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.

15. Chapter 15

I am aware that this goes beyond our usual discourse, but I was wondering, simba, if you might be able to provide me with an update on a certain dancer in whom I am interested? I am sure that you will be able to understand my meaning. I am unable to reach her for a private conversation, nor has she replied to my letters. I admit some measure of concern and would appreciate any information you may be comfortable providing me.

Archie stared at the computer screen. The time stamp on the email, sent to his Bridge account, told him that hawk had sent it some three days ago, but with computers not working at AIM and the resulting lack of internet, Archie could only access his email once a week or so at the public library in town. He had sent in two weeks' worth of reports last weekend, pointedly going on a science fiction and dystopian bent, but Hermione had more to send in and he took the student shuttle in with her every Saturday. And since he was here, he might as well check his email.

It wasn't as though Archie hadn't guessed who hawk had to be before. Based on the edits made and the way that hawk wrote, there were only so many people that he could have been, but Archie had never bothered to confirm his guesses. That was part of Bridge too – if Archie was ever caught out, he didn't want to be able to name anyone.

Aldon shouldn't have broken the code they used, as vague as he had made his comments, and the fact that he had told Archie that he was desperate. Archie understood – he remembered too well the months when Hermione hadn't talked to him, and he hadn't even thought his romantic feelings had been returned, then. It had to be worse for Aldon, who knew very well that Chess had more than friendly feelings towards him, who had fought a duel over her, and then who had, from his perspective, been rejected.

Archie understood why Chess had rejected him. Aldon had crossed a line by so much that if Archie wasn't so horrified, he would have been impressed. But he also understood Aldon – Aldon had seen an opportunity to get what he wanted, sidestepping the Marriage Law, and he had gone for it. Was it the right thing to do? Maybe not.

But Archie understood what it was like to feel trapped by the Ministry and circumstance – he was still engaged to Harry, after all – so he couldn't really be angry at Aldon. Hermione had advised him to stay out of it, so he was trying.

Regardless, he couldn't leave this email unanswered. He understood too well what Aldon was going through – radio silence was hard. And while he knew that Chess still had meetings with Blake & Associates, of which Aldon was part, it had to be even harder for him to talk to her professionally, but not at all about what had happened over the holiday.

And with Chess getting together with Faleron King, Archie felt like he had to say something, if only to tell Aldon to move on. Chess and Faleron had become, in the opinion of half the school, the cutest AIM couple. They walked around hand in hand, Faleron picked her up from half her classes and carried her bag for her, and word from John, annoyed as he was, was that they were often seen cuddling in the Holmes Wing common room. Archie had even gone over there once, just to see for himself. True to John's word, they had been in a cushy armchair close to a window, Chess reading a paper with her legs draped over his lap, while Faleron read a book.

He picked at the keys carefully.

Hawk: I do know what you're referring to, but might I suggest you leave it alone? It's not my place to get involved here, but I don't think you'll get anything out of chasing it further.

He hesitated, reading it over. It was short. It was simple. It wasn't very clear, and he sounded like an arse, telling Aldon to let it go without anything farther. He deleted the last part of what he had written.

It's not my place to get involved here, but she's seeing someone, he wrote finally.

Chess looked happy. He saw less of her now than he did before, since she usually ate with Faleron and they didn't have any classes together, but her dancing had more verve and she was often smiling or giggling when she was with him. Good for her, he thought, and he hit send on his email.

He should have known that wasn't the end.

Explain, Aldon's next email said, a week later. Archie winced, imagining his hawk-like eyes glittering in danger. Who is he? What is his background? What are his resources? Is he powerful?

Archie rubbed his forehead, not knowing where to begin. None of those things were important for Chess, but at the same time, it was logical for Aldon to go there. First, it was a large part of what he had been raised to value; second, it was something that he felt like he could control. Picking apart Faleron's resources and connections was a thousand times easier than just accepting that she had moved on.

At least it was an easy answer for him to give. He didn't know the answers to any of those questions – he didn't know Faleron all that well, having only spoken to him alone a half-dozen times. He was part of John's circle of Duelling friends, with whom Archie had never really gotten close. Not for lack of desire, because they were all very friendly and Archie liked them all, but they didn't share any classes together and Archie himself wasn't in Duelling. Archie could just reply honestly.

To reply to your other question, I don't know, Archie replied, after he had typed out another two weeks of Muggle culture reviews. He's a seventh year, not in Healing, and I barely know him. But hawk, I don't think those things you mentioned – background, resources, magical power – are important. It's probably better to move on. He hit send, and he hoped that would be enough.

That wasn't all that was happening. People were disappearing – not people that the Daily Prophet made much fuss over, but Archie heard the reports. There were people in the Ministry gone, Guild members, shopkeepers from Diagon Alley. Hermione said that there had been an increase in unsolved violent crimes in Muggle Britain, too – there was a front-page headline about it in The Telegraph, one of Britain's largest papers, announcing that the Muggle government had lost control and delinquents were running the streets. Hermione rolled her eyes at the hyperbole, but the fact was that Voldemort's followers were almost certainly contributing to the Muggle crime wave.

For Wizarding Britain, however, the major news in the Daily Prophet was the attack on Azkaban Prison, in the North Sea, on the last week of February. It had been absolute bedlam at the Ministry, with Lady Lestrange and a dozen of Voldemort's followers at large. The Ministry had instituted a manhunt for them, apparently the largest one in Wizarding British history, with upbeat daily updates published in the Daily Prophet. A breakthrough, each day seemed to promise, and only a few more days before all prisoners are arrested and returned to Azkaban. Weeks in, they were no closer than they had started.

Bridge reported on it too, though with a much more sombre attitude. Archie had no idea who Aldon had found in the Ministry to leak information, but there was a confidential report that the Dementors had abandoned Azkaban, and the Ministry didn't have the Auror resources to guard the island while conducting a search for the escaped prisoners. All Ministry employees except for those in critical professions had been pulled into the search, and Bridge's editorial, authored by rabbit, kelpie, and hawk, was scathing.

The Ministry of Magic, helped by the Daily Prophet, continues to obfuscate the true nature of the situation from the public. Azkaban Prison no longer exists, and it is likely that the Dementors have joined with the so-called Voldemort. The much-vaulted manhunt reported by the Daily Prophet is hampered by staffing issues as Ministry employees resign, and it is not reasonable to conclude that reassigning Ministry staff to provide more support to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will have any effect whatsoever. The staff of other departments – clerks, administrators, analysts – are ill-equipped to handle Auror duties, not for lack of ability but for lack of training.

The truth is, Wizarding Britain may be paying the price for its unequal political process and ingrained blood prejudice. Ministry employees, both pureblooded and not, feel no need to throw themselves or their families in harm's way for a political system that has never given them voice. For the lesser-blooded, the contrast is more extreme – there is no incentive to help a state that has systematically discriminated against them, even recently passing laws restricting their marriage options.

Bridge encourages all readers to exercise due caution and awareness and to provide any and all relevant information to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. As poorly as the Ministry may be coping with the present situation, all evidence suggests that the so-called Voldemort, were he to come to power, would be worse.

It was the most inflammatory piece Bridge had ever published, and Archie heard that the delivery mechanisms were being revamped, with Muggle methods used to the extent possible and delivery done under Disillusionment Charms with timers to ensure the paper appeared long after the delivery person had disappeared. The good thing about the Ministry being in an uproar was that there were also no resources to hunt them down, which Aldon had no doubt had been considered before publishing the editorial.

Dad was finally reading Bridge, cover to cover, much to Archie's relief. They could write a little more openly now; with the escape from Azkaban and the Ministry's staffing issues, it was unlikely that their mail was still being monitored. Further, with the so-called Voldemort out in the open and Bridge publishing the remarks it had, as long as Archie's letters didn't pre-date when pieces were published, he could pretend that he was simply a reader and was repeating ideas after they came out in the public. Much to Archie's worry, though, Dad was trying to convince him to stay in the States.

Arch, it's not a matter of courage, Dad had written, but a matter of safety. There's no reason for you to return, when no one knows clearly what is happening. Ask if you can stay with your friend John – I've always wanted to see New York City! Go see a show on Broadway or three, enjoy yourself, and you can tell me all about it later.

If Dad was going to leave Britain too, Dad and everyone else Archie cared about, then he might have considered it. But Dad wasn't going to leave Britain – not without Uncle Remus, who as a werewolf would struggle to emigrate anywhere, and not with his responsibilities as both the Lord Black and as the current stand-in for the Lord Potter. Neal, too, was stuck – he was able to leave his castle for almost a week at a time now, but anything longer and he still got backlash headaches. And Hermione had told him pointedly that she would not be fleeing abroad, not without her family, who as No-Majs would have incredible difficulty leaving through the No-Maj emigration system, and what about everyone else? What about the people they left behind?

Archie could use his privilege to stay abroad, where it was safer, but something at him balked. Derrick wasn't leaving, and so many newbloods and halfbloods wouldn't, or they couldn't. How could he turn around and face people if he ran?

He wrote back a letter thanking Dad for his concern, but he was still coming home for the summer. His family was in Britain, and he couldn't leave Dad and Uncle Remus there, or his other friends. The student flight to Terminal M was still going ahead, a hundred and fifty newbloods and halfbloods from Britain and continental Europe on it, and not all of them would be able to find people outside of Britain to stay with for a three-month summer. Archie would go home – there was no question about it. All he could do was be careful, as careful as he could, and he promised Dad that he would.

In the middle of March, Chess caught him during a break in his theatre rehearsals. A Streetcar Named Desire this term – Archie had won the role of Mitch, while Thea had the starring role of Blanche DuBois.

"Are you free on Saturday morning?" she asked, pulling her messenger bag over a loose jacket, one that read King on the back. "Aldon says he needs to talk to you. Eight in the morning? You can still catch the shuttle into town for later, or I can ask Fals to drive us to the library. I need to email something to my dad anyway."

Archie blinked, taken aback as he reached for his bottle of water. "Yeah, of course. What's up?"

Chess shrugged, nonchalant. "I don't know. I didn't ask. He said to get Hermione, and I'll get John."

"Sure." Archie nodded, a little slowly. If it was all of them, it had to be serious. "Saturday at eight in the morning. I'll ask Hermione to book us a room in Seaton House with her BSA powers."

On Saturday morning, Chess met them, John at her side, in the small study room that Hermione had reserved. Chess wore an odd, set look on her face, but pulled her comm orb out of her bag with little ado.

"Hello, Aldon," she said, something iron underneath her usual soft tone, taking a seat in the chair that John pulled out for her, then pulling out a paper, something from a No-Maj scientific journal, to set in front of her. A tray of tea levitated in and set itself on the table. "As you requested – I have Archie, Hermione, and John with me."

A short pause, and Aldon's voice came over, more hesitant than Archie would have expected. "Thank you, Francesca. I have with me Neal and the Lord Black. And Alexander Willoughby Dragić, Derrick Holden and Toby MacLean."

