Chapter Three: The Politics of Parties
It was raining again. Lucy shivered and drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders, glancing up at the dark sky. It was four in the afternoon, still too early in the year for night to be drawing in, and thoroughly miserable. Around her, students with their hats pulled down over their ears and coloured scarves wound around their necks dashed past, some carrying conjured umbrellas, other with their arms protectively covering their faces. Simon Carrol sprinted past, cloak streaming behind him, hat long gone, leaving his hair as sodden as though he'd been playing Quidditch for an hour.
He wasn't coming. Lucy had been sceptical from the first of her older cousin's insistence that he wanted to see her; if there was one thing he wasn't, it was good at turning up on time to see his family. She thought longingly of the cosy Gryffindor common room back in the castle.
Lucy was just turning away when there was a pop and a tall, young, brown-haired man appeared out of the rain and fog, grinning, somehow completely dry without any visible charm.
"Filthy weather, isn't it?" Malcolm Prewett said. "Fancy a butterbeer? I could probably swing you a Firewhisky if you'd prefer."
"You're late," Lucy told him, sliding into step behind him. "I thought you weren't coming – I'm soaked through."
"Thought you were an N.E.W.T. student now," he said. "Should be up to a couple of standard weather charms. Or is that seventh year? I can never remember."
"Why did want to see me?" Lucy asked, ignoring this.
"Wait 'til we get inside," he said briefly.
They walked in silence, Lucy huddling under her inadequate cloak, Malcolm striding ahead so that she had to hurry to keep up. He didn't lead her to the Three Broomsticks, but this didn't really surprise Lucy – she knew Malcolm liked to avoid the crowd of Hogwarts students (not that there would be one; she was going to be back too late for dinner, probably, and possibly even after curfew). Instead he pushed open the door of the Hog's Head, striding through the gloomy pub to the counter.
"Firewhiskey, Ab," he said. "And whatever the lady wants."
"Just a butterbeer, thanks," Lucy said, taking off her hat and shaking her long, reddish-gold hair free. She could feel the eyes of the other patrons on her; she supposed they probably didn't see pretty young witches often.
The bartender grunted. He watched them through suspicious eyes as Malcolm downed his drink and signalled for another. Lucy sipped her butterbeer much more slowly, wrinkling her nose a little at the slightly sour taste.
"Why all the secrecy, Mal?" she asked. "Why did you suddenly need to see me alone, in the Hog's Head, without telling anyone? You were going to see me tomorrow anyway."
Malcolm winced. "Ah, see, yeah. That's… well, that's the problem. I can't make it tomorrow."
Lucy raised her eyebrows, taking another sip of her drink. It wasn't exactly a surprise. Malcolm was notoriously bad at keeping engagements, and a wedding that didn't even directly involve his family…
He was still watching her, slightly nervous. "I just need someone to, er, make my excuses, so to say. I'd go if I could, really, but something has come up and I can't put it off. It's rather urgent."
"Something at your work?" Lucy asked innocently. None of the knew what Malcolm did for a living; Lucy suspected it was illegal.
"Yes," Malcolm said briefly. "As I say, I'd cry off in a moment, I do so hate to miss a wedding, and to involve you, but my hands are tied, as the Muggles say. And, frankly, I'm too scared to tell Augusta Spinnet that I'm missing her wedding." He shuddered. "I pity Longbottom."
"Augusta is a lovely person," Lucy defended. "She and Harfang are very much in love; I've seen them together. But you are right, I doubt she'd be impressed with you right now."
"So you'll do it?" Malcolm asked.
Lucy sighed. "Alright, I'll do it. But you can't miss Christmas this year, Mal. It's the first year Daddy and Monty will be back from the war – you have to be there."
"I'll be there," Malcolm promised. "I'd make the Unbreakable Vow if there was anyone to play Bonder. Thank you, dearest cousin."
He kissed Lucy extravagantly on the cheek, threw a handful of coins on the counter, and disappeared into the rain. Lucy stayed inside only a minute longer before following him, leaving her unfinished butterbeer on the counter.
The following day was dry, if not sunny. Carolina knew they had should have chosen a different date for the wedding, she had told Augusta so again and again, but would she listen? Now she and young Harfang would be married with a grey sky threatening rain.
Thank goodness for Minerva McGonagall. The witch had arrived from the school she'd gotten a position at (Serilia Selwyn's Academy for Young Pure-Blood Witches, she'd considered sending Augusta there, but Harvey had insisted, and it had turned out to be quite a good thing in the end, goodness knew Augusta would never have met Harfang at Selwyn's) yesterday and immediately set about calming everyone down and getting everyone ready for the wedding. It was thanks to her that there would be one at all.
