AN: As it says on the tin, folks! If you have not read either From America with Love or Liar Liar, very little of this work will make sense to you. If you have read Liar Liar but not From America with Love, you will probably not make any sense of this because, if anything, Liar Liar is the side fic and Vanguard is a very much a direct continuation of From America with Love. That said, for those of you who loved both of those, please enjoy this, dare I say, much anticipated first chapter of Vanguard!

XXX

Hermione sighed – softly enough that she hoped no one had seen it. Standing next to Archie, her expressions, her actions mattered too, and even if she was no actress, she had a job to do. She snatched Derrick's arm as the Aurors led Archie away, stopping him from doing anything else rash.

Derrick was an angry hothead. She and Isran had told him, told everyone in the BSA to stay out of it and let the arrest happen. Where was Isran? He was better at keeping Derrick under control than she was, and it was his job to make sure this didn't happen. Derrick had never been good at keeping his contempt for Wizarding Britain under wraps, they knew this was a risk. It was no wonder he got along so well with Sean Docherty from Cascadia. If it was up to the two of them, Terminal M would be ground zero for a riot.

But it wasn't time for that. They needed allies – homegrown, British, allies. A riot now would only feed the other side's propaganda about them, about how uncontrolled and dangerous they were with their impure, half-formed cores: a public safety menace. Archie needed to change the narrative about them; he needed to show that they were right to be angry. He needed to bring them public sympathy and support, and if anyone could do it, it was Archie Black.

It didn't matter. Archie had handled Derrick's previous outburst admirably, his orders keeping the lot of them from sparking a riot. He had such a flair for the dramatic, though – Hermione suppressed a small smile, just thinking about it. There Archie had stood, scornfully invoking every right his noble and pureblood status granted him, giving the Aurors arresting him orders! You will not question me, you will not use Veritaserum on me, you will not touch me or use any sort of compulsion or force on me whatsoever, and you will provide me with all basic necessities of life until my lawyer can get me out. Oh, and call my lawyer for me.

It was a thing of beauty. Hermione had fallen more in love with him with every word. So had the every British newblood or halfblood watching.

Some girls, she suspected, would have been far more upset to watch their boyfriends be arrested. She wasn't. They knew he would be, because the British Ministry of Magic had to show they were taking action on the Rigel Black scandal. If they didn't, it would show that the blood purity laws wouldn't be enforced – at least not for purebloods.

They had had a strategy for that, too – if Archie hadn't been arrested, they would have been in the media drawing comparisons between his treatment and Harry's. Archie would have called on all pureblood allies to act to protect their newblood and halfblood neighbours, because they wouldn't be prosecuted. And then he probably would have been arrested, but the Ministry would have been able to get charge him with a few other things if that had happened, and they would have had more evidence.

If Hermione was running the British Ministry of Magic's political strategy, that was what she would have done. She would have let Archie go home, given him enough leeway and rope, and let him hang himself with it. Fortunately, the British Ministry was still reeling from the scandal and the lack of progress with any other arrests, so they didn't have the political capital to spend appearing to turn a blind eye to Archie's antics for even a few more weeks. She had counted on that; Archie's interview was engineered to put them in exactly that position. There was a reason Hermione Granger was the youngest Advocacy and Policy Chair in BSA history.

"You can let go, Hermione," Derrick said wryly. "They're almost gone, I'm not going to fly off the handle and attack them or anything."

"I told you to stay out of it, Derrick." Hermione shook her head and let him go. "It's fine – he handled it well, so it put us in a better position."

"It was pretty amazing, watching him put them down." Derrick smiled suddenly, a dreamy look coming into his eyes. "Just those orders… I'm going to be savouring that image for weeks."

Hermione laughed a little, shaking her head again. "I have to go talk to Archie's dad – give Archie's trunk to him and explain a few things. And deliver a letter."

"The Lord Black?" Derrick scanned the crowd, which was beginning to bunch and crowd the exits. He was taller than her, so he had a better view. "You better hurry – I think that's him, over there, leaving."

"Damn," Hermione cursed. "I'll call you later, Derrick."

She ducked and dodged her way through the crowd, pushing people aside when she needed to and calling her excuses over her shoulder. Archie was right; his dad looked so much like him that she couldn't mistake him. Lord Sirius Orion Black wore his hair shoulder-length, curly like Archie's hair tended to be when he let it get longer, and he had the same body type, tall and willowy. His face had the same high cheekbones, and he had the same sparkling grey eyes.

Those stupid grey eyes would be the death of Hermione, she swore. Every time Archie got teary or emotional, they would glint just a bit, and his words would be so stupidly sweet and kind and heartfelt she would find herself agreeing to whatever he wanted. Like those damn milkshakes. She didn't even like milkshakes. It was bad enough when his eyes were green, but now that they were grey, it was a nightmare.

"Lord Black!" she called out, panting slightly from exertion. She was not athletic and had never been, despite efforts to get into better shape for the Tournament. "Lord Black, please, wait!"

Archie had said she could just call him by name, that his dad didn't care for his noble title, but it seemed rude to call him anything else. She had never met the man, though Archie talked about him all the time. She knew that they were unusually close, all the more understandable given his mother's death, and that he was probably right. But, as a complete and utter stranger, she couldn't possibly just go up to the Lord Black and call him "Sirius". It didn't feel right.

He stopped and turned, and Hermione was struck anew by now similar he looked to Archie. He was a few inches taller than Archie (though Archie was still growing), his face had more lines, and his jaw was more chiseled, square, but the nose, those eyes, those cheekbones, were the same. It was like looking at Archie through a slightly twisted mirror. She hurried the last few paces towards him.

"Hello," Hermione panted, leaning over slightly to catch her breath. Was she supposed to curtsey or something? Too late now, and she didn't know how to curtsey anyway. "I'm sorry, you don't know me. My name is Hermione Granger. I'm Archie's girlfriend."

Lord Black raised an eyebrow, considering, and Hermione refused to be embarrassed or self-conscious. She knew how she looked, and she knew how Archie looked. Archie was objectively handsome – tall, dark-haired, good facial structure, and those stupid, sparkling grey eyes. Hermione was not conventionally beautiful – she was of average height, with broad shoulders and hips and the kind of breasts that needed to be tied down in the most restrictive bra possible to keep them under control. Her face was too round, her two front teeth were a little too big even after she had shrunk them (her one concession to vanity), and her hair was a mostly untamed mane flying wherever she didn't want it to go.

She knew they looked completely at odds. She didn't care. Archie had chosen her, and the rest of the world and their conventional beauty standards could go and take a hike. She had better things to do than try to force herself into a mold she didn't belong in.

