I'm going back to my room. I'm just… I'm tired, and I can't concentrate out here."

He nodded, uncertain. "Do you need help carrying anything?"

Francesca shook her head, brisk, tugging on her levitation runes so her teapot and mug followed her. "No, I'll – I'll be fine."

"Saturday, then?" Faleron's drawl trembled a little, apprehensive.

She sent him a small smile. It didn't really feel right on her face, but she tried. "Saturday. Eleven. I, um – I'm looking forward to it."

He nodded, his expression of mixed hope, nervousness, and something a little bittersweet – like he couldn't believe his luck, but also that it had to be too good to be true. "I'll – I'll make it worth waiting for, Francesca."

On Saturday morning, Francesca took a minute to think about what she was going to wear. She was supposed to be excited about this, she thought, but all she could dredge up was a sense of weary obligation. It wasn't that she didn't want to go on a date with Faleron – she wouldn't have accepted it if she hadn't wanted it – but she also wasn't excited about it. It was just something that was, a thing for her to do, one that she had little feeling about whatsoever. She scanned her wardrobe, standing stock still as she eyed her dresses.

It was just a date, she reminded herself, disgusted. It didn't have to mean anything, so she pulled out a plain red sweater-dress, pairing it with black tights, before throwing her hair up into her usual bun. Her makeup, she left simple, and she put on a pair of black, heeled boots and looped her hand through her tiny wallet. A small sheaf of paper spells went under her bra strap before she headed for the common room.

Faleron was already waiting, shifting anxiously on his feet while fiddling with his car keys. He had obviously tried to clean up – he had product in his hair, which shone a little from how much he had put in, and even if his clothes were plain, his boots looked like they had been polished.

"Hi," he said, with a valiant attempt at a smile. "You look beautiful."

She blinked. She looked the same as she ever did. This was the same outfit she had worn two weekends ago, working in the Holmes Wing common room – it wasn't anything special. She supposed he had to say it, but she wasn't sure how to respond.

"Thank you," she said finally. "You… too?"

"I tried," Faleron replied, his smile easing into something a little less awkward and more genuine as he offered her his hand. "Come on. Let's go out, have fun."

Francesca hesitated, glancing at the proffered hand for a second before she took it. It was warm, dry, and his grip was gentle and secure. Her hand was small in his – maybe she should have worn jewellery.

"I wasn't sure what you wanted to do," Faleron admitted, leading her out of Oliver Hall, down the worn path to the main school gates. John was nowhere to be seen, thankfully, and her innate sense told her that he was soaring around on a broom on the Quodpot pitch. She looked back up at Faleron who, even with her heels, was most of a head taller than her.

Aldon wasn't that much taller when she wore her heels. Just a few inches.

She pushed the thought away. "So, um, where are we going?"

"Uh, well, I had a few ideas…" Faleron shrugged, a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. "I thought about a movie, but then I thought that was pretty clichéd and we go see movies as a group a lot anyway. Then I thought about driving farther, to Charleston or something, for a museum or an art gallery, but I was worried that was too much for a first date. Same for theme parks, and I didn't think you would like roller coasters anyway – but if you want to go, we can go. There's one not too far away."

"I don't like roller coasters." Francesca looked away, eyeing the trees that marked the edges of the AIM grounds. They were allowed to go out when they wanted, after classes and on weekends – only the third-years and below needed an upper-year to accompany them, and they had to check in and out with their dorm monitors, but that was it. Aldon had mentioned once that Hogwarts was much stricter, in that sense.

The gates to AIM were huge, iron, welded into grand curlicue waves, and there were no signs that it was a school for magic. Faleron looked around carefully and cast a quick spell before reaching into the pocket of his jeans for his car. In its shrunk form, it looked like no more than a toy, but the second he tossed it, flicking his wand, it turned full-sized, a working, running car.

Francesca smiled as he opened the passenger side door for her. It was a picture – Faleron had obviously tried to look nice, and he was opening the door for her, but the car itself was an old, dented rust-bucket. Before Faleron had it, it had been Neal's; before Neal, it had been Dom's. She didn't know who Dom had gotten it from, but it was the kind of thing the older students passed around. It drove, and that was all that mattered.

The inside was more comfortable than the outside, with internal expansion charms that gave her more leg room than her parents' SUV in San Francisco. She was familiar with the car, because Faleron was the one who took her to town last term, when she needed to use the internet at the library to send emails to Aldon or to her dad, to print papers, to borrow books, or just to go shopping. It had never been like this before, though – she had never been on a date with him. He had always complained, if lightly, before promising her to take her into town later, or the next day, or on the weekend.