Carolina had been up since four this morning, her and Miss McGonagall, putting the final touches together. Of course they had no hope of beating the Potter wedding, terribly selfish of them to make such a big show like that, Carolina thought, although of course she couldn't blame them, poor young things, fighting through the war like that and so in love, only natural they would want some fun, and of course Euphemia Potter was her niece, but it did put such a lot of pressure on Augusta to make her wedding quite as spectacular, and of course the Spinnets were a good family, quite as good as any other, but, well, they didn't have quite the same status as the Potters, no Lord or Lady titles here, not that titles were important, they were all pure-blood, but it would have been nice to have her daughter's wedding the most brilliant of the year.
Jewel bright robes flickered through the hall of Longbottom Manor. Carolina Spinnet certainly had no reason to complain about the turnout. Half of the British wizarding world was there, and it was the important half. Aeneas Black, Minister for Magic, was standing in a corner of the hall, discussing something with Albus Dumbledore, defeater of Gellert Grindelwald, and Edmund Potter, Head of the Auror Office, while his wife, a powerful and influential witch in her own right, was making conversation with Lady Abbott and Lady Nott. Children ran excitedly through the crowd, trailing brightly coloured bubbles and lights.
Melissa Diggory, long dark hair caught up in a knot at the base of her neck, approached Cecilia Potter where she was standing beside one of the windows, peering down at the long gravel road leading up to the Manor.
"Anyone interesting down there, Ceci?" she asked.
The younger girl glanced around. "The Abercrombies have arrived. I don't remember Euan looking like that last year."
Melissa looked down. "Oh, you're right. Those robes suit him. Is azure the Abercrombie colour?"
"Do the Abercrombies have a colour?" Ceci asked. "I thought they were on, well, the same level as the Diggorys."
"We have a colour," Melissa pointed out. "Not a very good colour, I'll grant you, but did you really think I would be wearing beige by choice?"
"Fair point," Cecilia said. She sighed, looking back out of the window. "I never really thought he was something to write home about, last year. What is he doing now? It's working wonderfully, whatever it is."
"Something to do with Quidditch, I think," Melissa said. "Thomas would be able to tell you; he's obsessed with Quidditch."
"What did you say, Mellie?" Thomas Diggory, Melissa's thirteen-year-old brother, asked, materialising out of the crowd, black hair sticking up wildly. "I heard my name. Hi, Ceci."
Cecilia rolled her eyes. She'd never really liked her friend's annoying little brother.
"Is Euan doing something Quidditch related now? Euan Abercrombie, I mean," Melissa asked.
"He's signed on to Chudley Cannons, as a reserve," Thomas said promptly. "He plays Seeker for preference, but Chaser in a pinch."
"Thanks, Tom," his sister said. She turned back to Ceci. "That explains it, then. If there is one thing Quidditch is good for it's keeping boys in good shape."
Ceci laughed. "And not much else!"
"Do I hear you dissing Quidditch, cuz?" Charlus Potter appeared just as suddenly Thomas had. "Hallo, Melissa."
"Why would you want to play a game that involves flying around dodging heavy balls that want to kill you?" Cecilia asked. "What is the point?"
Charlie spluttered.
"Because it's Quidditch!" Thomas exclaimed, as though this explained everything.
"Exactly," Charlus said, gesturing forcefully at the younger boy. "Because it's Quidditch."
Neither of the girls looked impressed. Charlie turned to Thomas.
"That reminds me, Tom, are you going to be trying out again this year? Hufflepuff are down a Chaser, aren't they?"
Tom nodded enthusiastically. "I've been practising loads, you Gryffindors had better watch out this year."
"You wish," Charlie said. "We've started practising already and we've got a really strong side this year."
"All old hands, though," Tom said. "We're going to have fresh blood, we won't miss any new talent."
"Like you?" Charlie asked.
"Come on," Melissa whispered to Ceci. "While they are distracted."
The two girls slipped away from the window and disappeared into the swirl of the crowd.
A hush spread across the crowd, rippling from the centre outwards. Mrs Spinnet and Mrs Longbottom hurried through the crowd, corralling them into their seats, which popped out of the floor as they sat down. Mr Longbottom was standing at the front of the hall on a slowly rising platform of elegant birch boards besides Mr Crouch, a Ministry official who had agreed to act as Bonder. Harfang Longbottom, escorted by his younger brother Algernon, passed along the aisle. From a high angle they were a splash of vivid scarlet in the midst of the swirls of colour, like an Impressionist painting seen through slightly blurry eyes. They took their places to murmured approval.
There was a stir by the doors at the entrance. Heads turned. Whispers rushed through the audience like wind through stalks of ripe wheat. Augusta was leaning on her father's arm, both their robes a soft violet. Mrs Spinnet sobbed into her handkerchief in the front row.
"Do you, Harfang Cyadir Longbottom, take Augusta Carolina Spinnet as your wife, to honour and obey until the end of time?" the Bonder asked, his voice ringing through the hall.