"I've heard of you, though." Lord Black nodded slowly, thinking it over. He was frowning. "Or have I? I've heard about you from my niece Harry, who said you're worth all of Rigel's friends combined."

Hermione laughed. It had taken her months to get used to the idea of the ruse, and even now things cropped up that she had never considered before. "That sounds like something Archie would say," she agreed. "Which was likely repeated by Harry. I did meet Harry once, when Archie was in South America, but I can't say that we know each other at all. She was pretending to be Archie when we met and was doing such a terrible job that I guessed she was an imposter right away. I wasn't myself around her."

Lord Black smiled, a little sadly, with a flicker of something that Hermione couldn't read in his grey eyes. That was strange – Lord Black's eyes were exactly Archie's, but Hermione had always been able to read Archie, even during those teetering days after she had confirmed the ruse. She blinked, and the expression was gone. "I'm sorry to know so little about you, then. It seems my son's girlfriend knows him much better than his own father. You did say girlfriend?"

"I did," Hermione confirmed, reaching into her pocket for the miniature trunk that Archie had given her earlier, as well as the folded-up sheet of paper, wrapped around a set of pictures. He had only kept his pocketwatch, with the Black coat of arms, and his wand on him, the kind of things that he knew the Aurors would be reluctant to destroy or use against him. His trunk simply carried too many incriminating items, from his collection of AIM sweatshirts (he insisted on getting a new one every year), his CDs and CD player, and his Muggle science fiction and fantasy books. A whole other life was trapped in his trunk, which was why Hermione was carrying it. If the Ministry was smart, they would have detained her too, but there were advantages to being an absolute nobody in Wizarding Britain. She passed the key-chain-sized trunk and paper to Lord Black. "Archie wanted me to give you his school trunk. And this letter, with the pictures."

"Thanks," Lord Black said, accepting it with hands that looked just like Archie's – long-fingered and expressive. He glanced through the pictures, the ones that Archie had gotten from his interview, only pausing on the shot of Archie, looking proudly off to one corner with a slight smile on his face. It was a good shot, Archie's favourite, because he was framed on one side by a stern-faced John, the insignia of a Natural Legilimens prominent on his chest, and a solemn, sleek Neal Queenscove was on his other side, one hand resting on his sword hilt. Lord Black pocketed them, then looked her over, seemingly a little uncertain.

"Archie would tell you not to worry," Hermione added, slightly hesitant. What did one say to their boyfriend's father when their boyfriend had just been arrested? Especially if they hadn't met him before? "And don't worry about the legal fees. The British International Association, the umbrella organization of the British Students Associations in every school with a significant British student population, has a legal fund and will cover it. Archie said to tell you that he is fine, that Harry is fine, that he can't wait to see you and that he has so much to tell you. And that he's having some friends come by soon and can you please make up a few spare bedrooms – not for me, I live in Oxford, but our other friends."

Lord Black barked a rough laugh, his face showing a hint of genuine amusement. "I assume he told you to say this all with his boundless energy, too. We can afford the legal fees, I will take care of those myself." He ran one hand through his hair, looking for a moment much older than Hermione had guessed. Archie said that his father was young, still in his mid-thirties, since pureblood nobles married right out of school, but the gesture aged him by years. "Gods."

Hermione shrugged, sympathetic, but she wouldn't step on his pride. The BIA could always use the legal fund on another challenge. "If you like. But Archie speaks for all of us, so if you have any difficulties, let me know and I will raise them with the board." She paused. Archie had said that his Dad likely didn't know a lot about either the BSA or the BIA, and that he hadn't told his family much over the years. "The British International Association is the main organization representing and assisting British witches and wizards worldwide. We are mainly Muggleborns and halfbloods who haven't been able to come home, so our organization helps support us internationally."

It was an incomplete and vague explanation of what the BIA did, but she wouldn't be making a full explanation in public, even if they were at Heathrow International Aeroport which was filled, currently, by people who knew perfectly well what the BIA did. One never knew who was listening. Aside from merely supporting British expatriates, the BIA also had many members within Britain itself. It was the largest and most influential association of British Muggleborns and halfbloods worldwide, and their advocacy arm, of which Hermione was a junior member by virtue of her position as the Advocacy and Policy Chair for the AIM BSA, lobbied for greater sanctions on Wizarding Britain, looser immigration laws for British Muggleborns and halfbloods internationally, increased acceptance of blood refugees from Britain, and so on. They had considerable power, in democratic nations.

The problem was that Wizarding Britain was not a democracy. It was an outright oligarchy, and not even one cloaked with the slightest pretensions of merit. The only relevant qualification for membership in the law-making ranks was ancestry, and seats would simply remain sitting empty when family lines died out. Even the Roman Senate had had better sense than to create a system so utterly isolated from new ideas and the opinions of its citizens!

She bit her lip – like the widespread influence of the BIA internationally, the aeroport was not the place to get into the myriad deficiencies of the British Wizarding government, especially with her boyfriend's father, a ranking Wizengamot member and whom she barely knew.

"I … see," Lord Black nodded once, firmly, then he tried for a roguish smile. She could see where Archie had come by his flirtatious nature. "Hermione, then. I have a thousand questions, as do Lily and James – those are Harry's parents—"

"I am aware," Hermione broke in dryly. "Archie did pretend to be Harry for the last four years at school."

Lord Black laughed suddenly, a hearty and genuine laugh. "Was he terrible at it? He must have been. He's never been good at acting – couldn't even talk himself out of trouble as a kid."

Hermione blinked at him, the slight smile she had dropping away as she processed what he said. He didn't know about Archie's acting. Archie loved his dad so much, and Archie loved theatre, and Lord Black didn't know anything about it.

"Then that must be something he developed in America," she said quietly, a little stiff. "Archie picked up the lead in A Midsummer Night's Dream in his first year, then Jem Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird in his second year, then he was Enjolras in Les Miserables and Reverend Hale in The Crucible in third year. He took a break from theatre for his fourth year because of the Tournament, but after four years of this—" She gestured around the terminal, not just at the gate and the still milling crowds, but the motes of dust disturbed by the Aurors and AIM itself, three thousand miles away. "Archie can make a thousand people weep from a stage, so please don't say he isn't a good actor."

"Is that so?" Lord Black's genuine good humour had disappeared, and he was looking away. "I … didn't know."