He slid into the driver's seat beside her. She had seen this profile of him many times before, from the passenger seat, but somehow it was different now. He looked happy – nervous, but happy. He looked down at her, flashing a small smile, reading the question in her eyes. "I want to surprise you. Can I surprise you? Do you like surprises?"

"Um, I…" Francesca looked away, out the windshield, as he started the car. As old and rusty as it was, it started easily, and Faleron signalled before pulling out onto the empty road. She fidgeted with her fingers. "I don't really like surprises. But, um… I guess I can make an exception. This time."

He wouldn't hurt her. She knew that much. Whatever Faleron had planned, it wouldn't be bad, because Faleron wasn't Aldon.

The roads weren't as busy as Francesca would have expected, though it was a Saturday in late January. There was no real reason for anyone to be out, but there also wasn't any reason for anyone to stay at home, either. Faleron let her pick the music as he swung onto the freeway, making for the closest town, and Francesca flipped through about eight different channels before picking the jazz station and leaving it at that. Jazz was what swing was made for, and it reminded her of dance. Not choreographed dance, for competition, but fun dancing when it was just her and John, or Archie, or any of the guys in Dance Club.

Faleron didn't talk much while he drove. He didn't like driving, he had explained once last term – it wasn't something he felt comfortable doing, but Neal had said that since Kel didn't have her licence, he trusted Faleron more than anyone else in Duelling to inherit the car. Francesca had gotten used to his silence, and she thought he was a good driver. He was very careful, and unlike Neal and Dom, he never speeded. The route to town was a familiar one, a mix of trees and fields as far as she could see.

In town, he turned off where they usually turned if they were going to the mall, but he drove past the mall into an area that was almost industrial. Francesca tilted her head, examining the low-lying brick buildings; there were copy shops, photography studios, an assortment of mechanic shops. She looked around, puzzled.

"It's just – it's here, because of the noise," Faleron said, with a nervous smile as he parked the car in a spot where there didn't seem to be many others. "Wait for me. I'll open your door."

Francesca nodded, unbuckling her seatbelt as he hurried to help her out of the car. She didn't need the help, but his old-fashioned manners were nice, and his hand was warm.

He led her to a long, nondescript building, and she drew a little closer to him out of nervousness. He opened the door for her, and her eyes widened.

There were a few vending machines and arcade games to her right, humming with electricity. A soda machine, stuffed with Cokes and Diet Cokes and Sprite and root beer, a machine stocked with chips and chocolate bars. A crane game, full of cheap toys, and a Pac-Man machine that played a small ditty as the hungry little circle ran around the screen, eating dots, chased by ghosts.

That wasn't the highlight of the place. A few steps forward, and Francesca saw long lanes, the floors light brown and polished. Each lane had a small table at the end, surrounding a small computer, which flashed scores, calculated automatically as the players strategically knocked down pins with their heavy, colourful balls. A machine spat balls out, running along a small track beside each lane, and the noise was incredible. Balls smashed down the laneways, like rolling thunder, until they crashed through a setup of pins at the end, and the clatter was enormous. There weren't many people there, but even the few busy lanes were bright with chatter and laughter.

On her left, a long counter ran down the wall. The area closest to her served food, hamburgers and hotdogs and greasy fries. She breathed in, deep, and the distinctive scent of deep-fried batter, caramelized onions and ketchup assaulted her senses.

Farther along the wall, she saw a cash register, along with dozens of cubbyholes holding shoes – used rental shoes, in red and white, or blue and white, or red and blue, all of them patterned strangely in a way that she would never wear outside.

"Bowling, Faleron?" she asked, turning to him, a sort of helpless amusement lighting her face. It wasn't bad, but she was surprised. It was such an odd choice. "Really?"

He coughed a little, this cheeks pink. "You're right," he said hastily, looking around as if he saw the bowling alley anew and was embarrassed. "This was a stupid idea, we can go somewhere else. Wherever you want, Francesca."

He sounded so flustered about it, and he had tried so hard. Francesca took another deep breath, inhaling the scent of fast food, of old shoes, and she heard a peal of laughter and cheering as someone bowled a strike. It was wholesome, it was strangely familiar and normal and it reminded her of another time. She hadn't been bowling for ages, but her dad and some of his work colleagues had taken her once or twice when she was younger. Before magic had happened – before Aldon had happened.

She laughed, a soft noise, but it was real, and she reached for his hand again. "No, Faleron. It's fine. Let's bowl. I'm not – I haven't been bowling for years."

His face lit up, and he pulled her to the counter to rent shoes.