"I do."
Crouch turned to Augusta.
"Do you, Augusta Carolina Spinnet, take Harfang Cyadir Longbottom as your husband, to honour and obey until the end of time?"
"I do," Augusta said, her expression softening as she looked into her new husband's round, open face.
"Then I declare you eternally bonded until the end of time, in the eyes of all present and in your own hearts."
A bird that had settled on a high outside windowsill launched hurriedly into the air as applause echoed through the hall.
Edmund wove his way through the crowd. The chairs and stage had sunk back into the floor and had been replaced with a dancefloor. Milling witches and wizards dodged dancers and floating trays with refreshments on them.
Edmund slipped around the edge of a widening circle around his two youngest children, who were dancing energetically. Charlie's friends cheered them on as their robes flapped around them and their feet sent up coloured sparks where they hit the floor. Edmund smiled as he passed.
He reached a group of smartly dressed wizards gathered on one side of the dance floor. Something about them spoke irrepressibly of the Ministry of Magic. Edmund swept a glass of elf-made wine from a passing tray and joined them, to general welcome.
"Splendid ceremony, wasn't it? Yes, I'm just waiting for Shacklebolt's report, he's being a bit slow. Theseus, could I borrow you for a moment?" Edmund said, smiling brightly.
"Of course," a tall wizard replied. He had clearly been an Auror once and still had the build of one, though in recent years he'd faced nothing more threatening than a bound prisoner guarded by dementors. His dark hair was starting to go silver.
"What is it, Edmund? I hope it isn't anything work-related," Theseus said, following Edmund away from the Ministry wizards. "We've been swamped since the Muggle bombing incidents. I can't see my desk for paperwork."
Edmund sighed. "Yes, we get enough of that in the Auror Office. I don't know how you stand it. It is to do with work, I'm afraid, but for you the personal consideration will probably be of rather more importance. We've found Newt."
Theseus, who until then had appeared calm and relaxed, visibly stiffened. "You have? Where?"
"I'm trying to get him transferred from l' Magique Hôpital to St Mungo's at the moment. He was found by some French Aurors going through Grindelwald's… hideouts and they thought he might be one of mine."
"When was this?" Theseus asked. His hand flexed convulsively around his elf-made wine glass.
"He's been with them for close on a week, but they only thought it important enough to tell us yesterday. He seems fine. Disorientated and weak, but he was awake yesterday and the Healers tell me he'll pull through. I was in Paris most of the day, trying to get it all sorted out."
Theseus's hand tightened on his glass again, then slowly relaxed. "Thank you for telling me. I don't suppose I can slip away, so I'll go to him this evening."
Edmund nodded. "I don't think either of you want society interested. Especially not since…"
"No," Theseus sighed. "I would prefer if people chose not to gossip about my… sometimes strained relationship with my brother."
Edmund put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "You care for him and he for you. In the end, that is what you will both remember."
Theseus smiled at him. "I'm glad to see that I've left the Auror Office in such honourable hands."
"My dear Aeneas, I'm sure I have made myself clear on this matter. Muggles are quite as human as we are and as such have rights."
The Minister for Magic heaved a sigh that shook his impressive black moustache.
"Of course they have rights, Albus, I'm not suggesting genocide. I would not have brought it up at all, but all that business with the atomic bomb has scared people and, frankly, me as well. There are limits as to what the Muggles can be allowed to get away with."
"And indeed there are, Minister. I suspect their proficiency in weapons technology has scared the Muggles even more than it has us. We can heal most of what damage those bombs wreak; Muggles cannot."
"Even so…"
"This is grim talk for a wedding, gentlemen," a booming voice interrupted and the two wizards turned to greet Gideon Prewett, a large, red-haired man whose girth was even greater than his voice.
Aeneas Black, whose family had been feuding with the Prewetts almost as badly as with the Potters for generations, gave a small, forced smile. Albus Dumbledore, who treated everyone with the same calm, benignant manner and who had been only two years ahead of Prewett at Hogwarts, smiled rather more genuinely.
"I'm afraid, Mr Prewett, that war leaves a few scars," Black said. "The Ministry is busier than ever and," he heaved a sigh, "so am I. Duty goes on."
"Really? I must say, I'm glad I don't have a Ministry job! Business is better than ever!" Prewett, whose company sold cauldrons, telescopes, and any other magical equipment that did not, in point of fact, require any magic to make, replied. He turned to Dumbledore. "We're well out of it, eh, Albus?"
"You are, at any rate," Dumbledore said, still smiling. "I'm afraid teaching children is rather like herding Kneazles – all but impossible and liable to get one scratched."