"Archie said that he hadn't told his family a lot about his life at AIM," Hermione supplied, then she hesitated and sighed. Archie hadn't said so explicitly, but he had been so excited about telling his dad all about his life at AIM. "If you want, I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you went through his trunk? I think it would tell you a lot about him. Archie… Archie loves AIM, and he loves theatre, especially Shakespeare and musicals, and anything dramatic, he lives off the intense scenes where he can drag on the audience's heartstrings and make people cry. He reads a lot, both fiction and non-fiction – I think his favourite book might be Cosmos, by Carl Sagan, but he also had a phase where he made me go and get the collected works of Martin Luther King Jr. for him because he was in detention for getting into too many fights over creature rights. He has a special love for science fiction, and I've seen him read a lot of Philip K. Dick, but he'll read just about any fiction novel he can get his hands on, even Francesca's stupid Regency romances. He loves movies, especially action flicks, like James Bond, and romcoms, because he's a romantic idiot and loves clichés. And he likes milkshakes more than any reasonable person should—"

She cut herself off, coughing. She hadn't meant to say that much, and she could feel herself blushing. Damn it. She hated it when she blushed. Lord Black was listening attentively, a small smile forming on his face.

"I should get going." She cleared her throat and looked away. "My parents will be waiting for me on the Muggle side – I asked them to meet me there, it's safer for us. I'm sure I will see you soon."

She turned to go, straightening her messenger bag on her shoulder, heading towards the portal into the Muggle world, but it wasn't long before Lord Black was loping along beside her. "Wait, Hermione," he said, and she glanced at him, not breaking her stride. "I was going to invite you to dinner – with Lily and James, too. Tomorrow night? I need to go spring my son from his holding cell, but we'd love to have you."

Archie had said she should expect an invitation, so this didn't come as a surprise. Archie would probably be out by tomorrow afternoon, anyway; the Aurors weren't allowed to do anything to question him once he invoked his absolute right to silence, so there wasn't much point in holding him. And Archie had counted on both Percy Weasley and his Dad getting him out on bail in relatively short order. She hoped he was doing all right.

"Yes, of course," she said, nodding firmly. "12 Grimmauld Place, Archie told me. I'll see you tomorrow."

XXX

Archie curled up against the wall of his holding cell. So far, the experience of prison was much better than he thought it would be. He had been tossed in with a few others: Thomas Landry, who was in for a theft charge that he swore had been a frame job; Geoffrey Baker, who was accused of assaulting someone in Diagon Alley and who was actually quite upfront that he had done it because the person had deserved it; and Ulysses Todmorden, who was in for forging family trees, which Archie wholeheartedly approved of in the current political environment.

"I'm pureblood, though – five generations of witches and wizards, and that's not forged." Ulysses' grin was vindictive. "This is my second charge of forgery, but since the maximum sentence is only a hundred galleons, I'll just pay it. I have a job at Gringotts, so the goblins don't care what I do with my personal life and won't care as long as I can still identify counterfeits for them."

"I'm in for aiding and abetting in blood identity theft and conspiracy to commit blood identity theft," Archie supplied cheerfully from his spot on the floor. Geoff had taken a few injuries in his fight, including a broken nose, and Archie itched to Heal him. They had taken his wand, though, so he couldn't. Instead, all he could do was correct the angle of the poor man's nose by hand so it would heal straight, then give him one of the two bunks so he could take the weight off his likely-sprained and possibly broken ankle. Landry had taken the other tiny bunk – he was worried about his family, so Archie left him to it. Archie would be fine on the floor.

"We know," Ulysses said with a bit of a grin. "We read the interview."

"The Daily Prophet version, or the American Standard version?" Archie quipped. Predictably, the Daily Prophet had censored his interview outrageously – they had cut almost everything he had said about Harry, leaving in just enough for him to admit what he and Harry had done. But he had done a good job of being sympathetic throughout, and since they had left in how Archie and Harry had done it, Harry's brilliance had still shone through. "The bootlegged American Standard version is better, I promise."

Ulysses laughed. "Both, actually. The bootlegged American Standard version didn't have the picture."

"Well, a picture is worth a thousand words, they say." Archie nodded sagely. "But at that rate, the American Standard version was still better. So, how long have you all been here?"

"Eh, Landry's been here about a day, he's a wuss and keeps whinging about his family. Geoff and I have been here a couple days – thanks for fixing his nose, by the way, he was snoring something awful last night." Ulysses shrugged. "Really, you shouldn't even be here – you're noble, you're entitled to a more comfortable holding cell. Alone, if you want it. They tossed you in here to scare you."

"Should I be scared?" Archie tilted his head, frowning a little. They hadn't done anything to him yet. Really, they all seemed very tame.

"Geoff's probably the most violent one they have in here right now – he's got a record as long as your arm, and it's mostly assaults, assault with a weapon, that sort of thing—"

"I only fight people who deserve it though," Geoff said from his bunk. "He beat my sister. Again. Aurors won't do shit because we can't prove our blood status and he's a pureblood so I took it into my own hands. Again. He's a fucking bastard, and I want her to leave him, but she won't because of money and shit. They got kids, and the courts will rule against her because we aren't pureblood, and the fucking employment laws. Every time I see him, I just… I lose it, okay?"

"Wizarding law is really bad about domestic violence, worse than Muggle law that way." Ulysses nodded, a little sadly. "Anyway, my point is, Geoff's got a bit of a reputation for fighting, and he's big, so they probably thought that was enough." He leaned back against the wall beside Archie, stretching his legs out.

The cell was small, and Archie and Ulysses were sitting, shoulder to shoulder, at the foot of Geoff's tiny bunk. Landry's bunk was against the back wall, forming an L-shape with Geoff's bunk, and there was a corner with a toilet and sink at the foot of his bed. The rest of the cell was just bare space – Archie thought if he needed to sleep, he would probably have to do it sitting up, especially if Ulysses took the floor in the middle. Landry kept sobbing, every now and then – Archie's heart went out to him, but he didn't know what to say. Maybe he could promise to get an owl out to his family when he got out.

"You know a lot about Muggle law, then?" he asked, lowering his voice and turning towards Ulysses. "You sound like it."

"Not really." Ulysses snorted, looking away. He was silent for a minute, then he leaned over to whisper in Archie's ear. "My wife's a Muggle. I met her in a pub, when I went out to the Muggle world – she was so beautiful, Arch, and so friendly. Still is, too, and we got two kids to prove it. I got started in forgery when I had to forge her papers so we could get married, fifteen years ago. We say she's a Squib, and that's bad enough – but our kids can go to Hogwarts, and that's more than most can say."

"I see," Archie said, smiling sadly. "Shouldn't you be careful about the forgery, then? Couldn't they stop your kids from going to Hogwarts if your record is too much?"