"Dad!" Archie lit up with a wary smile. By the list of names, it had to be worse than Archie had thought, but it had been so long since he had heard Dad's voice!

"Sirius, please, Aldon." Dad's voice came over the comm orb, both amused and exasperated. According to Dad, Aldon couldn't help but put him in the same category as Lords like the Lord Malfoy, or the Lord Parkinson, whom he would never have called by name, but Dad kept trying. "I don't stand on ceremony, and neither should you. I'm about to order you to call me by name."

"He wouldn't listen." That voice wasn't one that Archie recognized, so he assumed that it had to be Alexander Willoughby – the one person he hadn't met. He had a small lisp, which was somehow surprising to Archie. With wand-casting so incantation-focused, most mages had speech therapy or something like that early on, so he had never heard a lisp in an adult before. "He doesn't listen very well."

"We need to talk," Derrick interrupted, abrupt, his voice serious. John had taken charge of the tea, pouring mugs for all four of them while Chess kept the communication link active. "Toby and I didn't come out to Queenscove for nothing. Who is this guy?"

There was a moment of awkward silence, as Alexander apparently didn't bother introducing himself or justifying himself in any way. Archie thought that Toby and Derrick had to be staring pointedly at him, a faceless figure in Archie's imagination, who was now glaring back.

"Captain Dragić is part of the Dhampiri Order," Neal said, trying to sound reassuring. "He has considerable war experience. I'll vouch for him, and Aldon does too."

Archie exchanged a look with Hermione, who was frowning, almost as if she was trying to remember something. John, however, shifted uncomfortably. Archie raised an eyebrow, but the bigger boy shook his head. It wasn't like him, especially the marked look of distaste on his face, so Archie kept the pressure on, demanding an answer. It took a moment, before he sighed and knocked Chess' hand off the comm orb.

"Dhampir are part-vampires." John's voice was quiet, and he sounded as uncomfortable as he looked. "They inherit some of the speed and strength, and the bloodlust, but most of them are sworn to the protection of the rest of the world from vampires. I don't know much else about them, but Alexander Willoughby was the alternate for Hogwarts last year. He was the one cleaned up the National Magic School of China in the Triwizard finals. I didn't pick up on the dhampir part then, but it explains a lot."

"I can come back later, when the two of you are ready to train," Alexander said, seemingly bored, and there was the sound of the scrape of a chair against stone floors. "There is no need for me to be here."

"No." Aldon's voice was immediate. "Please stay, Alex."

There was a pause. "An extra hour in the lists. Running. Or I'm leaving."

Someone on the other end burst into laughter, crackling a little over the comm orb connection. "Is that how we're trading things, now?" Toby asked, voice light. "Hours spent working out?"

"It's what I am paid for," Alex replied, his voice flat, but Archie guessed that he must have sat down because there was that scraping noise again. "Very well. To your concerns – I am a halfblood, though I went to Hogwarts, and I'm Serbian. I have no interest in reporting you to anyone, and I will swear so if you demand it. Aldon knows I am speaking truth."

"And I've warded the premises for secrecy," Aldon added, his voice quick. "None of us can talk about this elsewhere – not without choking on our words."

There was an awkward silence. Archie glanced over at his friends, but Chess was reading her paper, while John and Hermione seemed to be looking at him for a response. He looked back down at the light green orb, thinking it over.

Aldon and Neal had vouched for him, and Archie trusted them. Aldon would have said if anything Alex said was a lie, and Alex was willing to swear to silence, if necessary. Alex was a halfblood, and not British. And, bizarrely, it meant something to Archie that Alex didn't seem to care one way or the other about listening – if he was a spy with any interest in selling them out, Archie thought that he would be fighting harder to stay. And Aldon said there was a ward.

"It's fine," he heard himself saying. "I don't need an oath. Aldon, Neal, I'll trust you. What was it that you wanted to talk about?"

There was the sound of a heavy sigh, and Aldon's voice was grim. "Thank you, Archie. The Daily Prophet."

"What about the Daily Prophet?" Hermione leaned forward, her attention caught by his tone, her mug of tea halfway to her lips. She put it down with a thud. "What happened?"

"It was attacked earlier this week. Burned to the ground." It was Toby who answered, his accent stronger for the seriousness of his words. "Six dead."

"That's… that's awful." Archie's face crumpled a little, thinking about it. He had never liked the paper, but people were people, and no one could give a life back. Not everyone who worked for the Daily Prophet necessarily believed in their views – people needed work. "I mean, the Daily Prophet might have been garbage, but those poor people… What happened?"

"My sources tell me that there were a few open letters from the so-called Voldemort that he sought to publish," Aldon replied, calm but coldly stiff, which Archie had long since learned meant that he was uncomfortable. It was as if Aldon thought certain emotions were not things he was allowed to show, and any form of upset was among them. Instead, Aldon just got cold and stiff. "The Prophet refused, of course. It was only a pretext in any case; the so-called Voldemort could not have expected that they would publish his letters, so it was only a reason to set up the attack and burn it to the ground. The attack happened at night, fortunately – fewer people than usual were at the offices, and most of the night staff were able to get out."

"We're publishing the obits in Bridge this week," Derrick cut in, his voice hard. "Those six people will be remembered."

There was another moment of silence, this one more solemn, and Hermione reached out to grab Archie's hand under the table. John had frowned, in thought, while Chess had looked up briefly from her paper, expression inscrutable. Archie heard Dad start speaking, and he could almost picture the look on Dad's face; he would be worried, he would want them to shut down for safety reasons, because they were just a bunch of kids and—

"This means that, with most of the established papers reporting on niche topics only, Bridge is the sole source of political information that the public is going to receive for the foreseeable future," Dad said, and Archie blinked, taking another look at the orb. His dad's voice was grim, but he wasn't telling them they needed to shut down. "The Ministry will be putting resources into putting the Daily Prophet back together, but it will take weeks to replace the equipment, the staff will be scared and running, and the Ministry is low on resources with the hunt for the Azkaban escapees anyway."

"That's … right." From the pause, Archie knew that Aldon was surprised, but he covered it well. "I am not suggesting we change anything about the paper itself. Bluntly, even if more writers were available, our distribution issues are such that we cannot turn ourselves into a daily paper without seriously compromising our security. But this puts us in a very different position, both in terms of exposure and risk."

"More readers, because we're the only source of information they have, and that means more influence," Derrick said, and his voice was tight, pensive. "We're not increasing circulation supply. People can make copies for their friends and families on their own. It's too much risk to increase circulation and distribution beyond what we have."

"How overwhelmed is the Ministry?" Hermione's expression was fixed in the one that Archie called thinking a million things in a minute. The question was calm, too direct – people sometimes thought that Hermione was abrasive, and that she didn't care, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Hermione did care, and deeply, it was just that she tried to take her feelings and use them to fuel more work, to do something useful, as she called it. "There will also be more risk, as you said, but how much more? How is our security?"

"We're talking about that," Toby replied, still more serious than Archie usually heard him. "We're keeping to the system we have – as few names as possible, and we keep as much electronic as possible. No papers copies of anything, burn your drafts after you send them 're changing our printing facilities to somewhere safer, still in the Muggle world, and we'll change it up every few months. It's not perfect, but it'll have to do."

"As for the Ministry, my contacts say that anything except Voldemort is not the priority." Dad's voice was thoughtful, but stern. "The public is flooding in tips for the escaped Azkaban prisoners, so the Aurors are running ragged after them. There are arrests being made for people allegedly in support of the so-called Voldemort, but I would shave my head if any of them were legitimate."

"That doesn't matter, in any case." Aldon's tone was firm. "They don't have Azkaban Prison anymore, and the Ministry cells were never intended to hold people long term. My sources report fighting in the cells, and there are often escapes. None of ours have been arrested or attacked – I am passing word of any arrest warrant or planned attack I hear about onto the Welsh, the shifters, and the Clans, and so far we have been successful in keeping a low profile. And hopefully, Voldemort too will be focused on the Ministry; my spy doesn't have any information about any planned attack on Bridge. What is the international perception, currently?"

Hermione exchanged a glance with John, but John nodded for her to go ahead, and she leaned forward. "The BIA is reporting an increase in immigration claims, especially for blood refugees, from Wizarding Britain. In a way, it's good that the Marriage Law was passed – historically, since few purebloods wanted to marry newbloods or halfbloods, newbloods and halfbloods married amongst themselves. Now, those marriages are considered invalid, a clear discriminatory effect that most other nations recognize. I don't have exact numbers, just a copy of the BIA submissions."

"From MACUSA's side, I can say that it came to my dad's attention, and Wizarding America has committed to admitting twice the usual number of blood refugees this year than they usually do, subject to our usual requirements." John was frowning slightly, and Archie knew what he wasn't saying – MACUSA would be screening heavily for anyone with any taint of magical creatures. No shifters, no werewolves, no part-Veela or other part-creatures. No one with close associations with creatures, or part-creatures. "Gerry says that Wizarding Germany and the Nordics are planning on accepting more refugees as well, but not as many as America – the language barrier is an issue, so there are fewer applicants, and their populations are smaller so they can't absorb as many immigrants."

"My brother said that Wizarding Canada is seeing an uptick too," Neal added from the other side of the orb. "He doesn't have details, but a schoolmate of his passed the message along. Wizarding Canada is a lot like the Nordics and Germany though – while language is less of an issue, we still prefer bilingual mages, and our population is a lot smaller too. We can't support the numbers MACUSA can."

"Does anyone know anything about Australia? Kowalski?" Aldon asked, and Archie heard the scratch of a pen on paper. Aldon had to be taking notes. "I imagine they are seeing the same. And what about other support?"

"I haven't heard or seen anything in the news, but it isn't as though statistical trends are published until months afterwards. I can ask my cousin Rolf about Australia, see if he knows anyone, but he's like Great-Uncle Newt – he never liked politics. I'll ask. As for other support, what are you thinking?" John blew out a small breath. "It's not as if another condemnation statement will go anywhere."

There was a brief pause from the orb, then Aldon spoke again. "Monetary or other support?"

His voice was hopeful, or as hopeful as the proud, acerbic man ever got, but there was a hard splutter of laugh from the other side. "You have a paper, Aldon. Not a government. A paper."

That was the unfamiliar voice, Alex. Archie winced.

John and Hermione exchanged another look, and John shook his head, leaning towards the orb again. His voice was slow, but steady. "It would go against the sovereignty of nations for MACUSA or anyone else to offer financial or military aid when there hasn't been a formal plea for assistance."

"It's considered an internal governance matter," Neal added grimly, his voice echoing out from the orb. "According to my brother, the British delegation at the International Confederation of Wizards is still brushing over the whole affair as internal unrest that is being addressed. Unless that line changes, it's only going to be increased refugee acceptance, not even humanitarian aid."