Faleron was good at bowling. Francesca wasn't. He laughed helplessly over her style; the balls were so heavy that Francesca had to heave them in both her hands, from the rack to the end of the lane, set it down and push it forward. The ball would crawl halfway down the lane before falling into the gutter, not hitting any of the pins. Once, the ball simply stopped, and Faleron had had to line up a difficult shot with a new ball to both clear the lane and knock down her pins for her.

She got credit for that strike, though. Each and every one of Faleron's balls were either a strike or a spare, while Francesca's, more often than not, hit nothing.

For their second game, Faleron decided that all the publicly available balls were too heavy for her and begged a special five-pound ball for her from the counter, which came in a glaring shade of pink. He was right – this round, Francesca could take a running start at the lane and throw the ball down the lane, which seemed to be much more effective for hitting something as well as being much more satisfying. She fell down twice, the momentum of throwing the ball and the slipperiness of her shoes working against her, both of which had Faleron at her side within seconds, simultaneously laughing while checking to make sure she wasn't hurt. He stood closer to her after that, coaching her through the technique for bowling.

"Do you bowl a lot, then?" she asked, curious, as he stood behind her, one hand guiding hers on the ball and the other at her waist as he tried to show her how to throw her hips into the movement.

"I grew up in a small town," Faleron replied, his accent thicker than usual and his warmth comforting on her back. "There ain't a lot to do at home, but there is a bowling alley. I was in a league when I was little, and I still play a lot in the summer."

"I see," she said, letting him reposition her hand on her bowling ball. All his help meant that she had a score above forty, which was still nowhere near the hundred and fifty he tended to average.

For the third game, he asked the staff to turn the bumpers on for her, which was supposed to keep her balls from going into the gutter. They didn't work – even if her balls didn't roll into the gutters anymore, she still missed the pins. Faleron still won, but Francesca didn't mind. It wasn't his fault that she was bad at bowling, and he had tried so hard to teach her, and he had cheered every time she knocked a pin over as if she had bowled a strike. It felt good.

Faleron looked good too when he was bowling, a bright smile and look of focus lighting his face. Afterwards, he took her to Johnny Rockets for milkshakes and grilled cheese sandwiches. He let her pick the music to play from the jukebox, he listened to her stumbling through stories about Stanford and San Francisco, and his hand, holding hers across the table, was warm and comforting.

He wasn't Aldon. Aldon would never have taken her bowling, or for greasy grilled cheese sandwiches and milkshakes. Aldon probably didn't even know what these things were, and even if he did, he would have probably considered them too low-class.

She could see herself with Faleron. He was easy, and he was safe.

"This was – it was fun," she said, when they returned to AIM. It was barely four in the afternoon, but the late afternoon sun lent a golden glow to the school grounds. "Thank you for taking me out."

"Would you—" Faleron stuttered, then he took a breath and tried again. "Can I take you out again, Francesca? A second date?"

She smiled for him – a real smile, because as first dates went, she thought this had been a good one. And his expression was so earnest, eager, and she couldn't help but appreciate that she had been given choice. He had asked. He had asked, and he hadn't assumed, and if Francesca said no, then he would be disappointed, but he would move on, or he would go back to what he had had before: casual flirting with mildly uncomfortable jokes, and that was all.

"Yes," she said. "A second date. Whenever works for you."

A second date turned into a third, and then a fourth. He met her after her classes, after dance practice, walking her between the dorms and the dining hall, picking up more of what she called John's guard dog shifts for her. He always tried to carry her books and her bags for her, and evenings on the Holmes Wing common room became different. He studied by her side, as often as not, while she read papers and took notes. She made tea for them both, and sometimes he took care of refilling the teapot and brewing tea for her. When they played poker, he liked having her beside him, letting her make some of his decisions if John wasn't there; when they won, largely because Francesca didn't need John's Legilimency to count cards, he took her out to an Italian place that had the best gnocchi Francesca had ever tasted.

They cuddled on the leather sofas in the Holmes Wing, Francesca's head nestled against his shoulder while she read romance novels. He was a solid, comforting bulk behind her, and he didn't laugh too much at her books, or when he did, he always dropped an affectionate kiss on her hair afterwards and told her that quite seriously that he wasn't jealous of her fictional boyfriends. Occasionally, Merric or Seaver or someone would yell at them that they were being too cute, and to go get a room, to which Faleron always told them, a happy smile on his face, that if they couldn't put up with it, they could leave. He was a dorm monitor, and they weren't.