Ulysses sighed, looking away. He was quiet again. "Yeah, but I can't just… you know, they come to me, and every time, the stories just get me. A good family tree, for someone non-noble, that works wonders – it gets your kid into Hogwarts if no one looks too closely, it gets you a better job. And I know that, which makes it hard to say no. Brianna understands. We have contingency plans."

"I get it." Archie nodded slowly, thinking it over. "You can't help but want to help, however you can."

"Yeah." Ulysses looked up, then leaned back again. "Anyway, I know a bit of Muggle law. British Muggle law is a lot better for women – domestic assaults are taken more seriously, and marital rape is recognized, there. Women don't become the property of their husbands under Muggle law."

"I would hope that domestic assaults and rape didn't happen a lot." Archie winced, looking away. "But something tells me I'm being idealistic and naïve, again."

Ulysses burst into laughter. "That you are. In the Muggle world, they say it's one in ten – one in ten women will experience violence at the hands of their intimate partners. If you want my guess, it's higher in our world."

"That's horrible." Archie shivered – partly from the new knowledge, partly because it was cold in the cell. "Do you mind if I cast a Warming spell? It's a bit brute force, but I'm freezing."

Ulysses raised an eyebrow. "Not at all, it does get cold at night in here. I'm surprised they're not giving you a blanket. They let you keep your wand?"

Archie laughed. "Of course not. I've got my pocketwatch, and that's it. Maybe they were hoping Geoff would mug me for the silver in my pocketwatch. One of my friends is a paper-caster. She taught me the rune for fire, so it won't be like a Warming Charm – she said it would be more like sitting by a fire, for as long as the spell lasts."

"Works for me," Ulysses said, moving his legs so Archie could scramble forward, picturing the rune in his head as he traced it out on the floor. Chess always said that the magic was in your head – when you were a runic caster, on a certain level you became magic, so she could flick spells off once she had it pictured in her head with enough focus. He couldn't do that, so he licked his finger instead and used his saliva to trace the rune, huge, on the stone floor. Once he could see it, it was easy for him to channel his magic through it and soon they had what felt like a nice campfire at their feet. He breathed a sigh of relief – the warmth was nice, and he leaned forward to warm his hands.

"You have got to teach me that," Geoff groaned from his bed. "I'm in here often enough and I am done being cold. I mean, fuck."

Archie laughed. "Happy to. It's just one rune – I'd write it out for you if you had paper or something, but you can just memorize the picture on the floor. It's like any runic spell – you draw it out, and you channel your magic through it, and boom, fire! Or something that feels like it, anyway. Usually lasts a few hours, so you'll still wake up freezing if one of us doesn't get up an renew the spell."

"Ugh…" Geoff struggled up, squinting and scowling ferociously at the rune for a couple minutes. "I think I got it. Four strokes – something like an upside-down y, then two little lines to make it like a star. It even looks like a campfire, which helps. I think I got it – wake me up when it goes out, then I can try."

"Sure," Archie agreed. He pulled out his pocketwatch – it was past nine at night, but he was still wide awake with the jetlag. He should try to sleep anyway, since tomorrow would probably be early, and this was about as comfortable as he was going to get. He told himself that his makeshift corner with the bunk and the wall was comfortable and shut his eyes. "I'm going to try to catch a few winks. Wake me up if the rune goes out and you need help restarting it."

It was a rough night. There was no way around it, and the stone walls of the holding cell seemed to exude cold. Archie woke up every couple of hours, and his neck and back was a mess of cramps. If he had his wand, he could have done something about that, but he didn't, so all he could do was shift positions and hope that helped. He woke up Geoff once, so the big man could try the fire rune. Geoff, squinting in concentration with two black eyes, struggled to get the rune right, but got it working on his fifth try.

"Useful, that," Geoff said, heating his hands and feet near the rune. "I like it. Thanks, Arch. You want the bunk?"

"No, you still need to lie down. I'm fine." Archie yawned, curling up on his side close to the rune. Ulysses had drawn his legs up and was sleeping with his head in his arms, so there was just about enough room for Archie to curl up on the floor by the rune in the fetal position. "Healer's orders. Just pay it forward."

"Will do."

Two hours later, it was Ulysses who woke up and reset the fire rune, only taking a couple tries to get it right, then it was Archie was got up to reset it after that, near four in the morning. He was finally, finally feeling exhausted, the jetlag and mental drain of the day catching up to him as he curled up, again, at the foot of Geoff's bunk and fell asleep.

He woke up to a gentle prodding on his backside and sat up, his entire back an ache. He had a weird, bleary sort of feeling – he had fallen asleep, but he couldn't tell if he had slept too much or if he hadn't slept enough. His head ached, a little, and he wrinkled his brow.

"Wake up," Ulysses said, voice gentle. Archie slowly sat up, trying to work the kink from his neck the No-Maj way. "Your lawyer's here – you got bail."

"You put the Black Heir in the general population?" The voice was a melodious tenor, but its tone was icy. He blinked, shaking his head slightly.

Archie had met Percy Weasley once before, but not in this guise. In his sharp, navy blue dress robes, Percy cut an intimidating figure, pinning the shaking junior Auror in front of him with a piercing, icy-blue gaze. "Auror Goldfinch, you are aware that this constitutes an infringement of his rights as the heir to a Book of Gold family? He is entitled to having some basic comforts, like a pillow and blanket. And his own bed."

"It's fine, Percy!" Archie called out, struggling to his feet, rubbing his eyes and adopting his sharp, noble accent again. "My cellmates were very kind to me. Have you any news?"

The barrister turned to face him, a slight smile coming onto his face. "Your father posted bail, and I was able to negotiate your release on house arrest," he replied succinctly, turning back to the junior Auror beside him and directing her to open the cell with one pointed tilt of his head. The Auror fumbled with the keys to the cell. "You may rest assured that the Lord Black will be apprised of the conditions in which you kept his son. Rigel, we'll discuss when we are back at your house."

So that they could be sure no one was listening, Archie realized. He turned back to his cellmates. "Is there anything I can do for you all?"

"You've done a lot already," Geoff replied, voice gruff. "Get out of here, kid."

"We'll be fine," Ulysses added kindly, and his eyes had the light of belief in them as he looked at Archie. "Go and do what you've got to do."

Archie nodded, and glanced back at the back bunk. "Um, Mr. Landry?"

There was silence from that bunk, and the soft noise of exhausted, sorrowful, sleep. "Don't worry about him," Ulysses said finally. "He'll be fine. Just the shock of being arrested and charged for the first time, that's all. We'll tell him you worried."

"Thanks." Archie nodded once, at Ulysses and Geoff. "Good luck!"