"MACUSA takes a bit of a broader approach." John sighed, making a face, reaching for an taking a gulp from his mug of tea. "We've been known to interfere more than we should in other nations' affairs – but I think you would still need some sort of legitimacy, a sign that you are the legitimate, preferably democratically-elected, government of Wizarding Britain. You might have widespread support, but Bridge still recognizes the legitimacy of the Ministry of Magic."

Hermione ran one frustrated hand through her bushy curls, while Archie squeezed her other hand in reassurance. "And we have to do that so that we aren't all arrested and charged with sedition. It would be hard to say that the Ministry wasn't legitimate – even if it's undemocratic and appointed by the Wizengamot, it's been Wizarding Britain's government for centuries. That's what the other nations are going to see – and I don't know how to fix that. I don't see how we're going to get past that."

There was a long stretch of silence, and from the fact that Aldon didn't say anything, Archie knew that meant he didn't have an answer either. He looked around his room – Hermione looked more lost than he was used to seeing, while John was leaning back in his chair, face set. Chess was looking down at her paper still, but Archie hadn't seen her flip a page and she didn't seem to have moved past the first two paragraphs.

"So…" Archie said eventually, scrambling for something, anything to suggest. "So, what can we do? We can't just sit here, waiting. We have to do something – we have to show that the Ministry isn't fully in control anymore, we need to show both Wizarding Britain and the world what is really happening. We can't just sit here. Can we, I don't know, can't we at least warn people about the attacks that we hear about?"

"We could." Aldon drew the word out, thoughtful, and Archie just knew that it would be followed by a but. "I like the suggestion, Archie, but the problem is that I often don't receive much warning. Most of the attacks on families seem to spur of the moment, rather than planned in any real detail – my source hears an idea, and it often isn't solid."

Archie nodded slowly, still feeling unsatisfied. Aldon wasn't wrong, but they had to do something. Publishing warnings was better than nothing. "Yeah, but I want to publish any warnings we can – even if we just publish possible targets, I think that would save lives."

"It is risky for my source if it appears that we know too much about the attacks," Aldon replied, still measured, "but it could sow some dissension in Voldemort's ranks as well. We can see what we can do."

"You need a quick alert system," Alex said, his voice once again laconic and bored. "Your own wireless station, or you need to break into the Wizarding Wireless Network regularly to give warnings."

"We don't really have the equipment for our own wireless, or the skills to break into the WWN…" Aldon's voice trailed off, sounding dubious. "Or the manpower to run a radio station…"

"The No-Maj world regulates radio frequencies, but I might know someone who can give us an in," Toby added, his voice sounding considerably more upbeat. "Pirate radio stations are all the rage right now, so the main thing would really be the equipment and manpower, and there would be a Statute of Secrecy risk too, but I think we can work around that."

"Good, then you can look into it." Aldon sighed. "For now, let's continue reaching out to people for support. Archie, would you contact Saoirse Riordan at Ilvermorny? As I understand it, she is highly respected in the Irish wizarding community and connected to the underground Gaelic paper. She can spread the word in Ireland. She has not responded to me, but it may mean something if you write – you're a symbol, so it will mean more coming from you than anyone else."

"Yeah," Archie replied, feeling helpless and frustrated and disappointed all at once. "Yeah, I can do that."

Here they were, eight months after his trial, and it seemed like they had made no strides at all in Wizarding Britain. They were no closer to widespread enfranchisement than they had started, and none of the newblood or halfblood discrimination laws had been struck. Worse, it seemed to him that Voldemort had pushed things entirely in the wrong direction – before, only newblood and halfblood rights and freedoms had been a target, and now it seemed like the people themselves were under attack. And the Ministry didn't seem able to do anything. Azkaban prison was thrown open, the Daily Prophet was destroyed, and if anything, Voldemort seemed to be gaining power.

He wanted to do more. But he didn't know what more he could do.

XXX

Francesca sat outside Professor Ryan's office, a highlighter in her hand as she skimmed another academic paper. Things were good; Albert had developed a device, loosely based on the magical core measuring tool that already existed, to examine magical frequency, while Aldon had taken charge of using it to get data. Data, data, data, from his mother, from everyone at Blake & Associates, from all of his connections through Bridge and Neal. Combined with her deep dive into materials engineering, they were building something like a rough scale, identifying what magical frequencies corresponded to electromagnetic frequencies, and the ACD, once again, felt within her reach.

Everything was good. She and Javier were well prepared for the dance competition. True to Michelle's words, Francesca had taken easily to cabaret, and their routine featured an intense three lifts, a swing and two throws. They were going to break the technical scoring scale, and Michelle even said that their piece, tragic as it was and danced to an instrumental Romeo and Juliet arrangement, had heart. They were going to win; Francesca could feel it.

Francesca felt better than she had in years – less anxious, less panicked, less worried. She had to credit Fals with much of it; he was always there, always ready to lend her some of his warmth and steadiness, and with him beside her, she felt calmer than she had nearly since she had started at AIM. He paid attention to her, he showered her with affection and more than anything else, she felt loved when she was with him. He wasn't another John, who was tied to her in a way that he couldn't get away from; Fals was someone who had chosen to be close to her.

For her sixteenth birthday, he had driven to Charleston with her for the day. They had trawled through the museum, which Francesca had appreciated – she had always loved museums, though not much could compare to the enormous British Museum in London. It meant more that Fals didn't even like museums that much, but he had taken her anyway, and then they had found a trendy place for lunch and explored the city at their own pace. Just before they had left, he had directed her to a teddy bear café, serving tea and cake, all surrounded by teddy bears. The amount of pink and lace in the shop had been a bit disconcerting even for Francesca, but he had gifted her with a pristine new bear at the end that he had hidden in his backpack, one that she recognized immediately as a Steiff. She had protested, because they were expensive, but he had only leaned down to kiss her and told her not to worry, he had gotten it used and a little tattered, and he had fixed it up with a few Charms. He wanted her to be happy, and if she was, then he considered it a job well done.

She had thought about asking him into her room that night, but Fals would have declined anyway. In many ways, Fals was traditional, like Aldon, though she thought she could understand Fals a bit better. He was a Southerner, he was Christian, and he valued his faith and his family highly. He had two younger brothers, both of whom had chosen to school at Cascadia, but he spoke about them often and wrote them even more often.

The only problem was that he didn't understand the ACD. He listened to her talk about the ACD if she wanted, but he didn't have the magical theory or runes or engineering knowledge to follow. It was a pretty major problem, however – for Francesca, the ACD was one of the most important things in her life. She had chosen, over the holidays, to return to Britain for business meetings over it rather than see her family; she would make that decision again, not least because her parents fully supported her in that decision and told her that her work was important. But how could she explain that to Fals, when he came from such a different background, when he didn't understand the ACD?

But the ACD was only one thing, and Fals was so good about everything else, that Francesca tried not to worry about it. Over the months, she spoke to him less about the ACD, and more about dance, or their mutual friends, or the latest movie they had seen, and sometimes she just listened to him talk about whatever he wanted to talk about.

The rumblings of war in Britain were worrying. She wasn't British, but Archie and Hermione were, and her funding was based in Britain. Morning ACD meetings now had an underlying tension, vibrating through people's voices while they discussed magical theory and advanced charms and proto-runic syllabary, and Francesca feared that at some point, Albert or Aman or another of her collaborators would leave. Spelled non-disclosure agreements alleviated some of her worry that they would sell her project elsewhere, but she liked them, and they were good for the ACD. It would take months for anyone new to get up to speed on the project if any of them left. She hoped, vaguely, that Christie might take the entire firm out of Britain into America, but Aldon would never leave Britain and Christie would never leave Aldon. And so, for the foreseeable future, her funding was tied up in Britain.

She had asked a few preliminary questions of John, when she caught his eye recently, and he had let her know silently that he thought their immigration applications to Wizarding America could be expedited, if they needed it. All her main collaborators, with the exception of Aldon, were trained in America, and they would be bringing over a major business with a promising project. They were exactly the sort of immigrants that Wizarding America loved.

"Francesca?" Professor Ryan's voice floated out of her office in Thompson Hall, and Francesca stood up, quickly tucking her paper and highlighter back into her messenger bag. "Come on in."

Professor Ryan was seated behind a messy oak desk, wisps of her hair framing her face like a lion. Francesca had never had Professor Ryan as a teacher, but the redheaded woman had been her faculty advisor since her first year, when she had been moved into the Exceptionals program. Aside from being an accomplished witch, Professor Ryan had worked for several years as an engineer in the No-Maj world and had been incredibly helpful through her first few years struggling through ACD development.

She had Francesca's individualized education plan in front of her, showing a straight line of passes in Francesca's most heavily accommodated classes and accomplished, if not top, grades her other classes. Only Charms, Defense, and Transfigurations actually required much wandwork; Herbology and Potions had always used other methods of magical imbuing, and Francesca's electives had always tended towards the theoretical and non-wand-using classes anyway. For all that some people made a huge deal about Francesca's accommodations, in truth, half of her classes had no accommodations at all.

Francesca took a seat in the cushioned chair across from the professor, whose blue eyes skimmed the report in front of her, her mouth a considering line. Professor Ryan set the sheet of Francesca's grades down on the desk beside her, looking up with a small, not unfriendly smile. "How have you been, Francesca?"

"Um, fine?" Francesca twisted her hands in her lap, a little awkward. It was unusual for Professor Ryan to set up a meeting with her at this time. They were supposed to have regular meetings since Francesca was on an individualized education plan, but they had just had one of those a month ago, so she wasn't sure what to make of this meeting. "Things are fine, I mean – I'm doing well. I'm not sure – I don't know what you mean."

"And your ACD project?"

"It's going really well, Professor," Francesca said, feeling herself light up. "My collaborators and I have made a lot of progress in the last eight weeks. We worked out a proto-runic syllabary, we developed an ACD that holds a small ward and casts in thirty-six seconds, and we have a measuring device for magical frequency. Unfortunately, it only works for the visible light spectrum right now, but we are continuing work on it. It's very exciting."

Professor Ryan favoured her enthusiasm with a wider smile. "That's good to hear, Francesca. I'm glad that things are going so well for you right now, so I'm hoping you'll be able to consider what I'm about to suggest."

She picked up Francesca's academic records – more than just the past year, Francesca realized, but her complete academic history while at AIM, from her troubled first year until now. She ran her finger through Francesca's electives: Magical Theory, Runes, Research Methods, Song-casting, other non-wand classes. "I don't like to put it this way, Francesca, but without a wand and with these classes, you've fairly exhausted the education that AIM can provide you. We are not a Magical Theory-oriented school, nor do we have a strong concentration in Runes, and while you've done well in picking out non-wand courses, there aren't many of those left in your interest areas for your sixth or seventh years. Professor Battista has also advised that you lack the magical power to enter his higher-level song-casting classes."