Black chuckled politely and Prewett guffawed. The latter said, "You've got my grandson Hector now, haven't you? Little troublemaker if ever there was one. Needs a good thrashing if you ask me, but his father's soft on him." The fondness in the jovial wizard's voice suggested that his son, Anthony Prewett, wasn't the only one who was soft on Hector.
"Yes, I believe he's quite clever," Dumbledore said. "I suspect he may have more inclination to practise Charms than Transfiguration, unfortunately."
Prewett laughed loudly. "Oh yes, you would think that, wouldn't you? Transfiguration is not the be-all and end-all, you know. I believe Charmers are positively raking in money at the moment."
"Ah, money," Dumbledore sighed, though his eyes were twinkling. "Is that all you think of, Gideon?"
"Come now, Albus," Black said. "I know you claim to have no interest in politics, but surely even you must have realised that gold is the grease that keeps our world turning? As the goblins are so keen to remind me."
"On strike again, are they?" Prewett said cheerfully. "Just sack them all, that's my advice, Minister. They'll reconsider once they realise that we can get along perfectly well without them."
Black forced himself to smile. "Unfortunately it is not that simple. Politics again, I'm afraid. And now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I believe I can see Mr Scamander."
He bowed politely to Dumbledore and Prewett and disappeared into the crowd.
Prewett turned back to Dumbledore. "Bit of a Flobberworm, that man. Astute politician, pillar of our times, and all that, but a bit…"
He waved a hand vaguely. His companion smiled understandingly.
"He's had a difficult few years, Gideon," Dumbledore said. "And I rather suspect that he's got a trying couple of months ahead of him."
"Those Muggles, eh?"
"Not just Muggles, although that situation is going to be difficult. The Germans want our help dealing with Grindelwald; I suspect they're afraid he's going to try to escape from Nurmengard. There are still pockets of his followers all over the world which must be dealt with. On top of that, the situation with the goblins is grave and we must try our best to avoid a war."
"Escape? Oh, no, that can't be allowed! Do you think he'll manage it, Albus?" Prewett asked, ignoring the rest of Albus's explanation on the basis that it sounded political and Gideon Prewett had achieved both his girth and his cheerfulness by never paying much attention to politics.
Dumbledore swirled his glass of elf-made wine. To Prewett, watching the other wizard with a shrewdness that would have surprise Black if he had seen it, he seemed looking at something far away, through the mists of time and distance.
"No," he said at last. "I don't think I'll ever see him again."
Prewett had to be contented with that.
James Weasley suspected that he'd had rather too much to drink. The party seemed to be whirling rather too fast, bright colours swirling past his eyes in a dizzying dance. Somewhere he could Monty's loud laughter.
In all honesty, James didn't know either Harfang or Augusta all that well. They were both rather younger than he was and, as far as he was aware, weren't closely related to him in any way. He was here because it was a social occasion, because it was the done thing, and, admittedly, because it was an excuse to get standing up drunk and kiss pretty witches.
Well, he'd succeeded in getting pretty thoroughly drunk. Pretty witches might have to wait until after he'd found somewhere to sit quietly for a minute.
"Excuse me," a light voice said behind him, "do you know where I might find somewhere to sit down?"
He turned. A pretty young woman dressed in carefully flounced violet dress robes, her chestnut hair caught up in a loose knot at the base of her neck, was smiling uncertainly at him.
"Not a clue, sweetheart," James said, when he'd remembered what words were for. "I'd quite like to find a chair myself."
"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."
She turned to leave. James panicked.
"Oh, don't go," he said. "We could look together. Two heads are better than one, they say."
She turned back to him. "I don't think I know that saying."
"It's Muggle," James said, feeling absurdly relieved. "I think it just means it's easier to do something with two people rather than one." He felt a flush creeping up his ears. "I mean looking for chairs and things! Not… looking for things, or working on solutions to problems, or… yeah."
She smiled at him. "I suppose you may be right. I can see that it would make looking for things easier."
She stepped forwards, hand out. "I'm Carol Fortescue."
"James Weasley," James said, taking her hand and smiling.
Rabastan Lestrange moved unhappily through the crowd. He'd lost his wife somewhere in the crush – not that he was terribly unhappy to have misplaced Marigolda – and he seemed to be surrounded by lower-class pure-bloods, those who would happily sully their blood with half-bloods and Mudbloods, even Muggles, which was little better than bestiality in Rabastan's view.
A woman pushed past him, her face painted, a too-wide smile stretching across her face. Behind her a young man in robes already out of fashion stumbled, his laughter slurring just slightly, clearly drunk. Red hair stuck out from his head. Rabastan sneered and moved on.
There were too many people, that was the problem. Rabastan felt crushed, choked, surrounded by drunk witches and wizards, all talking too much, laughing too loudly, grating on his ears. He wished he were back at the manor, outside, hunting in the wide forests that surrounded his family home. Watching Abraxas, not standing with that fixed, bored sneer on his face, but on his sleek hippogriff, eyes alive with the thrill of the chase, energetic and alive and for Rabastan's eyes only.