He followed Percy, out of the Auror holding cells, through the wizarding courts, where he was allowed to pick up his wand and sign the forms promising not to flee the jurisdiction and to attend court. It was good, having his wand back, but he felt gross, not having taken a shower in the last day. He ran one hand though his hair, messing it up, feeling the grease that had collected in it. He made a face.

"We'll be back at Grimmauld Place shortly," Percy said, his voice terse, eyes roving everywhere as they exited the courts. He offered his arm, which Archie grabbed onto gratefully, letting him Side Along Apparate him home.

Archie had never been so glad to see his townhouse. The exterior had always been rather gloomy, a throwback to the old days when the Blacks were Dark, both magically and politically, when they had stood with the other blood supremacist families. Dad had redone the entire interior, taking down the house-elf heads (far too gruesome, Mum had always said, for a house with children), all the old portraits, and removing all the most dangerous heirlooms. Those were, the ones that couldn't or shouldn't be destroyed, hidden in the attic or in their vault at Gringotts. He would change the outside of it, he thought – Dad had done so much to change their reputation, and Archie would do the rest.

He smiled, looking down at the lime-green snakes that were slithering up to his shoes, sniffing at him. He couldn't tell what they were saying, the way that Harry could, but he didn't mind them so much now. They tickled at him, hissing. He leaned down, patting at the littlest one and murmuring apologies that he couldn't understand them.

Then the door to Grimmauld Place cracked open, and Archie saw his Dad.

"Dad!" he shrieked, before he jumped over the snakes and lunged for him, as if he was a much younger boy. He had only seen him, what was it, six months ago? Over the holidays. But it felt like so much longer than that – it felt like Archie had gone away to AIM for the first time, almost four years ago, and he hadn't come back until now, like he hadn't seen his Dad since then, not really. Every interaction with Dad since that time had been under a role, covered with who Archie had to be, and it was only now that Archie could see him and just be. "Dad, Dad!"

Dad couldn't swing him around anymore, like he would have when he was younger. Archie was only a few inches shorter than him now, and he heard the slight oof his Dad made when Archie collided with him, full force. His eyes were leaking, into Dad's shoulder, and he was making soft hiccoughing noises as he sobbed. They weren't sad tears, but happy ones, because whatever else was going on, he was himself, and he had Dad. And there would be Hermione there soon too, as soon as he managed to Floo-call her or write her, and John and Chess would be there within a week, they had said, and it didn't matter what happened because he was himself and everything would be all right.

"Easy there, pup," Dad muttered, patting him on the back, and Archie knew from the way he sounded that he was teary too. "You're bigger than you used to be."

"Dad," Archie sobbed, before pulling back to look his father in the eye. It lasted all of fifteen seconds before he grabbed his Dad and pulled him in for another hug. "Oh, Dad. I missed you so, so much. You can't believe how much I missed you – it feels like I haven't been home in forever."

"Yeah," Dad replied softly, a little unsure, and Archie pulled back again, tilting his head slightly as he looked his Dad in the eye. Dad's eyes were teary too, but his expression was a little confused, so Archie smiled. He supposed it would take a few days for him to get used to Archie as he was now, even knowing about the ruse. And he had to have so many questions.

Archie would be ready to answer them. After a coffee, and a shower, and a change of clothes. "I'm sorry, Dad – I'm kind of gross, right now. Didn't get a chance to shower since I left AIM, and I'm still in yesterday's clothes, and I'm kind of jetlagged, still."

"Sure, Arch." Dad nodded to Percy, behind him, and Archie realized he had left the lawyer behind him. "Percy, would you like to come in?"

"Please," the barrister said, a little stiffly. "These snakes are… disconcerting. It'll be a short meeting only today, Rigel, I know you must be tired after a night on the floor of the holding cells."

"You get used to the snakes," Archie turned and grinned broadly, waving for Percy to come in. "Oh, and it's Arch, or Archie, not Rigel. Rigel was what Harry called herself, because I never liked the name. It helped her differentiate between herself when pretending to be me, and me. Come on in, and thanks for the save. Dad, did Hermione catch up with you? She told you about the legal fund, right?"

"Yes, but I covered it myself," Dad replied, holding the door open politely for Percy to come in, while Archie meandered off to the kitchen. There was coffee already brewed, and it smelled divine, so Archie poured himself a mug and offered the pot to both Dad and Percy, who had followed him there. Percy shook his head, but Dad accepted it. Archie pulled out the milk from the cooling box – maybe he could talk Chess into making a No-Maj refrigerator, with a freezer, work in a magical household if he asked nicely enough – and fished the sugar out from the upper cabinets. Dad's voice was a little surprised as he watched Archie pour both into a half-mug of coffee. "Milk and sugar, Arch?"

"Black coffee was my trigger," Archie replied absently, humming happily as he made his coffee with half-milk and two spoons of sugar. "Part of my role when I played Rigel Black. Not me."

"Oh."

Archie sat down at the table, drinking in a deep gulp of his milky coffee. It was good – exactly the way he liked it. Milk and sugar cut the bitterness of coffee, but he could still just taste the notes of caramel and toffee. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was so nice to be home. "So, Percy, what do I need to know? What do you want to know?"

Percy shook his head, serious. "I've negotiated your release on house arrest, but the Ministry is pushing this case very aggressively. Right now, their plea offer says they'll cut the usual fine by a third for a guilty plea, and they want the trial next month. They've already led the preliminary inquiry in absentia and found enough evidence to proceed based on your interview, so if you don't plead guilty, it will be a full trial before a panel of the Wizengamot, as is your right. There will be a Law Lord there to instruct them, but in a case like this, which is so overtly political, a lot will depend on who is selected."

"I'm not pleading guilty." Archie shook his head firmly. "Make them work for it. Is there any way we can argue about it? I'd prefer to get off, if I can – use whatever loophole you want."

Percy paused. "Did you do it, Archie?"

"Do you mean, did Harry and I switch places?" Archie raised his coffee to his lips and drank again. Coffee was good. "Yeah, we did. Do I admit that I was wrong to do it? No, I don't. I don't think what I did was wrong. Percy, you knew Harry – you knew Harry better than you know me, because I've only met you once, when Harry brought me to the Burrow. You know Harry was happy at Hogwarts, that she belonged there in a way that I never would have."

Percy sighed. "Even so, under the law, that constituted blood identity theft. Harry was not allowed to go to Hogwarts because of her blood status – by doing so, and by masquerading as you to do it, she meets the elements of the offence of blood identity theft. By allowing her to use your name, you aided and abetted her in committing blood identity theft, and both of you conspired to commit blood identity theft together. It will be very hard for me to argue otherwise."