She went to watch his duelling practices sometimes, where she had the all-important task of holding his jacket. It was a team jacket – light blue, with the AIM crest embroidered in gold on the back and his last name, King, emblazoned across the top. It was cold, one day in February, so she pulled it on and the look on his face when he saw was precious: full of happiness, pride, and something that she didn't really know how to parse.

She had taken it off, offering it back to him with a faint blush after practice. "It's – I was cold," she explained, missing the warmth almost as soon as she had pulled it off.

"It looks good," he said in reply, taking his jacket and wrapping it back around her shoulders. "I like it. Keep it."

It was too big for her, but from that point on, she wore his jacket, breathing in his comforting scent whenever she felt lost or lonely. It was a touchstone, a part of him that she could carry with her when they were in their separate classes, when he was duelling or tutoring, when he wasn't beside her. Faleron smelled clean, like soap, and he didn't wear any other scents other than himself.

On Valentine's Day, Francesca woke to a rose at her door, and there was one waiting for her at each of her classes and dance practice that day. Faleron didn't mention anything about them at breakfast or lunch, despite her questioning looks, but he had another half-dozen waiting for her when he met her in the common room to go to dinner.

"This is…" she tried to say, her arms full of roses. "It's too much, Fals. It – it's only been a few weeks, and I – I only got you a card."

He smiled, a dimple appearing in his left cheek, reaching out to touch her hand. "But are you happy, Francesca?"

She looked down at the roses in her arm, noting that they didn't even have thorns on their stems. She buried her nose in the bouquet, letting the scent fill her nose as she thought about it.

"Yes," she said, lifting her face to look up at him. The roses were really nice, and he didn't have to get them for her. They were even real, not spell-made roses, so she reached up on the tips of her toes to kiss him. He caught her lips, surprised, and his mouth was soft, dry, and he tasted like mint. "I am happy."

"Then that'll be good enough for me." He grinned, a little pink, and draped one arm over her shoulders as they crossed the campus to go to the dining hall.

John disapproved of the whole affair. Francesca wondered if he might not always disapprove of who she dated, so she ignored him and his unspoken thoughts when they were hanging out. His cool silence, however, bothered Faleron more than he would say.

"It's not you, Fals, it's me," Francesca tried to explain to him, one evening when they were relaxing in front of the fire in Holmes Wing. She was in his lap as he lounged in one of the sofas, her cheek resting against his chest, hearing the calm, steady beat of his heart. "He's just… he worries. About all of us. He's – he's trying to keep us from being hurt."

Faleron had been stroking her back with one lazy hand, running fingers through her loose hair, and he stopped. "That ain't up to him," he replied softly, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. She had come to learn that he often self-corrected his accent somewhat among others, but when he relaxed, he dropped back into a slow, Southern drawl. "He can't protect everyone from everything, and he shouldn't try. Sometimes, getting hurt is worth it."

Francesca thought about it, then she sighed and snuggled a little closer to him, closing her eyes.

Faleron wasn't Aldon. He wasn't anything like Aldon – he was normal, he was reliable, he was understandable. He was responsible, managing both his dorm monitor responsibilities and corralling the Duelling Club executive with ease, and Francesca knew he did well in his classes, especially Defense, Transfigurations, and Wizarding Law. He had gotten into law school already, an early acceptance, but he was modest and hadn't yet mentioned it to his friends. He was steady, and he was safe, and he made things easier for her.

But he wasn't Aldon. He didn't understand the ACD, he didn't understand when Francesca talked about magical theory, or runes, or materials engineering. He listened when she talked about it, but he didn't understand it, and he didn't realize that the ACD more than just a cool invention to her. He didn't appreciate that, for Francesca, the ACD was something that would change the world; the ACD would make wand use obsolete, it would revolutionize spell-casting as they knew it and set the establishment aflame. He didn't understand that, for Francesca, the ACD was a weapon, that it was the one thing that Francesca hoped would one day make her normal; he didn't understand Francesca's deep-seated rage at the world, that had given her magic but not the ability to harness it and use it like everyone else.

Faleron made things easy, and with him, Francesca could be someone simpler, someone easier, and someone happier.

XXX

AN: And this is the chapter where I learned I cannot write naval warfare. I was very disappointed to learn this, because really, Faleron is pretty great. Thanks as always to meek_bookworm, my amazing beta-reader, and to the usual suspects! As always, I love reading your commentary, so drop me a line in a review (even if the line is just screaming).

Next Chapter: I can see the storms in her eyes now / I'm falling overboard in the waves / In over my head and she's a high tide / That keeps pushing me away / I thought that we would build this together / But everything I touch just seems to break (House on Fire, by Rise Against)