"Lestrange! Wonderful to see you, old chap."
Rabastan turned, a sneer already on his face. Edgar Bones, an overly large Hufflepuff who, most unfortunately, had been in Rabastan's year at Hogwarts, was beaming at him.
"Bones," Rabastan greeted curtly.
"D'you know the bride or groom well? I know Gussie, of course, she's my cousin, and Harfang's always been a good chap, don't you think? Absolutely besotted with old Gussie of course."
"I've had little contact," Rabastan said. He scanned the crowd for an escape.
"Really? Oh, you must have a chat before you go, offer your congratulations and all that. Gussie's an old dear, though you wouldn't think it to look at her usually, and Harfang's a capital fellow. You must allow me to introduce you properly." He laughed good-naturedly, too loudly. "Imagine going seven years in Hogwarts and barely knowing your classmates!"
Rabastan followed Bones through the crowd, helpless to escape without causing a scene.
"I suppose you'll be thinking of settling down now, after all your dashing about on the continent," Walburg Black, the elder of the late Headmaster Phineas Nigellus's two sons, asked Fleamont Potter, barely masked bitterness in his voice.
"I suppose I will," Monty agreed, smiling blandly back. He had been able to tell immediately as his old classmate approached him, weaving ever so slightly, that Black was drunk.
"Quite the hero, I hear," Black continued. "Dashing about from place to place, saving maidens in distress… I hear you even got hitched out there. What, couldn't wait to get home?"
He leered at Monty, who stiffened slightly. "I don't know what gossip you've been listening to," he said lightly. "I'm sure there are better things to talk about than my marriage."
Walburg was quiet for a moment, swirling his glass. Firewhisky, Monty noticed. He was really going for it tonight.
"I think it's shameful," Black said suddenly, eyes focussed on his drink. "I mean to say, you're thirty. You are your father's Heir – you're Heir to the Potter family! I have two children already – both girls, but there's time yet, Arcturia is only twenty-eight, after all – and what have I got? A minor fortune mostly promised to Father's blasted charities and a brother who married a Flint – as rich as a goblin and as common! And here's you, only just married and thirty, dammit. What'll you do when your fortune reverts to the brats of your wild brother, causing a scene on the dance floor like that, I mean to say, there are witches present–"
"Please don't talk about my family like that," Monty said, his voice hard. "I don't remember you being an angel in your school days either, Walburg. I can't help you with your jaded outlook on life." He smiled, razor sharp. "If you'll excuse me, I believe there are rather more sober people I could be talking to."
He brushed past Black, who remained where he was, swirling his drink and muttering "shame" to himself. Monty scanned the crowd for Mia, or James. Either one would be a welcome distraction.
Though they remained polite, even occasionally friendly, to one another in public, Walburg Black and Monty Potter had been deadly enemies at school. In the same year and different houses, their feud had been a sort of watered down, though rather more violent, version of the rift that had existed between the Houses of Black and Potter for centuries. What had started it no one could now remember. It kept itself alive with the petty jealousies and microscopic crimes that had come from the rivalry itself, a vicious cycle that was prevented from dissolving into carnage and bloodshed only by both sides' agreement that there was a way that things were done and a way that they were not done.
It was a proxy war, Monty reflected grimly, fought out in the political arenas of the Wizengamot and the Minister for Magic's office. The Potters and their allies – and allies was the proper term for them in this pseudo-war – advocated progressive policies and radical changes, while the Blacks attempted to push through Muggle-wizard relations restrictions and a return to the 'good old days' of violent duels to the death. Probably neither side would be happen if they won, but they fought anyway, struggling over toeholds, being icily polite to one another at social gatherings and tearing each apart in political articles in the Prophet.
It was Romeo and Juliet waiting to happen. Monty only hoped that, if one his siblings, cousins, or future children ever fell in love with a Black, they would know that they could go to Monty for support and advice. He did not want his family to go the same way as the Montagues and Capulets.
Though Fleamont might have been hoping that the centuries old feud between the Blacks and the Potters would heal, Marigolda Lestrange was actively, if discreetly, working to escalate it. Tom might have decided to avoid appearing on the political radar for now, but it was still an eventual plan of his, and it would make their job a lot easier if Marigolda could destabilise the wizarding world, preferably a few years in advance. The Potters and Blacks had fought one another for power for as long as anyone could remember; any serious candidates for Minister for Magic or Headmaster of Hogwarts would be backed by one of the families, if not directly from them. If Marigolda could convince the pure-blood families that they were both likely to decrease stability in the wizarding world – especially the Potters, which wouldn't be hard, with all of their progressive tendencies – then, when Tom, or whatever puppet he put forward, appeared, he'd have an easy opening, especially since most of the Black allies, and hopefully the Blacks themselves if Arcturus maintained his loyalty, would already be secretly supporting the Cause.