"Even so, I want you to do it." Archie looked up, meeting Percy square in the eyes. He smiled – not broadly, but a soft, genuine smile. "Harry said you would be a great lawyer, and I believe in you. If it helps at all, I invoked my absolute right to silence, and the reporter I spoke to, Conal, isn't going to come to Wizarding Britain to testify."

"That doesn't help." Percy sighed again. "Because you have the absolute right to silence, your interview will be presumptively admissible unless I am able to argue that it is somehow unreliable. I might be able to do it, based on how the article was transmitted, to the Daily Prophet, but I would need to consider it further. As should you."

Archie pursed his lips. That was a little unexpected; Hermione had thought it would be much easier to toss the interview. And having the interview declared unreliable was not a result that they would want, either. "I'll think it over more. Can you think up other defenses?"

"I can, but they won't be good ones," Percy replied grimly. "I will think about it, but if you did the switch, I do strongly recommend that you plead guilty. Even if you don't take the plea deal, if you plead guilty, I can make arguments to reduce the fine. The usual fine on conviction is fifteen hundred galleons, you know."

"Arch, you should really think it over," Dad said, his voice a little cautious, considering. "It's… not a bad offer."

"No." Archie smiled sympathetically at the barrister. Dad would understand, once he explained. "Percy, I promised in my interview that I'd advocate against the blood purity laws. This is just a part of that. Do your best – if they railroad me, they railroad me. That's what we expected would happen anyway, but I want a spectacle just as much as they do. Dad, don't worry about the fine – the BIA legal fund has it covered. I'm a test case."

Percy shook his head. "Well, we have a month, and I think you need some time to think it over. I will try to come up with potential ideas for defenses for you, but I can't promise they will be good ones. I will be by in a few days for a more formal client interview with you, but for now, please – rest."

"Sure," Archie agreed easily, finishing off his mug of coffee and reaching for the coffeepot, milk and sugar to make his second one. He was bone-tired, even with, by his guess, at least six hours of very interrupted sleep. "I'll be happy to talk to you further. Whatever you want to know."

Percy nodded, standing up. "Lord Black," he said politely. "I can show myself out, if you would prefer. I'm sure you would like to speak with your son."

"I'll be here if you want to walk him out, Dad," Archie supplied cheerfully. "I'm going to need a shower and a change of clothes before I'm ready to talk anyway. But there's so much I need to tell you! Days of stories, Dad. And I want to call Hermione, too. She's my girlfriend, Dad, did she tell you?"

"She did," Dad confirmed, standing up. "I'll show you out, Percy, with my thanks. Arch…" He paused, and Archie smiled, reassuring.

"I'll be here," he repeated, raising his mug of coffee to his lips with both hands. "Right here, drinking a vat of coffee. Coffee, shower, clothes."

Dad nodded and disappeared. Archie breathed in the silence for a minute, smelling the warm scent of coffee.

It was so nice to be home. This was the coffee, the coffeepot that Mum had brought with her when she married Dad, when she had gotten Dad hooked on it and Archie, of course, had practically grown up on the stuff. Here was the stove, the oven, where Mum and Dad had spent so many evening cooking together, where Archie learned to make his first breakfasts. Here were the cabinets, that he and Harry would play in, when they were young, and there was the burn on the floor from when he was seven and tried to bake a cake, and there were the misshapen bowls that they had all made when Mum decided they should try a pottery class together. Here was the kitchen where they made a family, where they had made a home.

There was no place like home.

Dad was back before he knew it, and Archie stared at him over the rim of his coffee mug, just taking in the sight of him. Dad didn't seem to know what to say to him, and they stared at each other for several long minutes, while Archie nursed his second coffee of the day.

He did look so much like Dad, Archie thought proudly. There were parts of him that were different, that were clearly Mum, but his key facial features all came from Dad. He was a slightly wonky, much younger, Sirius Black, and he loved it. They had the same eyes, the same delicate nose, the same black curls, even if Archie kept his hair cropped shorter.

"I looked in your school trunk," Dad said finally. "Your girlfriend said you wouldn't mind. I invited her for dinner tonight."

Archie blinked, a little surprised. Not at the dinner invitation, he had expected that, but Hermione had told Dad to look in his school trunk? She wasn't wrong, he supposed, setting down his coffee mug – he didn't mind. He had been so excited about showing Dad everything, and it made no difference that Dad had peeked into it early. He grinned cheekily. "Did you find anything interesting?"

"Four AIM sweatshirts, including three that can't possibly fit you anymore, an AIM Triwizard Team jacket, a lot of books I've never heard of and other things I don't recognize." Dad's voice was deadpan. "Hermione said your favourite book was called Cosmos so I picked it out and got through about a third of it."

"Did she?" Archie tilted his head to one side, thinking about it. "I guess I do like Carl Sagan a lot, but I don't think I really have a favourite? I like most things I read. It depends on my mood, really – if I want to feel a sense of wonder, I read Carl Sagan. If I'm feeling hopeful or I want inspiration, I like Martin Luther King Jr. If I want something to challenge me, I read science fiction, if I want adventure I usually read fantasy, and if I just want something light and happy, I read romance." He paused, picking up his coffee mug again. "Do you want any recommendations?"

"I think eventually I'll want to read everything," Dad replied slowly, frowning. "I just… I don't even know where to begin, Arch. Where do I even start asking you questions?"

Archie smiled, lifting his now half-full cup of milky coffee and downing it. "Why don't you take the fifteen minutes I spend showering and changing and make a list. Start wherever you want."

XXX

Hermione got off the tube the Caledonia Road Station in Islington, stepping onto a narrow, somewhat run-down platform. She could have Flooed easily, but she was cautious of the Floo, nowadays. Some of the other newblood and halfblood families were beginning to remove themselves from the Floo network for security reasons, and she couldn't say that they were wrong to do so. For Hermione, who couldn't Apparate yet, the Floo was unfortunately a necessity for getting into and out of Wizarding Britain quickly, so a complete disconnect just wasn't possible.

That didn't mean that she couldn't take certain other precautions. She had Flooed into Diagon Alley but had taken the tube from Leicester Square Station. It was only an extra half hour, between the five stops and the walks, and now the Floo logs would only show that she went to Diagon Alley. The Ministry of Magic would realize, sooner rather than later, that Archie cared about her, and that would make her a person of interest.

Until then, the main advantage Hermione, and most newbloods and halfbloods, had was that they knew how the No-Maj world worked. The employment laws meant that the Ministry of Magic was staffed almost entirely by purebloods educated in at Hogwarts, which meant that only very few people there would even remember or know anything about No-Maj methods of transport. The hope was that mixing in the tube would keep Hermione off the radar, at least for a little longer.