Francesca sat, frozen, her hands gripped hard in her lap. Intellectually, she knew that what Professor Ryan was true – after this year, she had taken all the Magical Theory classes on offer, and a wand was needed for the upper-year Curse-breaking class. She had wondered about Ward Construction, since Aldon seemed to construct wards with runes, but she hadn't been sure if that was a factor of his personal style or not. She had completed all the standard Runes classes, as well, so she had been thinking about replacing it with an individual study project or something of that sort.

"I think you need to consider a transfer to Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Professor Ryan was saying, her expression serious. "Ilvermorny's strengths include Alchemy, Runes, and Magical Theory – they have a much wider course selection in these areas than we do, and we can easily transfer your records there. You could complete a Mastery in Runes."

Francesca didn't want to go to a new school. A new school wouldn't have John there to intercede on her behalf with other people, wouldn't have a big, familiar duelling club that she could lose herself in. There wouldn't be an Archie there, or a Hermione, and the whole idea filled her with dread. She didn't like new people.

"I—" she tried, but she had to take a breath. "But what if – what if I did some independent study projects, instead of coursework? Could I stay at AIM then? Or – or I could take some of the International Relations or Wizarding Law courses, or Latin, or some of your upper-year No-Maj Studies classes, in science, right? I mean, my parents want me to take the SATs anyway, so – so—"

Professor Ryan had a sympathetic look. "An independent study project is a lot of work, not just for you, but for the professors involved, and your likely projects, which I assume will largely be about the ACD, will be beyond most of their experience. You've never shown an interest in politics or law, and I don't want to see you signing up for classes you're not interested in just to stay at AIM. You have so much more potential than that. And in terms of No-Maj Studies, you are far beyond what I teach my seventh-years, even the advanced group looking at taking their SATs and getting admitted to a No-Maj college. It wouldn't be fair to my other students to put you in their classes when you're performing at the level you are."

Francesca looked down, to hide her expression, thinking fast. Professor Ryan wasn't wrong, but there had to be something she could say, or something she could do instead for academic credit.

Blake & Associates and the ACD. Their office was staffed with Masters in most disciplines, though not Magical Theory or Runes, but Christie was an Alchemy Mistress, Albert had his Mastery in Experimental Charms, and Aman was a Defense Mistress. There was also a Transfigurations Master and Christie had finally managed to fill their Potions Master position with someone from Australia. Francesca hadn't needed to work with either of them yet, but Jessica had said that she was interested in the project and that she would look at the blocking potion they were using to see if it could be further refined. There were Masters of most major disciplines within Blake & Associates.

The ACD was something like a graduate project, wasn't it? It sounded like something one of her dad's graduate students would do for a graduate thesis. Or, pieces of it were – the scope of the whole project was beyond even a doctoral thesis, so some parts of it had to be enough to count for two years of study.

"What if—" she choked out, looking up and trying not to stumble all over her words. "What if I found different Masters, ones that were better suited for the ACD project? I could – I could write academic papers explaining some of our results, including – including publishing some breakthroughs. I can't – because of our non-disclosure agreements, I can't publish too much, but some. Like a doctoral thesis. Would – would that be enough for two years of credits to graduate from AIM?"

Professor Ryan leaned back in her chair, which squeaked a little, thinking it over. She was rail-thin, bony, and even if she was kind more often than not, there was something tough and hard about her all the same. "You are talking about your collaborators, I assume. I think, Francesca, that this would depend on who they were, and whether they would agree to monitor your education. It's not out of the question, but we need more information before we can say anything conclusive."

"How—" Francesca looked up. She coughed, clearing her throat, which was closing up in her panic. "How long do I have to get the information for you? The people who would be overseeing me, and their agreement?"

Professor Ryan waved a hand, dismissive, but pulled out a package of papers from her desk and handed it to her – an information booklet for Ilvermorny, an updated version of the one that Francesca had gotten right when she had discovered her magic, when she was deciding how to rank her school choices. "Before the end of the school year will be fine, Francesca. I only wanted you to think about it, to get used to the idea. AIM and Ilvermorny can process your transfer late in the summer, if that is what you decide or if we cannot accept your proposed independent study project. I really do hate to tell you this, Francesca, but I don't think returning to AIM for schooling is an option for you. We don't have enough to offer in your areas of interest. Ilvermorny is a very good school, and you would do well there. I want you to think about it. Ilvermorny can get you a Runes Mastery – even if AIM approved your proposed independent study instead, we wouldn't grant you a Mastery."

"I don't need a Mastery," Francesca said quickly, picking up her messenger bag from where she had left it on the floor beside her, sliding the Ilvermorny booklet inside without looking at it. "I'll – A Mastery isn't that important to me. I'm going to go to a No-Maj college anyway, so maybe I can have some credits for my homeschooling curriculum, too?"

"I think that part could certainly be arranged, if that is what you want to do." Professor Ryan smiled again, a little sad. "That could only count for, at most, two classes, however. Just think it over, Francesca. Ilvermorny is a good place, and I'm sure you would meet people who would welcome you."

"I'll – I'll think about it," Francesca lied, standing up and swinging her bag over her shoulder, automatically checking for her defensive paper charms. She hadn't needed to use any recently, but they were still charged and ready to fire. "I'll have the information about a – I guess we can call it a thesis committee? I'll have it to you as soon as I can. Thank you."

She heard Professor Ryan sigh as she turned around and fled from her office, flying down two sets of stairs in Thompson Hall and navigating the maze of corridors with the ease of long practice. She had to talk to Christie about this – she was sure that Christie would at least consider it, and they all had Masteries. Only Aldon hadn't had one, but when they still talked, he had mentioned once or twice wanting to study for one in Magical Theory.

She could comm orb them, right now, if she wanted to talk to Aldon. It was about four-thirty her time, not even ten at night in Britain, but she didn't want to talk to Aldon. Aldon would hear how upset she was, and he would want answers, and she didn't want to talk to him anyway. They had a meeting tomorrow morning, so she would just ask Christie for a time that they could call and talk privately later, or something like that. Preferably without Aldon there, though she didn't know how she would arrange that. She didn't know how long it would take, and even if Fals would drive her to town to use the public pay phone, the connection there wasn't good for anything complicated.

She wished there was someone she could talk to about this now. Not John, and not Fals – both of them would encourage her to change to Ilvermorny, and they would tell her a dozen stories about the famous school. All of John's family had gone to Ilvermorny until he and his sister had broken with tradition, and Fals would raise the point about getting a Mastery in Runes, which AIM didn't offer. But mid-school transfers were rare, and Francesca didn't want to go to a new school. It was hard enough coming to AIM for the first time, and that was before everything had gone bad, and she had known then that everyone would be new in first year. She couldn't go somewhere where people would have already formed their friend groups, not when she didn't know anyone, not when no one would want to give her the time of day, and John and Fals wouldn't understand.

Much as she hated to admit it, she wanted to talk to Aldon. Aldon would understand, she thought – Aldon would support her wanting to just stay in Britain, war or no war, working with Blake & Associates full-time on the ACD. Her ACD even had wartime applications; no one could deny that John had had a marked edge in the Triwizard Tournament with the ACD, or that Aldon had pulled a win out of his duel relying on it. The more research they could do, the more they could expand the range of magical frequencies her device would work with, the more people they could equip with it. He would support her, and John and Fals wouldn't.

She was upset, and dance practice was a struggle. Technically, she was as good as she ever was, but her heart wasn't in it, and the emotions she had to pull on just weren't there. She mentioned something about a rough day to Javier, who let it go saying that they all had bad days, and Michelle dismissed her early to "get her head on straight." She trudged to her bag, pulling out her stack of paper charms to put safely under her bra strap, feeling very lost and out of sorts.

"Chess! Hey, Chess," Archie was calling her, and she turned around. He had been standing near the stage, heckling Thea for overacting as she played out one of Blanche Dubois' more dramatic moments, but he trotted over to her when she looked towards him. "What's up? You look – well, your dancing was off, like you were distracted, and the look on your face says that you're… hmmm, I don't know how to describe it. Like someone murdered your pet mouse or something."

Francesca couldn't help snorting. "Murdered my – I don't have a pet mouse, Archie."

"I couldn't tell from your face." Archie raised an eyebrow, grey eyes inviting her to laugh with him. "But seriously, you look upset. Do you want to talk about it?"

Francesca hesitated. It wasn't as though Archie wasn't her friend, but even if they were the only two arts-inclined ones in their little foursome, she knew they weren't as close as he was with Hermine or John. "I just – bad day, you know," she fumbled.

Archie tilted his head, thinking about it, then he turned to the stage. "Oi, Sarah! I think we covered all my scenes for the day, so I'm taking off, is that all right? A thing came up, and I'll make up another rehearsal later, if you want."

The brunette at the edge of the stage, clipboard in hand, looked up. Francesca recognized her vaguely as the Director for the year. "That's fine, Arch, all you're doing is distracting Thea anyway. See you tomorrow."

"Great!" Archie beamed at her, before grabbing his own bag and a bottle of water from the side of the auditorium. "Come on, Chess – you look more bothered than I've seen since the holidays, and it's clearly bad enough that you can't wait for John or Faleron to finish Duelling practice."

Francesca paused, but she nodded eventually. Of everyone at school, Archie was probably the best choice. He had grown a lot since his first year, and he was good at listening to people. He would let her get her thoughts out, at least, before giving his opinion on anything.

He led her to a study room in Pettingill Hall, one of the smaller ones that gave them a little privacy. Francesca sat down in one of the chairs, softened by a Cushioning Charm to be more comfortable than it looked, and promptly put her head down on the desk with a heavy sigh.

"I can't conjure tea," Archie said sheepishly, dropping in the seat across from her. "I'm just – I don't have a teapot, and I'm no good at it. Do you want me to go get some from Seaton House?"

"I hate Seaton House tea." Francesca didn't look up from the desk. "It's always burnt and has no taste."

Archie laughed. "I can't actually tell, you know? I know your tea is better, somehow, but to me the main thing I taste different is that Seaton House tea is stronger. More caffeine for late night studying, as Hermione says, and she likes it for that reason. What's up, Chess?"

Francesca groaned, wondering where to start, but she supposed that there was no beating around it for her. "I had a meeting with Professor Ryan, my faculty mentor. I can't come back to AIM next year."

"Why not?" Archie leaned forward, his eyebrows creased in concern, resting one hand on his chin.

"Because AIM doesn't offer enough courses for me to fill out the upper years," Francesca admitted, rubbing at her eyes. "And that's – well, that's true. I'm through all the magical theory classes AIM has on offer, and all the Runes classes too. I did Research Methods in second year, and I guess I could take more, I don't know, Latin or International Relations or Wizarding Law, but I don't really want to take those classes either."

"What about the song-casting classes?" Archie's voice was calm, thoughtful. "There are two more years of those courses, right?"

"I don't have the magical power," Francesca muttered in reply. "You need to score at least blue on the magical power scale for those classes. I don't have that kind of power. I'm… kind of an orange colour."