The best part was that Marigolda didn't actually need to do much. She didn't even need to speak to the Blacks and the Potters directly; it was enough to be chattering away to Lady Selwyn and Mrs Gamp and their connections about her dear godson Orion and what a blessing it was for her dear friends Cedrella and Arcturus to have had an heir so soon, it must be a sign, really it must, and wouldn't it be such a shame if the recently married Potter couple failed to have children, they'd already left it so late, and really there was no telling what the brother's children might turn out to be.
The hospital room Newt was in not the one he had woken in, but it was just as white and clinical. Newt was desperate to leave. He wanted to be outside, tracking some magical creature through a dense forest, alone with only his animals, somewhere far from the close walls of this room, far from the memories of a stone cell and the taunting laughter of Grindelwald's followers, far even from the comforts that the well-meaning Edmund Potter had secured for him, smiling at him sympathetically and saying, 'I know it's hard, but just for now'.
The door swung open and a Healer bustled in, red robes fluttering around her. She smiled when she saw that he was awake and said, in slightly accented English, "Ah, Monsieur Scamander. I am glad to find you are awake. You have a visitor."
"Who?" Newt asked, expecting Potter, hoping for Tina.
"Hello, Newt."
The bedbound wizard turned to look at the door. His heart and throat felt tight. His older brother was standing there, dressed in smart, leafy green dress robes, his greying hair slicked back, evidently having just come from some formal event.
"Theseus," Newt said. "You're looking smart."
He regretted it the moment he said it. He hadn't seen his brother for almost three years; he had begun to suspect that he would never see him again.
"I've just come from a wedding," Theseus said carefully. "Harfang Longbottom and Augusta Spinnet decided to get married."
"I thought they only graduated this year," Newt said.
"They did," Theseus told him. There was a tense moment of silence, then the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement asked, "How are you, Newt? We have been looking for you for years; I was surprised and pleased when Edmund said that he'd found you."
"Better than I was, I suppose," Newt said. "The Healers tell me I've mostly been sleeping since they brought me here. Theseus, is it true? He's really gone?"
The young woman who had been quietly running diagnostic spells while the brothers had their tense reunion, murmured something about expected progress and respectfully curtseyed as she slipped past Theseus, who took a few hesitant steps forward before pulling out the chair beside Newt's bed and sitting down.
"Yes," he said.
"Congratulations," Newt said. It came out more sarcastic that he'd intended.
"We had little to do with it in the end," Theseus said. "Albus challenged him to a duel and won. Grindelwald has been placed in Nurmengard, we thought it the securest place for him, but the Germans are making noises I don't think they think they can hold him securely."
"Do you think he'll break out?" Newt asked.
"No," Theseus said. "He went quietly, once Albus had disarmed him. We had to kill his right-hand man before we could get him to stop, but I don't think Grindelwald will be a threat again."
"Tina?" Newt asked, unable to keep the question to himself anymore. He glanced at Theseus's face, even though he'd always been hopeless at Legilimency.
"She arrived in England yesterday," Theseus said. "She was looking for you, very worried. I sent her a message as soon as it was clear you hadn't just taken off under your own steam, but it seems she didn't get it. I haven't told her you've been found yet; Edmund has only just told me and I came as soon as I could reasonably get away. Pulia is making my excuses."
They had reached it at last. Newt sucked his breath in. Theseus glanced at him quickly, then fixed his eyes back on the post at the foot of the hospital bed.
"How is Pulia?" Newt asked, carefully polite, his voice almost steady.
"She's very well," Theseus said. "She had a baby, nearly two years ago now. A little girl."
"Congratulations," Newt said. His voice sounded as though it were coming from a very long way away. He felt as though he were floating above the bed, as though he were in another part of Paris, many years ago, watching the woman who should have been his sister-in-law, who should have been the mother of his niece, sacrificing herself to stop Grindelwald burning the city to the ground. In the present, he asked, "What did you name her?"
"Janine, after Pulia's mother," Theseus said, and Newt let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. If Theseus had dared–
"Not Leta?" Newt said, apparently unable to hold even ten minutes' civil conversation with his brother without poking at the rift between them.
"As a second middle name," Theseus admitted. "It seemed disrespectful to forget her entirely."
Newt did not say that he thought it was disrespectful of Theseus to have named his child after Leta at all. He did not say that it was disrespectful to have married and had a child at all. He did not want to damage his relationship with his brother further, and besides, Theseus already knew what he thought.
Instead he said, "I look forward to meeting her." Not quite a lie, not quite the truth. It was close enough, and a familiar enough feature of their relationship that neither brother probed further. They were too distant, they had always been too distant, and too careful of what little closeness existed between them to care to endanger it now.