That was the theory, but her senses were still on high alert as she walked the several blocks between the tube station and 12 Grimmauld Place. She was sure that, at some point, the area had been wealthy; it didn't make any sense for the noble, Book of Gold, Blacks to take up residence in a London townhouse that was anything except fashionable. In the many years since then, however, large parts of the area had become distinctly seedy, and Hermione kept her wand close, tucked in a holster on her arm, covered by her zip-up sweatshirt.

A holster. They'd have to get Archie a wand holster at some point. He didn't have one because he had never been interested in duelling. Hermione herself had only gotten one because she had tried out in the Trials, but now that she had one, she couldn't see herself going back. It was extraordinarily convenient – all she had to do was snap her wrist, and her wand was in her hand. And it fit so neatly under No-Maj clothing, too.

The exterior of 12 Grimmauld Place was dark. Archie had always said that he and Dad would clean it up, but they just hadn't gotten around to it. It wasn't as gloomy as Hermione had always imagined it, though; the windows showed the characteristic signs of lighting spells, and she recognized the glimmer of the wards, the heating spells covering the front garden. That was for the snakes, Hermione recalled, because Lord Black had adopted a dozen snakes to celebrate his son's apparent Sorting into Slytherin House.

What a family. She shook her head, her French braid, an attempt to control her hair for the purposes of dinner, flopping heavily on her back, and opened the gate. The snakes came out, hissing at her curiously, but Hermione ignored them in favour of picking her way towards the front door.

The door opened when she was halfway down the path, and Archie stood there, in his favourite AIM sweatshirt, a fresh pair of jeans, and a wide, happy grin on his face. Hermione, recognizing the look, steadied herself for approximately hundred and sixty pounds of teenage boy throwing himself on her.

"Hermione!" Archie shouted, hitting her like a ton of bricks. She staggered only slightly and returned his excited hug with a few pats on his back. He was just so earnest.

"Hello, Archie." Hermione pulled herself away, looking up at him. They had expected that he would have to spend a night in prison, since their flight had come in after court hours, and that he probably wouldn't be very comfortable. But he looked liked he had borne it well; he was smiling, his grey eyes were lit up in joy, and Hermione pulled her wand out to run a quick diagnostic, just to be sure.

Archie laughed, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. "I'm fine, 'Mione. Just tired."

"And you've had too much coffee," she replied dryly, putting her wand back in its holster. He was right, about his condition – her diagnostic had just told her that he hadn't slept enough the night before, and there were the chemical traces of too much caffeine which was making his heart beat a little faster than normal. Nothing alarming. "Don't drink anymore today, your heart rate is elevated."

"But coffee is wonderful." Archie grinned, taking her hand. "Come on, I want you to meet the rest of my family!"

Hermione let Archie pull her along after him, into Grimmauld Place itself. Looking around, the inside was much warmer than the outside, though she still had some questions about the décor choices. The Lord Black had gone with a lot of green and silver, not all of it tasteful. She followed Archie through the hallway, into a warm kitchen. At the doorway, Hermione paused, eyeing rest of Archie's family.

She recognized the Lord Black immediately, nodding at him politely while he flashed her a quick smile and turned his attention back to the pasta sauce on the stovetop. Addy, Archie's youngest cousin, was also easy to pick out. She was about a two and a half years old, now, and she was babbling in a highchair, showing a few even, white teeth. She was a redhead with bright blue eyes, and Hermione smiled at her, waving a little.

The Lady Lillian Potter, formerly known as Lily Evans, leaned over the high-chair, red hair swinging as she murmured something to the toddler. Hermione took a moment to look over one of the BIA's most useful information sources, and one of the legendary victors of the 1975 Triwizard Tournament – she was in her mid-thirties, now, with bright green eyes and milky white skin. She was beautiful, more beautiful than the old black and white Daily Prophet pictures made her out to be when Hermione was searching the archives to find exactly who her friend was supposed to be. For now, though, her expression was tired and worried. The Lord Potter, whom Hermione recognized too from the Daily Prophet, wore the same tired, anxious expression, and his hair was a messy mop of waves on top of his head. He wore spectacles, round ones, perched on top of a narrow, pointed nose.

The last man, who had grey running through his brown hair, Hermione didn't recognize. Still, by the process of elimination, Hermione guessed that he had to be Archie's Uncle Remus Lupin, the werewolf.

"Uncle James, Aunt Lily, Uncle Remus!" Archie interrupted them eagerly. "Meet my girlfriend, Hermione Granger. 'Mione, sit down, here." He pulled a chair out for her.

Hermione sat down slowly in the chair, looking around at the strangers that she had heard so much about and yet had no idea how to address. "The pleasure is all mine," she said simply.

"Hermione," the Lady Potter said, straightening with a kind smile. "I feel like we've heard so much about you. We are so happy to meet you at last. Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes – can I get you anything? Water?"

Hermione fought very hard to stop herself from raising her eyebrow in skepticism. Unless Lady Potter had heard of her through the BIA, she would bet that very little of what they had heard about her was accurate, other than general platitudes. She didn't know Harry Potter at all, and Archie himself had said that he had told his family very little about AIM. Still, she had worked on the strategy for Archie's arrest with the BIA, and for all she knew, Lady Potter had heard of her. "Water would be lovely, thank you."

"I've got it!" Archie bounced over to the counter, pouring a glass of water from a pitcher sitting there and bringing it over to her. She sipped at it, a little uncertainly, as Archie took a seat beside her. "How was your night, 'Mione?"

"Better than yours, I'm sure," Hermione replied, letting a smile of relief pass across her face. Archie was always so good at smoothing over an awkward situation. Hermione didn't like feeling awkward, she liked certainty, she liked knowing exactly where she stood and exactly what to do and exactly what the next steps were, while Archie was great at taking life as it came. "I called the BIA last night, about the legal fund, since your father said he would cover your costs, but they've said that if we run into any difficulties, it'll be fine. We still have the fund open to us if anything happens. How was your meeting with the lawyer?"

"Eh," Archie replied, distracted. Hermione glanced over quickly at Lady Potter, whose expression hadn't wavered but whose eyes were suddenly sharp. "Not as good as we were hoping. Percy said that one of the disadvantages of having invoked the absolute right of silence is that they'll be able to admit the interview easily, unless he tosses it for unreliability. Anyway – he's thinking about other defenses and will be back in a few days, so let's worry more about that then."