Archie made a face, sympathetic. "I really hate that, you know, that some areas are just roped off if you don't have enough magical power. It shouldn't matter, it's not something that we can control, and I know that some things just take more power – Infectious Disease requires blue too – but I really don't like it. Anyway, that was a tangent. What did Professor Ryan say?"

"That I should transfer to Ilvermorny – they have a wider Alchemy and Runes program, so she said I could do a Mastery in Runes there." Francesca sighed deeply, looking down at the study table – clean, white and minimalist, like so much of the Pettingill Hall furniture. Even her chair was powder blue.

"Okay." Archie nodded. "But you don't want to because…?"

"New school, new people – I just won't fit in. Here, at AIM, I have John. I have you and Hermione, and I have the Duelling Club. There – If I go to Ilvermorny, everyone will already have their established friend groups, I don't want to just come in and – I don't like meeting new people. And I don't really want to do a Mastery in Runes – there aren't any schools that do work on the interface of No-Maj engineering and magic. I just want to focus on the ACD, and I can only do that with Blake & Associates." Francesca rubbed at her eyes again, wishing that she did have some tea. Even bad Seaton House tea.

"Go on." Archie reached over, resting a hand on her arm, warm.

"I asked Professor Ryan if maybe – since the ACD is in development, if we could treat that like a thesis project supervised by the Masters at Blake & Associates, if that could be taken instead of coursework for my last two years here. She said the admin would consider it, but I mean – Wizarding Britain is at war. And it would mean working really closely with Aldon, like in Britain, and John would blow up if I mentioned it. And Fals wouldn't like it, either."

"Okay," Archie repeated slowly, tapping one finger, and Francesca realized she had just dumped a lot of information on him and he was still untangling her words. "All right. Okay. The first part, well, I can tell you that people aren't that bad and I'm sure you'll make new friends wherever you go, but I know that's not really reassuring. And that doesn't matter if you don't want to study there anyway. Let's talk about Britain, then. I mean, I can't say it wouldn't be dangerous – it feels like people are disappearing every few days, and not only in Wizarding world – but I'd be a hypocrite to try to stop you, you know? If an independent study project is you decide you want to do and it's approved, you're welcome to stay at Grimmauld Place. It's a noble manor, it has more protections on it than most other places, and it's in the middle of No-Maj London. It'll keep Dad from turning into a mushroom. But you said something about working with Aldon, and upsetting John and Faleron, and that seems more important to you than the war. Do you… want to talk more about that?"

Francesca blinked – she hadn't even realized what she had said, but now that Archie pointed it out, it seemed obvious. The war was one thing, but she hadn't thought much about it other than how it would affect ACD development. War seemed like a foreign concept; she was newblood, but she was also American, and she preferred many No-Maj things over their magical counterparts. Even having spent both the summer and winter holidays in Britain, she had never wandered far into magical Britain, not on her own, not to explore. She preferred the No-Maj world, and No-Maj England was stable, and she struggled to reconcile the two. Even when she went to the Ministry Ball, the ongoing war hadn't really occurred to her, and both her thoughts at the time and her memories focused on Aldon more than anything else.

"I—" she started, and she paused, trying to think through what she wanted to say. "Well, there was the holiday. That was – it was – I don't even know how to put it. I trusted him, Archie, and he betrayed me. He tried to trick me into marrying him, and I haven't forgotten that. But when we're working together, it's – it's different. He understands the ACD, and even John doesn't really understand the ACD, let alone Fals. I—"

She stopped again, looking down at the table. Archie waited, and her breath was barely above a whisper. "I miss him. I miss talking about the ACD with him – not just in formal business meetings, but just for fun. He – he knows magical theory, and runes, and he knows what I dream about making with the ACD. But I can't – I can't go back to that, because, you know, I told him no. Before he did it, I said it was too early. I told him it was too early to meet my parents, I laughed at his joke about marriage. Except it wasn't a joke, Archie."

Archie nodded, his steel grey eyes were thoughtful. "Okay. What about John? You said that John would blow up if you mentioned going to Britain, what's that about?"

Francesca made a face, her nose wrinkling. "With John, it's really more about Aldon than war. He hasn't forgiven Aldon for the holiday stunt, and I'm not sure he ever will. And that's – he's right, Archie. John is right. Aldon didn't just cross my boundaries – he ignored everything I said that didn't match with what he wanted to hear, and he blew up my boundaries. I shouldn't miss him. I shouldn't want to talk to him the way we used to, before he did what he did. But I do."

"Okay." Archie rested his chin in one palm, frowning a little, and his voice was a little quieter. "And what about Faleron?"

There wasn't a hint of judgement when he asked, it was just a question.

"I like Fals," Francesca said immediately, with a small shrug of discomfort. "He's kind and generous – he always has time to help someone with their homework, or to tutor them in duelling, and he's responsible and steady. He's loyal, and he's close to his family."

"But?"

"He just doesn't really understand the ACD." Francesca paused, then she sighed again, feeling somewhat guilty. "I mean – that shouldn't matter. That doesn't matter. He supports me in it, he just doesn't understand – he doesn't have the magical theory or runes or science background. I don't – well, he doesn't understand what it means to me, either. If – if I choose to go to a warzone for ACD development over transferring to another school in America, he'd be really upset, and I don't really know how we can get past that. But it's not like he would be at AIM next year either, he's graduating and going to law school – we'd never see each other anyway."

Archie nodded, sombre. "That's hard. I don't really know what to tell you, other than to say that if it's meant to be, it'll work out. All right. Let's get back to the important thing: you want to go back to Britain to work on the ACD if AIM will accept it as meeting the qualifications for your last two years of magical study. Can I tell you what I think, Chess? A bit of a different perspective?"

"I guess so." Francesca looked up from her desk, smiling a little

"I think you should ignore John and Faleron on this – it's your ACD, and even if I don't understand it, I know it's important to you. You're the one who gets to decide what risks you're willing to take for it, and if that means going back to Britain, then we'll work it out. As for Aldon…" Archie looked up, pausing, sorting through his words. "Look, I didn't grow up in quite the same environment as he did, but Dad did. Aldon is – he was raised as a very proper noble pureblood Heir, and a lot of what he does needs to be read in that light. The ritual he used was a very old one, but it's very romantic, the kind of thing that gets sung about in legend. Wizarding knights used to swear something like it for their ladies, before they went to war, and a response was only expected if they returned. For Aldon to pull that out, he really… Well."

Archie voice trailed off, then he leaned forwards again, looking Francesca in the eyes. "That ritual, as a magical rite, supersedes the Marriage Law. And Aldon hasn't been raised the way we were, to date around a little before we settle down. Nobles generally have arranged marriages, often very young, and for him, the fact that he proposed and the fact that he used that rite to do it – in his mind, and based on how he was raised, it was very romantic. I'm not saying you should forgive him, that's entirely up to you, but you shouldn't feel like you need to hold yourself back from forgiving him, either."

"And my boundaries?"

Archie shrugged a little. "Don't worry about that too much. I've told him you've moved on, so he'll keep his hands and lips and vows to himself. You don't need to forgive him if you don't feel like you should, but I don't think he should be keeping you from doing what you want to do if you want to do it anymore than John or Faleron. He's just another one of your colleagues, now."

Francesca nodded, sighing, and reached for her bag. She felt John heading in the direction of Pettingill Hall. "I think Duelling is almost done. I'm going to go meet Fals. I'll – thanks for talking with me, Arch. I appreciate it."

"Anytime." Archie grinned, boyish. "Just returning the favour from second year."

Francesca laughed, remembering that awkward conversation about the Holocaust in second year. Archie had looked so confused and lost then, far from the confident young man she now saw in front of her. She nodded in thanks again, before disappearing out in the late afternoon sunshine.

The next morning, at the end of the communication orb meeting with Blake & Associates, she asked Christie if they could talk later, privately.

"By communication orb?" Christie asked, a little surprised. "Or by telephone? Cross-Atlantic telephone calls are expensive, and you'd need to get into town to do it…"

Francesca hesitated. She would prefer a telephone call, which was more private, but if her plan succeeded, it wouldn't be a secret. Aldon would find out anyway, and it was still a professional issue. She could ask Fals to drive her to town right after classes today, but it wouldn't be very convenient for either of them. She could wait for a weekend, but she wanted to get the ball rolling now.

"Comm orb will be fine," she said eventually. "Erm, at nine your time?"

"That works perfectly, Francesca. I'll talk to you then."

Later that afternoon, Francesca spilled out the story and her proposal. She had been plotting out what pieces could be potentially publishable, without risking anyone scooping the ACD. The piece about the blocking potion and aerogels could go into a Potions journal, and she could second-author a paper on the advancements of proto-runic syllabary with Aldon for other spells and ward use in a Runes journal. She could even write a preliminary paper on magical frequency, especially as it related to wand use, with a comparison to electromagnetic frequencies. There were a dozen small papers or pieces she could publish, and without mentioning resonance or diving into No-Maj electrical engineering or materials engineering, the ACD would still be protected. Especially if they published in very different journals – with the silos around each magical academic discipline, it would all likely fly under other academics' noses. A Runes Master reading their paper on proto-runic syllabary was unlikely to also read a Potions paper on the blocking potion and aerogels, or a Magical Theory paper on magical frequency, and almost certainly wouldn't have the No-Maj science or engineering knowledge to put the ACD together.

She had planned it out, and she only needed three to five Masters at Blake & Associates to oversee her so she could graduate from AIM. And she could work at Blake & Associates full-time, with everyone else.

There was a pause on the other end of the comm orb, and Francesca waited, breath bated, for the response.

"I have no problems with this," Christie said slowly. "If that is what you want to do, Francesca, we would love to have you with us. I can supervise - I have a Mastery in Alchemy, and I am sure Albert would be delighted to as well. I'll ask Jessica if she'll act as a third committee member, but it's unfortunate we don't have a formal Runes Master or Master of Magical Theory on staff, since they would be the closest to the ACD project and its strengths. I can gather our CVs here and prepare a joint letter of endorsement for AIM."

"And I can certainly write a paper with you on proto-runic syllabary," Aldon added, with a note of humour. "We could do multiple papers: one adapting the proto-runes concept for different spells, then another for the wards. Though, without the context of the ACD, I fully expect that these papers, if published, will go completely unnoticed but for a few people mocking us for even looking at it."

"Why do you say that, Aldon? And why do you sound so amused?" Francesca frowned at her communication orb, her breath only coming a little short as she addressed him directly, as she hadn't for months.

"Well, when we drop the ACD on their blinkered heads, they'll curse themselves over it," Aldon replied, and Francesca could picture the smirk on his face. "And that will be very funny. Do you know yet where you will be staying, if approved? I will want to look at their wards. We are at war."

Francesca hesitated, but didn't see any harm in replying. It wasn't as if she would be staying anywhere different, most likely. "Um, probably Grimmauld Place, Archie said I could move in. If Sirius says no, though, I can, um, probably move into Queenscove with Neal. He's basically my brother-in-law's brother, so, um, Tina can bully him into it."