The silence stretched awkwardly on. Theseus opened his mouth, then closed it again, working his jaw. Newt waited, not knowing whether he wanted to talk to Theseus or for Theseus to leave, certain that there was nothing he could say that would heal the rift between them and unsure if he even wanted to try.
"I should go," Theseus said at last. "I'm expected in early tomorrow. The Ministry is still very busy and I'm expected to oversee trials all day." He stood. "Edmund tells me he's trying to get you transferred to St Mungo's. I'll see what I can do to help him, and I'll inform Tina that you've been found. Goodbye, Newt."
He stepped forward, a little hesitantly, hand out. When Newt reached out to shake it, Theseus drew him in, impulsively, for a brief, awkward embrace. As ever, Newt was left uncomfortable by the physical contact and the way it emphasised the vast differences between him and his brother.
Theseus left, with another hesitation and backward glance, and Newt settled back onto the bed, feeling drained. He reminded himself that he had no right to be bitter than Theseus had chosen to remarry. He should have been pleased that his brother had found Pulia, who made him smile, who fit his personality perfectly, and who was, socially speaking, a better choice than Leta Lestrange had been.
Yet he still could not rid himself of the lingering sensation that this was a betrayal of Theseus's, though who exactly he had betrayed was a question Newt preferred to leave unanswered.
By nine, the party was in full swing. Cedrella Black, swollen with the pride of her first evening as Hostess, drifted through the guests. It was a select gathering; mostly it consisted of Arcturus's relatives and social acquaintances. There was no especial reason to celebrate, though young Lady Black felt that a party was reason enough to celebrate.
"My dear!" Lady Lestrange trilled, swooping down on Lady Black like a rather aggressive Thestral. A goblet of elf-made wine was clutched in one hand and, given the uneven way she was walking, it likely wasn't her first. "I'm so pleased to have caught you! This is a wonderful part, simply wonderful, isn't it?"
"I'm glad to find that you are enjoying yourself, Lady Lestrange," Cedrella said, smiling politely. "I hardly think it counts as a party; it's more of a little gathering."
"Call me Katerina, Cedrella dear," Lady Lestrange said, waving her goblet expansively. Cedrella winced as a few drops of sticky liquid sprayed across the polished wooden floor of her husband's drawing room. "And what a wonderful little gathering it is! So many distinguished visitors – I'm sure I saw my son around here somewhere, and his wonderful wife…"
Cedrella had seen them too. She had also noticed, and hoped very much that the notorious gossip Lady Lestrange hadn't, that they had both slipped from the drawing room some time earlier, Rabastan with Lord Abraxas Malfoy and Marigolda with Cedrella's own husband. Cedrella frowned slightly. She would have to have a talk with Arcturus about being more discreet, and he did so hate it when she interfered with his private life. Perhaps she should mention it to Marigolda instead. Her friend didn't need any more rumours about her private life.
"By the way," Lady Lestrange said, her thoughts evidently straying dangerously close to Cedrella's, "that half-blood, the one who was at their wedding…"
"Tom Riddle, do you mean?" Cedrella asked politely.
"Yes, him," Lady Lestrange said with a high-pitched giggle. "The handsome one. Such a rousing speech he gave. I believe he is quite close to Rabastan – and, of course, dear Marigolda? I do hear rumours…"
Her eyes, despite the heavy makeup and the obvious drinking, were sharp and alert under her too thick eyelashes. Cedrella knew that Lady Lestrange would find any hole in her story and run wild with it. She met the older woman's scrutiny with an opaque, cheerful, slightly foolish smile.
"Oh, yes," she said, "I think dear Marigolda has always admired him. Such a sad childhood, you know. The misfortune of his childhood… He's always been a splendid hand at magic and you know Marigolda, always on the lookout for powerful witches and wizards. I think it rather disappointed her when he didn't go into politics, to tell you the truth. Of course, he's closer to Rabastan than he is to her – men do tend to stick together so; you only have to look at Rabastan and Abraxas to see that! And of course we were all in the same year at Hogwarts," she added, as though this were an off-hand comment. "I missed some of it, of course," she allowed herself a slightly self-conscious smile, gesturing at her now flat stomach beneath her shifting silver robes, "but we all stuck together rather. All that time being in the same place, you know. I don't think Marigolda's seen him since we graduated. He disappeared on us rather."
"Of course," Lady Lestrange said, looking somewhere between disappointed at Cedrella's explanation and relieved that Lady Black hadn't continued to excavate the relationship between Lady Lestrange's son and his closest friend. "Such a pity when school friendships fall apart, I think. I remember dear Arcturus's mother and I at school – I feel sure that I haven't had a proper chat with my dear Camilla since our school days."