"That sounds … appropriate." Aldon's voice was slow, measured. "I enjoyed speaking tonight, Francesca. I … hope to see you here in Britain soon."

Francesca paused, looking down at the orb, feeling her chest hurt with old betrayal and new uncertainty.

She ignored it. "If you could gather the CVs and provide a letter of endorsement, Christie, I can – I will draft the education plan and submit it to AIM. With luck, they should accept it, and we can, um, go from there. I have to get going to practice, so, um, thank you. Have a good evening."

She let go of the comm orb, but comm orbs weren't like phones. She couldn't unilaterally cut the connection – she could only choose to not respond. So, she still heard both Aldon and Christie wish her a good practice, even as she dropped the orb on her dresser, and she heard Aldon's quiet whisper, a few minutes later, as she changed out of her uniform into her practice clothes and grabbed her bag.

"Francesca – I really wish you would talk to me. I miss you, and I miss talking to you, about anything and everything. Please just … give me a chance. Let me apologize. Just talk to me."

Francesca walked out the door.

XXX

Aldon stared down at his orb. He knew that Francesca had probably heard him – it had only taken him a minute or so to excuse himself to his bedroom, and she couldn't have gone that quickly. But, as always, she hadn't responded. His orb still glowed, pale green, but there was no sign she had heard, nor did she acknowledge his comment at all.

He sighed and fought the urge to throw the orb against the wall. First, that would be an incredibly immature reaction, and second, they needed the orb for work. No one would appreciate it if he wrecked the easiest and fastest way to contact Francesca from Britain in what amounted to an eighteen – almost nineteen – year old's temper tantrum.

Instead, he set the orb down gently on his side table, near his window, the dip in his pillow where it had previously resided long gone. Perhaps once Francesca returned to Britain, preferably permanently, he would find a time to talk to her, grovel some apologies, and persuade her to forgive him. Somehow.

Archie said she was seeing someone. Aldon didn't know whether he was lying or not, and his gift most regrettably didn't work across email. He couldn't even ask Francesca whether it was true, because it wasn't the sort of thing he could ask in a business meeting and she wasn't responding to him otherwise. It was possible that Archie had only told him so in an effort to encourage him to move on, as the boy would put it, but he worried that it was true. That thought, more than anything else, drove him out with Alex more than strictly necessary.

Alex worked him past the point of thinking. Aldon still hated running, but the jog to the Leaky Cauldron, only a few kilometres, didn't seem as daunting now as it did only twelve weeks ago. Alex sometimes made them run more laps across Queenscove, where the hilly terrain set his thighs on fire and his lungs gasping for air, and only after that and what Alex called a "minor strength regimen", was Aldon allowed to play with his guns.

Aldon liked target practice. The feeling of the weapon in his hands, heavy and serious, matched the atmosphere now permeating his life. Francesca would not talk to him, he was perpetually tired, and around him everything seemed to be turning darker, but he didn't seem to be able to do much about it. Aldon heard things; Aldon heard the plans of Voldemort, strikes before they happened, from Lestrange, and he heard the plans of the Ministry, what arrest warrants had been signed, from both the Shifter Alliance and the Clans. But all he could do was send word to his allies, passing names and dates and information through Toby and Quinn, or Hannah, or Cedric. If it was any of theirs, they would pull them out of the way before anything happened; if they weren't, Aldon would hear about the strike or the arrest from another source. And he only heard a small number of the attacks that were planned, and never in enough time to publish in Bridge – for attacks, he was lucky if he got a day, let alone a week. People were disappearing, plucked off the streets or from their own homes, and it seemed like there was news of another one every week or so. The Muggles, too, were reporting a crime wave, an increase in violence, which Aldon fully attributed to Voldemort.

The Ministry and Voldemort were just two sides of the same Galleon, from his perspective. They were both attacking and arresting people who had nothing to do with the laws that were passed, fighting over the societal ideals that most witches and wizards had had no hand in crafting. If Aldon were on top of that little world, perhaps he wouldn't care, but he wasn't.

Aldon Blake was a halfblood bastard, and with the exception of being able to access a few particular, ancient, magical rituals, he was no better off than any other non-noble, and quite a lot worse off than non-noble purebloods. In this, he stood with most of Wizarding Britain – caught in the middle, between two warring factions.

Aldon heard the worries at work – his mother was often tense, on edge, and Aldon had reworked the penthouse wards yet again, spending his excess nervous energy building ever more creative defensive spells into her wards. Albert had asked Aldon to take a look at his family wards, at their home in Manchester, and Aldon had only been too happy to comply and built him as close to a top-tier security ward as he could dream. Both Aman and Ryu had sent their families abroad, while they remained behind. Aldon suspected that Aman, as their resident Defense Mistress, felt an obligation to stay behind, but he wondered how long Ryu could be expected to remain. Their new Potions Mistress, Jessica Wilson, had immigrated from Australia entirely through Muggle means with her husband, a Muggle biochemistry professor, and had carefully not announced her presence in Wizarding Britain to the Ministry. Blake & Associates hadn't lost anyone yet, but Aldon wondered how soon that would last.

Shooting things felt good. He liked the satisfying kick of the gun as he fired his weapon, he liked the calm breathing exercises involved in sniping. He liked the feeling that, for his best shots, the kick of the gun was a surprise even to himself, and he liked examining the target and seeing all of his shots neatly clustered in the centre around the figure's chest. While Aldon took a position on Neal's battlements, shooting targets ever farther away on his ravelins or on the coast, Neal and Alex battled with their swords in the lists. Better Neal than him, he thought, because even equipped with his handgun and wand, in short-range combat, Alex put him in the dirt daily.

"Move your feet," Alex had snapped at him, after the first 2 weeks. "With a wand and gun, you should aim to keep your distance, while with a sword, I aim to stab you. Run, you idiot, and take your shots when you're safe!"

Aldon ran. He ran, and he fired paint pellets at his friend. He never hit Alex, but the movement, running, action made him stop thinking, stop spinning his mind in endless, exhausting circles, stop lying awake at night with an active brain, wondering what came next. With a few hours of training in the morning, work all day and then an evening processing information coming in from various sources, he fell into bed every night near midnight and slept through until when Alex invaded his bedroom at six in the morning to drag him out for more training. Weekends were just as bad – Alex worked him twice as long on weekends, Neal joining in.

He took his time, breathing slowly as he stared through his sight, spotting the black cut-out targets that Neal had set up for him across the ravelins, on a few outcrops on the sea approach. He could hear the distant sound of Neal yelling at Alex as he breathed, in and out, staring at the target. He watched the target bob, up and down, with his breathing, and his finger on the trigger was heavy.

The shot went off. The figure disappeared, and Aldon knew that he had hit it. He discharged the empty casing from the chamber and heard something new from the direction of the main hall – not Neal yelling, not Alex's occasional biting tone. It wasn't the Lady Queenscove, either, who was away teaching Mandarin in Muggle Edinburgh.

He stood up, walking across the battlements to look down. It was the Lord Black, holding something up in the air. Aldon couldn't make out what he was saying, but his tone was excited. He paused, watching as Neal walked over a minute later, Alex joining him. He tilted his head curiously, and Neal looked up, waving him down.

Aldon glanced over at his rifle set-up, but he could always come back to target practice later. He contemplated just leaving it, but Alex had drilled taking care of his equipment into him, so he reluctantly broke his rifle down and packed it away before taking the long stairs down to the grounds and joining the others in front of the wide doors to the Great Hall.

"What is it?" he asked, glancing over at the Lord Black and the object that he was showing in his hands. "An imaging orb? They're rare, in Wizarding Britain."

"Archie just sent it to me from AIM!" The Lord Black crowed in delight, brandishing the smoky grey orb. "He said he wanted to show me his school and, since I can't go to AIM myself. He mentioned that Neal would know how to trigger it to play."

"Sure," Neal said agreeably, glancing at Alex. "It's Saturday, Alex – we can take a break and get back to it later."

"Or, you're exhausted," Alex quipped, though he didn't seem to have any complaints.

Neal sighed, and Aldon half-smiled as he saw that Neal did in fact look quite sweaty and tired, while Alex looked the same as ever. But Alex never seemed to show the effects of training, not like Aldon or Neal, so Aldon would have been surprised if that were not the case.

"Upstairs parlour is best for this, I think – I'll join you there, I'm going to run for a quick shower. The castle will show you the way, Sirius."

A shower did sound like a good idea, because as much as Aldon tolerated exercise, he still didn't enjoy the sweat of physical activity. He was the second one into the upstairs parlour, choosing a seat across from the Lord Black with a nod of acknowledgement. He couldn't help but be curious about AIM – it wasn't just where Archie went, but Francesca as well, and he wanted to be able to picture the things that she had talked about last term. Neal, as last in the room, accepted the orb from the Lord Black, set it on the table, and traced a symbol on it with his wand.

The picture unfolded on the low-lying table in front of them, just as Chang's had in the Triwizard Tournament – the Tournament had only been a year ago, Aldon realized with some surprise, but it felt much longer.

"Hi, Dad!" Archie popped up in the image, with a wide and excited grin. "I hope you got the orb working, because Hermione and I have gotten one and I'm making a home video for you!"

"Archie, if he's watching, then he will have figured out how to play the orb." Hermione's voice was dry, but amused.

Archie laughed, and Aldon tuned him out in favour of looking behind him, to his surroundings. They were in an enormous, sun-filled room, decorated white and powder blue. A mix of tables were on one side of the room, while the other, under a grand wall of glass, held numerous puffy armchairs and sofas. Above the common room were balconies on balconies, each one lined with doors, presumably bedrooms. They were in the Healer dormitories, apparently, Pettingill Hall. Aldon glanced over at Neal as Archie took them around, chattering commentary to his father the entire time – Neal was smiling, a mildly nostalgic look on his face.

"They were my old dorms, too," he explained, catching Aldon's eye. "Home for seven years."

From the Healer's dorms, Archie took them out on a grand tour of the grounds. AIM seemed much more open than Hogwarts had been, though Aldon had always guessed that was the case by the various building names that Francesca, Archie and Hermione habitually threw out without thought. Archie didn't take them inside the other dorms, Oliver Hall, the sprawling mansion that housed a third of all AIM students, including Francesca, or into the Mastery townhouse complex, painted rainbow colours and numbered, rather only pointing out that they were there. He walked across campus to Seaton House, the student community centre, showing the dining hall, the auditorium where Francesca was practicing, giving a distracted wave to her friends when she saw them, showing the mess of club rooms and study rooms and the great library.

"Pettingill Hall has its own Healing-focused library, and the Mastery townhouses all have specialized libraries too, but this is the main one," Archie explained, pointing things out while other students glared at him over their books. "Sorry, sorry! Making a video for my dad!"

"You can do that outside, and not where people are working," another voice drawled, annoyed, and the image cut shakily back to the outdoors.

Archie led them over to Thompson Hall, the teaching building, and showed them a few classrooms – the No-Maj Studies classroom, his Healing classrooms. Classrooms everywhere were more or less the same, Aldon would have thought, but instead of blackboards, AIM was equipped with whiteboards, covered in blue ink.

Inside the stadium, Archie showed them part of a pickup Quodpot game, where Kowalski was playing what Archie called a centre position. Forwards were the aggressive ones, meant to score points, and came in either blocking or sprinting varieties; centres were expected to be versatile, filling whatever gaps had been left when the Quods exploded and eliminated players. Defense players were all huge, broad, meant to block sprinters from scoring or to engage other blockers. As Aldon watched, another Quod exploded in air, sending the girl who had been holding it spiralling in the air as the other players laughed.

"And that's AIM – or at least the main parts of AIM." Archie grinned, delighted, and Aldon glanced over at the Lord Black to see that the man was completely enraptured by his son moving across the broad table, showing all the things that he loved. "I want to save some space on this recording orb some special things, so I'll stop recording now. Not Quidditch, AIM Quidditch is still awful, but other things!"

"You do realize that when he watches this, it's just going to cut to the next thing you want to show, right?" Hermione asked, coming around to the front of the orb for the first time, weirdly huge in the frame, an exasperated look on her face. "This is all going to sound very odd to Sirius when he watches it."

"It's only my first movie, 'Mione, cut me a break!" Archie winked, slinging an arm over the girl's shoulders. "The first of many movies, I promise."

"I hope not," Hermione muttered, but from the expression on her face, Aldon could see that she didn't mean it.

The next frame opened at a different school, one that Aldon could see instantly was built much more like Hogwarts: a tall, imposing castle on a mountain. It seemed bigger, however, with more wings and galleries, and the orb panned to show the valleys below.

"Welcome to Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" Archie's voice was bright, chipper, as he appeared in the image. "I can't actually show you much of the school itself, Dad, since I don't go here, but it's the oldest school in Wizarding America and has a thousand students. Can you imagine? Even AIM only has about six hundred or so, and Ilvermorny has almost twice as many!"

Aldon couldn't imagine it – Hogwarts had had only about three hundred students which, he supposed, explained why he had always been impressed with the course offerings and extra-curricular activities that Francesca had mentioned. He wondered just how big their classes were, then he remembered Francesca mentioning that there were many teachers for most areas including eight different Charms Masters. Unlike at Hogwarts, there was no guarantee that a class would have the same professor for a subject across multiple years, and it was more common to have classes with different Masters in different years. It all sounded horrendously complicated, sorting out different student schedules.

"Anyway," Archie said, leading the recording back into the maze of hallways that didn't seem very different from Hogwarts, "we're here for Chess' dance competition! We get to go to other schools in the North American League for games and events and so on, we all have Portkey Hubs, and I thought it would be fun to show you Ilvermorny since I had the chance. And we're here to cheer Chess on, too – I'm going to turn this off until right before she comes on, but her performance this year is going to be great."

"I wish you planned what you were going to say before you turned the recording on," Hermione's voice came through, a little exasperated. "It's just going to cut to the next thing, you don't have to explain it, Archie."

They were suddenly in a huge, cavernous hall, seated on high bleachers above the ground, music blasting. Archie came into the image, grinning and pointing, and the image swung to the ground, where it seemed like a hundred people were milling about, half of them in outlandish costumes. Aldon picked out Francesca after a moment, dressed in a short, black, form-fitting dress that left little to his imagination, her hair carefully dolled up into a curly black tail, her makeup heavy and aging her by at least five years.

He swallowed. She wasn't wearing most revealing clothing of everyone on the floor, but it wasn't by much. He stared at her for a long moment, barely breathing as he ran his eyes over her delicate curves, fighting the urge to interrupt the image – to block it so the others couldn't see, or to freeze it to stare more, he wasn't sure.

She was standing beside a tall, darker-skinned boy wearing similarly tight clothing. Her eyes were tracked towards a long table, where people were deliberating, and numbers were being fired into the air – scores for the previous performers, Aldon guessed, based on what Francesca had told him about magical dance. A technical score, and an artistic score, and they would add to determine the winners. The last pair scored sixty-one, and Francesca shook her head, murmuring something to the boy standing beside her, who was stretching his arms. The boy shrugged a little, saying something, and Francesca nodded.

There was a breath, where she shut her eyes and seemed to settle deeper into herself, and then they linked their hands and ran out onto the floor. Aldon's face darkened, and he privately thought Francesca and the boy looked ridiculous because he was a clear foot taller than her. She was smiling, taking their first position, but he wasn't, instead looking down at her with an intensity that made Aldon grit his teeth. When the music started, a beautiful violin and piano arrangement that Aldon had never heard before, they opened with a spin into classic waltz.

At first, Aldon thought that the dance was similar to what he and Francesca had done at the Unity Ball, but he was forced very quickly to revise his opinion. They remained in the waltz for only a few seconds before they took to the air, Francesca inviting the boy up with her with a charming, teasing smile, both of them practically skipping as they rose, twenty feet above the crowds, before the boy caught her and lifted her above his head in pose.

Francesca's feet didn't touch the ground for half of performance, not even the makeshift "ground" created by the air-hardening runes. There were more lifts, each one making Aldon scowl deeper at the placement of the boy's hands on her body, and a dangerous looking swing where she sailed between the boy's legs, relying on his strength to send her soaring back up in a new series of acrobatics. What they were doing made what he and Francesca did at the Ministry Unity Ball look like nothing at all, an afternoon of leisure, if this was true skill. Stars flickered above them, illusion magic painting romantic nights as they danced, as they wove love set to music.

Another turn, another throw, and new illusion magic swirled around them, not just Francesca's trademark lightning but fire spells as well. Aldon saw echoes of his own performance with Francesca, but it was as if what he had danced with her over the holidays was a pale copy of what she did now. He didn't have the skill of this dancer, and the fact that Francesca clearly wasn't the only one managing the illusions meant that the images were more complex, more layered, more beautiful. Fire and lightning played around them, and the routine fell into discord – expressions of love and admiration turned dark, as they fell away from each other. It was an inversion of what Aldon had played with her – she wasn't dancing a love story, but a tragedy.

It's just a performance, he reminded himself sharply. From everything Francesca had said about dance before the holidays, she hadn't cared for pairs performance and she had barely mentioned her partner. Partners in dance weren't always romantic, and certainly there had been nothing romantic when the two of them had practiced. She likely had to play at those expressions, at that heartbreak, for artistry points. And they were dancing heartbreak, now – they had fallen apart, each moving separately, and the final fall, for them both, was broken. Francesca's eyes were shut, and even from the angle of the recording orb, Aldon could see that she was exhausted.

It was only a few minutes long, and the crowds in the recording orb were cheering, a strange sound exploding from the picture. Francesca got to her feet, her eyes sweeping the audience for her friends, and for a moment it seemed like she was looking directly at Aldon. She smiled, a tired but genuine smile, waving a little as her dance partner went to her. They hugged, a friendly and somehow perfunctory embrace, before going to the side to await their score.

"The highest score on the board right now for pairs is that sixty-one – the top Cascadia pair," Archie said, and Aldon jumped a little to hear him. He had forgotten that this was Archie's recording for the Lord Black. "I think we have it though, come on, come on, at least a sixty-two…"

Below, one of the judges stood up and fired a sixty-five in the air, and Archie whooped. Aldon knew it was a good score, not least because Francesca's face had lit up in joy, the boy beside her slapping her on the back as she laughed, a bright sound that he couldn't hear over the overwhelming chatter and cheering from Archie's section of the stands.

"Wow," the Lord Black said, leaning forward as Archie came back into view, chattering something or other about Ilvermorny, or magical dance, or Aldon didn't know.

He had stopped listening. His eyes were captured by something happening behind Archie, down on the floor below.

Francesca was talking to someone else, someone not her dance partner, someone who was handing her a small bouquet of roses. There had to be at least half a dozen of them, bright blooms against her dark dress, and she reached for him in a hug much warmer than the one she had just given her dance partner.

It was hug that came paired with a kiss, and not a light one on his cheek.

Aldon stood up, his legs feeling weak despite the fact that he had been sitting for the better part of an hour. Maybe more than an hour. He couldn't watch this anymore. His fingers itched. He had to do something, and the air in the room was thick, heavy as he blundered out.

It was only a few minutes for him to retrieve his sniper rifle, and he set up his position on Neal's inner battlements, slamming parts of his rifle into place with rather more force than necessary. He lined up his first shot, a dark figure behind Neal's second ravelin, waiting for calm.

His breathing was ragged, his sight bobbing up and down more than usual, and he struggled to pull himself together. He wouldn't hit the target if he was like this. He wanted to hit the target, he wanted the focus and calm that sniping always brought him.

He didn't want to think.

His first shot missed. So did his second. And his third, and he gave up, sitting down against the wall, wiping his eyes, swallowing.

What did this other boy have that he didn't? It couldn't be a manor or title, because Wizarding America didn't have such things. He didn't know about money, but it couldn't be power or status because in Wizarding America, these things were earned, and—

And Francesca had never cared about such things anyway, he realized with a belated jolt. She hadn't cared when it came to him, and she wouldn't have cared with this other boy. If she had cared about those things, Aldon wouldn't have fallen in love with her.

He sat there, leaning against the wall, looking up at the sky. It was the end of April, and the skies were bright blue, with barely a cloud in sight. It was a nice day, if a little cold, but Aldon could only see that the skies were vast and empty. He felt very small, staring up at the sky, a miniscule speck against Neal's massive, stone fortress.

He shouldn't have fucked up so badly. That was the answer – he had had his chance, and it had taken him all of half an hour to fuck it up. He should have listened to her. He should have read the stupid book that Hermione had given him, he should have talked to Neal or even Archie about how courting worked in America before he pressed his suit. He should have thought, he should have waited, but instead he had been caught up in the moment, ignoring the things she had said and assuming she was teasing him, seeing only the opportunity the duel had given him. He had fucked up, and he didn't know what to do about it, and perhaps there was nothing that could be done about it.

Perhaps this wasn't something that he could fix.

Aldon had always had the answers. Even in the days when he was frozen, stiff and lifeless in his own fear, he had felt like he had the answers, and he had never felt as lost as he did now. When he decided to throw away his fear, coming forward to talk to Archie about revolution, he had been excited – everything had been planned, the risks carefully examined, a decision made. When those plans went awry, like when Aldon had been revealed as a halfblood, Aldon had shifted, adapting, changing in response, and he moved forward, forcing himself forwards, always forwards. He had plans upon plans upon plans: plans to take down a government, plans to fight a war, plans for a new world.

He didn't know how to plan for this. He didn't know how to win Francesca back – or even if it was possible.

"Hey." Neal's voice floated in the air beside him. "Hey, you all right?"

Aldon didn't see the point in lying. "No."