"I believe she is just over here, if you would like to remedy that," Cedrella said helpfully. "Mother, dear! – She's kind enough to allow me to call her Mother, since my own parents are long dead. – Mother! Lady Lestrange – Katerina – was just saying how much she longs to talk to you. I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
The widowed Mrs Black turned with a smile to her daughter-in-law. "No, no, dear Simone was just telling me that she must returned to her husband, weren't you, Simone, dear?"
"Indeed," Lady Simone Selwyn, a tall, wan witch in pale pink robes that were probably supposed to make her appear young and girly but in reality just highlighted her nearly seven decades, replied. "Poor Hertford becomes so anxious if I am not there. It was delightful to talk to you, Camilla. I hope your little boy is well?" she asked Cedrella.
"Very well, thank you," Cedrella replied. "He will two in as many months. His father and I are so proud of him."
"They grow up so quickly," Lady Selwyn sighed. "Lovely to see you, Katerina."
She drifted away in the direction of the sideboard and her husband, a large, red-faced man who had just reached his eighties, a decade before his wife. Mrs Black and Lady Lestrange were locked in a complicated exchange of polite remarks as Cedrella made her excuses and left, silently congratulating herself on escaping the attentions of the older ladies. Cedrella, who still had not even reached her twenties, was a firm believer in the idea that the world belonged to the young and Lady Lestrange and Mrs Black, both well into their thirties, did not count as young to her.
"If Potter pushes those reforms through–"
Cedrella glanced over at the speaker, her interest piqued. She had heard Arcturus complaining about Edmund Potter, Head of the Auror Office, but he had always refused to explain himself.
Walburg Black, father of the Cedrella's son Orion's young fiancé, was standing in the centre of a small knot of other pure-blood wizards, all of whom, Cedrella knew, were deeply interested in politics. Lady Lestrange's husband, Rodolphus, Walburg's sister-in-law Elladora, the only lady among them, Marigolda's father, Lord Nott, and, the youngest member of their group, Abraxas Malfoy, apparently returned from his tryst with Rodolphus's son.
"Surely Aeneas will not be so foolish as to support his proposals?" Lord Nott asked.
Walburg snorted darkly. "I think you overestimate the Aeneas's powers, Bartholomew. The Wizengamot has been steadily gaining power for more than a century."
"A good thing too," Lord Lestrange said. "Imagine if a Potter ally were Minister for Magic now – at least in this system we are guaranteed roughly an equal number of seats. I think Potter will find his support drying up if he pushes such a radical idea."
"I'm not afraid of this bill passing," Abraxas said quietly. "I am concerned about what else it might allow Lord Potter to suggest. Once the Wizengamot have realised the limits of his progressive ideals, they will be much more willing to accept supposedly minor, but just as damaging, reforms in the belief that they are mitigating the damage that might be done."
The other participants in the conversation looked at Lord Malfoy with newfound respect. Until this point, Cedrella suspected, they had included him only for the sake of politeness, because his father would have been part of their group, and because, if any of them were capable so pure a motive, because they wished to educate him in the ways of politics. Cedrella herself had never cared for politics beyond the ideals instilled in her from childhood, but she had spent enough time with Arcturus, Marigolda, Abraxas, Rabastan, and Tom Riddle to know that all of them, with the possible exception of Rabastan (who had likely only been there for the same reasons that Cedrella had been; because his lover, and then fiancé, had been), were keenly aware of the state of government of the British wizarding world.
Elladora laughed, a harsh, barking sound characteristic of her family. "He's quite right! We've certainly done that in our time, Walburg, haven't we? Remember dear old Grandfather Nigellus? Tried to make it illegal for Mudbloods to be educated in the same place as decent pure-blood children, would have made it impossible for them to get into Hogwarts – caused quite the scandal. His son, my Uncle Phineas Nigellus, tried his best when he got the job of Headmaster, but something like that really needed to come from the top… Mind you, it allowed us to pass those marriage restriction laws, and right under the Potters' noses, too! Of course, they got rescinded later…"
"Still, that was a win for us, eh?" Lord Nott said. "I'm not so sure about this one. Who knows what Edmund Potter may be scheming up? And it's not out of the question that he can get this one passed…"
"It flies in the face of all tradition," Lord Lestrange said, a hint of bluster entering his voice. "He defies the name of his ancestors and insults us all. By God, he's gone too far this time!"
The other pure-bloods murmured in agreement. Cedrella moved on, filing the conversation away to tell Marigolda about later. Her friend had an odd interest in politics. She wasn't sure what reforms Edmund Potter was trying to pass, but she was certain they were bad. The Potters were all blood traitors, every single one of them. It was a pity, considering how old and illustrious a family they were, but there was something rotten in them, even the ones who weren't actively engaged in politics.
Cedrella hoped no one in her family ever had poor taste to like, or, even worse, to fall in love, with a Potter.