He felt Neal sit down beside him, the warmth of another body difficult to miss. "In case you were wondering, that's Faleron King. He's a friend of mine, and we were in Duelling Club together. Top eight on the circuit. He's been in love with Francesca for years, asked her out at least a dozen times. She always turned him down before."

"I didn't ask." Aldon shifted, turning away from Neal, looking down the long, almost winding line of Neal's inner walls. "We're not – I wish – I don't know."

"At a loss for words, are you?"

"Why are you out here?" Aldon snapped, turning back at him. Neal looked comfortable, leaning against the stone, and his expression was more sympathetic than Aldon might have thought it would be. "To mock me?"

"Hardly," Neal said, his voice mild, and his emerald green eyes were kind. "If you want my take, Faleron probably started as a rebound for Francesca. If she wanted to date him, she had two years to accept, and she never did. Something changed, and you were probably it."

"What does that matter?" Aldon leaned his head back against the wall, looking back up at the wide, soulless sky. "He's still with her – he can be beside her, every day. I can't – how do I measure up to that?"

"You don't," Neal's voice was matter of fact, if a little sad. "I mean, I haven't been talking with her, but if it's any comfort, she saw something in you that she didn't see in anyone else. I'm not saying that you have a chance or anything – even if it started as a rebound, Faleron is a good guy, and maybe he won her over. But it's not like it is in the world you grew up in, you know? It's only been a few months."

"A few months," Aldon repeated, scathing.

Neal had a ghost of a smile on his face. "A long time for you to be dating, I suppose. But my brother Will and Tina just got engaged over Christmas, and they've been together some five years, you know."

There was a moment of silence. Aldon fixed his eyes on the stone across from him, the guard against falling into Neal's inner courtyard, remembering suddenly that Francesca wanted to return to Britain. Not just for the summer, but for the next two years. She wasn't going to stay in America for this man. Instead, she was coming back to Britain.

But that didn't mean she was coming back for him, and Aldon knew with a cold clarity she wasn't. She was coming back for the ACD, because for her, the ACD was everything. One couldn't understand Francesca without the ACD, he thought, and that was the one thing that he had that he thought no one else did. He knew the ACD, and knowing the ACD was like knowing Francesca herself.

"I don't know why I'm out here, actually," Neal confessed, sounding more than a little sheepish. "I mean – I saw you were hurting, so I came out here, but I don't actually have anything that helpful to say. Sorry. I probably mucked it all up anyway."

"Francesca isn't returning to AIM next year," Aldon said, starting to feel something like himself, some warmth, come back into his cold body. He still didn't know what he was going to do – he didn't know if there was anything he could do – but sitting on the top of a bloody wall moping was not useful in the least. "AIM doesn't have enough upper-level classes for her. She asked Blake & Associates to supervise her last two years as an independent study project to give her enough classes to graduate. I'm writing at least three papers with her."

Neal blinked, cat-like eyes surprised, glancing at him. "I see. Is that … safe? With the war?"

"No," Aldon replied, shifting his shoulders to settle himself a little more fully. The sky was vast, empty and cold, but the sun was warm. "But she'll be living with the Lord Black, or if that doesn't work out, she said she would stay with you. Something about how the elder Kowalski could bully you into it."

Neal laughed. "Tina would send Will to pull older brother privilege on me," he commented, smiling. "But I've been beating up Will since I was thirteen, so that wouldn't work. Really, though, I would let her move in just because if I didn't and something happened, I would never hear the end of it."

"She would be safer at Queenscove than at Grimmauld Place, I think. Perhaps you should offer." Aldon half-smiled, and they lapsed into silence again, this one somehow more companionable than the last.

Aldon didn't know what came next. He didn't know how she would be when she came back, or what they could be, but he could figure it out later. If she was still with this other person, this Faleron King, then he would have to decide what to do then – not duel him over it, he told himself sternly, because he couldn't think of anything more likely to drive Francesca even farther away from him than duelling someone she liked. He would have to wait and see.

And if he did have a chance, if somehow this Faleron King stayed behind in America, a decision that Aldon would forever fault him for if he did, then he would see then, too. It wouldn't be easy; perhaps it would be different, day by day, and perhaps every day would be a matter of re-earning her trust, and perhaps at the end he still might not win her over. He would try anyway, given the chance.

He hoped desperately that he would have another chance – if he had another chance, just one more chance, he wouldn't fuck it up. He would spend every damn day earning himself that chance, showing her why he deserved it, and he wouldn't take her for granted just because she had kissed him a few times. He would never take her for granted, not after this.

"Hey, Aldon." Neal sucked in a breath, sounding more serious. "Your oath. She doesn't know about it, does she?"

"No."

"What are you planning on doing about that?" Neal's voice was low, as if he didn't want to be overheard, not that Aldon thought that anyone would be overhearing them on the top of the inner walls.

Aldon shrugged, a little uncomfortable. "It will keep her safer while she's here, since the oath-bond will draw me to her and force me and my magic to her defense if she is in danger. But…" He hesitated. "It can be broken. She would only have to release me from the vow, but it would be easily done. I… don't want to tell her about it. I should."

"I see." Neal paused for a minute, seeming to think it over, and he nodded. "I guess that means once Alex goes home, I'll be responsible for keeping you in the lists."

Aldon laughed, a rusty sort of noise coming from his chest, but he let it go.

Alex went back to Serbia a week later, giving Aldon a rough one-armed hug around the shoulders as Aldon saw him off at Heathrow Aeroport, and true to his word, Neal took his place in hounding him to train. Unlike Alex, Neal didn't invade his bedroom every morning at six, but he expected Aldon to show up at Queenscove once every few days for strength training and target practice, failing which he would track him down and force him on a longer, even more hellish run across Queenscove's grounds. He also expected Aldon to run on his own, lest his stamina and endurance weaken, so Aldon had taken to skipping the Underground entirely and jogging to work, a change of clothes shrunk and tucked away in a plastic bag in his front pocket. The rush hour Underground was a nightmare anyway, and it made the weekend training days easier to bear.

With the war looming, the information coming to him grimmer by day, he hadn't much choice. If he wanted to survive, if he wanted Francesca to survive, then every extra miserable hour in the lists would count.

XXX

Voldemort was an absolute fucking lunatic. He was a blood-obsessed madman who couldn't see that the world Lord Riddle had created was very much the achievable extent of what the nutcase claimed to want, and he didn't seem to realize that killing everyone who disagreed with him, however minor that disagreement, wasn't going to get him very far. At times, he wondered why his father and uncle, or Dolohov, or Travers, or Mulciber, or even McNabb didn't simply haul off and murder the seventeen-year-old psychotic wingnut. They'd be doing the world a favour if they did.

At other times, or most of the time, he knew why they didn't. Voldemort, despite his age and apparent handsomeness, exuded power. No one knew where he had studied, or if he had ever formally gone to school, but he was clearly a skilled, Lord-level, wizard. Magic reeked off him, ancient and somehow twisted and discordant, a wrong note in a sea of lesser notes, but still intoxicating. The beat of Voldemort's magic thrummed against his core when he stood too close to the man, a wild, exciting thrill that made Caelum want to vomit.

Voldemort was powerful, and all of Voldemort's followers wanted power – most of them were purebloods, but not noble, the old families that had always done things right yet had never ascended to seats in the Wizengamot or had their children marry into the elite families. Even those that weren't, like his mother, were those that had been shunted aside by the powerful, by Lord Riddle and Lord Malfoy and Lord Dumbledore, for the extremity of their views. For them, Voldemort offered power, he enjoyed their extremity, and the world would be simpler, better, and easier with him in charge.

Voldemort was so easy to understand, not like the world in which they lived. Obey, succeed, and be rewarded. Disobey and fail, and be punished. There was no in-between – there was no struggle with no result. There was no playing by the rules and still seeing shit in return.

He wished he could find the words lunatic, psychopath, madman, maniac, nutcase, nutjob, wanker, headcase, crackpot, pissant, bastard or wingnut in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. And yet, having read the tome cover to cover, the most that he could come up with in a letter for Blake was that Voldemort was unbalanced. Or disturbed. Or unstable. None of those really portrayed what he wanted to convey, but it was an on-going effort.

Voldemort liked him, because Caelum had a lifetime of experience placating a madwoman. He knew what to think, what to say, what to do, and how to feel in order to earn a psychopath's trust. Voldemort looked at Caelum and he saw a lifetime of hate, hate covered with a thin veneer of Potions expertise. These parts of Caelum, the part where he shook and shuddered out the excess adrenaline from his body, made and drank more Draught of Peace than anyone really ought, and wrote angry, short reports to Blake on the outside, these parts were smothered beneath a lethifold of hate when he stood in the presence of Voldemort.

In front of Voldemort, he was hate, and he was control. He was Voldemort's internal enforcer – people like his mother, like Mulciber and McNabb, they were the terrorists. Voldemort trusted them to bring fear to his name, and he let them make sport of halfbloods and Muggleborns, suspected halfbloods and Muggleborns, Light faction sympathizers, and blood traitors for their amusement. But Voldemort trusted him to punish them when they got out of control, because Caelum would take it as far as Voldemort wanted him to, and no farther.

But there was only so far that Voldemort would trust Caelum, when he apparently owed a life debt to Blake. He got some information, but not all. He could piece together more, and he overheard some of the minor attacks before they happened, but the Daily Prophet attack had been a lesson. He would hear the minor strikes, the ones that Voldemort didn't care about, but he wouldn't hear the major plans. Not while Blake's life debt seemed to hover above him.

He still hated Blake. But he would rather hate Blake and pass information to him than be in full servitude to an absolute madman. He had no choice in any case, now – he knew what Voldemort did to deserters. He had watched Mulciber dissect Bartimaeus Crouch with delicate precision, using magic only to keep the poor sod alive, all while the man screamed and wailed and howled in gut-wrenching shrieks. Until Mulciber cut out his vocal cords, anyway.

Major strike planned in early June, date and location unknown, he wrote in halting numbers, cutting as many excess words as possible. The life debt is a concern. Further information needed, cannot obtain.

He paused, then he riffled through the pages of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.

You or the Ministry win, will pin all I did on you. Should you lose, will have pleasure in killing you.

He called for his youngest house-elf, the one whom he had made all the other house-elves promise to deny existed and that he had Obliviated from his parents' and his uncle's memories, and handed him the note to pass to Blake.

XXX

AN: And so ends the second-last chapter of Vanguard, which means next chapter is in finale! Anyway, I have had a highkey awful week which partly involves almost getting booted out of my creative writing class (for giving concrit, no less, and I wish I were joking), so just letting you all know that I love you all and your comments have gotten me through a pretty rough week. Extra special thanks to meek because I work you way too hard. Next chapter will be a shorter one but - I'm getting married between now and then, so that can be forgiven, right?!

Next Chapter: Hate conquers all in the ashes of the fall / With our backs against the wall / With our backs against the wall / Watch the empire fall / Watch the nation dissolve / With our backs against the wall (Hate Conquers All, by Anti-Flag)