Hermione nodded, catching the glance that Archie's dad had exchanged with the eldest Potters. She looked back at Archie, who smiled reassuringly at her and grabbed her hand again. He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Don't worry about it, 'Mione – they're still catching up on the details of the ruse, I think. Dad left off asking me about the ruse itself all afternoon, probably because Aunt Lily and Uncle James want to hear. I just spent all afternoon talking about movies and books and things."

"All right," Hermione replied softly, giving his hand a squeeze.

"Sorry Dad, everyone," Archie said, turning back to the rest of his family with a sheepish sort of grin. "Hermione only agreed to go out with me a couple weeks ago, so I'm still stunned at my good fortune."

"Hundredth time the charm," Hermione added dryly, playing along. "Where were my flowers today, hmm?"

"I was in prison, darling." Archie pouted, but he still pulled out his wand, cast the Orchideous charm, and presented her with an oversized purple orchid. She reached for it, but he shook his head. "No, let me weave it into your braid. Please?"

"I'm going to look like an idiot," Hermione muttered in reply, but she turned slightly and let him do it anyway.

"You don't look like an idiot," Lord Black said, eyeing the flower with something like approval, a huge pot of pasta sauce in his hands as he set it in the middle of the table. "It looks good!"

Hermione stared at him for a moment, then went out on a limb. Archie loved his Dad, and she had at least met him the day before. "You will have to forgive me, Lord Black, but considering you raised Archie and decorated this house in bright silver and lime green, I don't trust your sense of what looks good."

There was a ripple of laughter through the kitchen, and Archie's Uncle Remus added a huge, steaming bowl of pasta to the table as well. "She's not wrong there, Sirius. Come on, everyone – dig in."

"And just call us by name, Hermione – I'm only the Lord Black to the people I hate." Archie's dad winked at her. "It's just Sirius – and James, and Lily, and Remus." He pointed at each of Archie's family members in turn, and Hermione nodded in understanding.

For a few minutes, the only noises were the sound of clinking cutlery and the occasional request to pass the parmesan cheese, or pepper. The pasta itself was delicious – the spaghetti was past al dente, but that was amply made up with the rich, heavy sauce, studded with mushrooms. There was no meat in it; the meatballs were held in a separate dish.

"Harry used to be a vegetarian," Archie explained, catching Hermione's look. "Though she started eating chicken in the past couple years. We're used to giving her meat-free options for food."

"I see," Hermione replied, twirling noodles around her fork. Archie smiled and nodded, eating his own plate of food with obvious relish.

He really did give a hundred and ten percent to everything he did, Hermione thought. For all that Archie Black frustrated her sometimes, for all that he could play the fool at wholly inappropriate moments, when he did decide to be serious, he put everything he had into it. He was excellent with people, with a sort of artless natural charisma, and he always tried to make sure everyone around him was at ease, happy. He was kind, and since Hermione didn't think of herself as being kind (she was too fiery and brash to be kind, really), she couldn't help but be drawn to it.

After awhile, James Potter began asking Archie questions – about the ruse, about Harry, about the why and the when and the how. Archie answered everything, without embellishment. He was getting used to answering these questions, Hermione thought, sneaking her hand into his for support – on some level, this wasn't Archie talking anymore, but the polished and shining Arcturus Rigel Black they had developed for the interview. He was solid, strong, unashamed – he was honest, admitting that even if it was Harry's idea, he had gone along with it all willingly. No, he didn't regret what he had done. Yes, he planned on standing trial, drawing attention to the injustice of pureblood supremacy – too many people had suffered for a meaningless system, and with his position of privilege, he had the obligation to do something about it.

His voice was nice. He was often eager, excited, but when he was calm and explaining things, he really did have a very nice voice. It was even, a gentle sort of tenor, heartfelt and sincere. It became a little more childish when he was excited, when he started talking a mile a minute, but even then Hermione couldn't help but be swept up in his enthusiasm.

"No, Uncle James – I have no idea where she is, sorry." Archie's voice was genuinely apologetic. "She did contact me once through the mirror, and she said she was fine – better than fine, actually. I told her not to tell me anything in case they used Veritaserum on me."

"They're not allowed to use Veritaserum on you, Archie." James ground his teeth a little in frustration.

"They're also supposed to put him in a comfortable holding cell with basic comforts, James, and they didn't," Sirius cut in with a frown. "From what Percy tells me, he found Arch sleeping on the floor of gen pop with someone in on his seventeenth assault with a weapon charge. Not even a blanket."

"Hey, Geoff was cool." Archie waved a hand, unconcerned. "He's just in on assault because his brother-in-law beat his sister and he went and got revenge. I wasn't in any danger and they tried to make it comfortable for me."

"He's a bruiser with anger management issues." Sirius shook his head, a heavy frown coming across his face. "You were entitled to a bed with a mattress, sheets, a pillow and blanket, a pitcher of water, and so on."

"Well, you can't miss what you never had, so it doesn't matter. But really, the company was appreciated." Archie shrugged philosophically. "Why should I be entitled to better, anyway? Just because I'm noble?"

There wasn't really an answer to that, though the adults around the table exchanged glances. Hermione suppressed a scowl – the proper answer was that everyone was entitled to better and the law of privilege was stupid, but no one wanted to say it.

"Moving on, then – can you contact her, Arch? Through the mirrors?" James' voice was hopeful, and Hermione gave Archie's hand a squeeze.

"I'm sorry," Archie said softly, and he was genuinely sorry. "The mirrors are linked. You can track her mirror from mine, so by this point, she's probably either destroyed it, or she's abandoned it somewhere as a decoy. I'll give you mine, though, if you want it, just in case."

There was an awkward pause, before Archie's Uncle Remus spoke up. "James, Harry will be fine. She is… unusually well-equipped and she can defend herself. Remember that all the things that we believed happened to Archie actually happened to her – she is strong, and she'll find a way. She's not just your little girl anymore."

James looked down, lips tight, and Hermione felt a little sorry for him. She glanced over at Lily, who was looking thoughtful, considering, as she checked on Addy. Addy had managed to spread pasta sauce all over her hands and her face, and Lily cleaned her up with a wordless charm.

"Archie spent all afternoon telling me about his time at AIM," Sirius said, manfully changing the topic. "Did you know that Muggles have been to the moon?!"

XXX

Archie woke up the next morning, after a full night of rest, with only one thought in mind. He had told Dad a lot about his life at AIM yesterday – he had talked about science, and movies, and theatre. He had even performed a soliloquy for him, though Dad wouldn't get the full impact of a play from just a soliloquy. He hadn't even picked one of his own performance soliloquys – he had always been partial to the St. Crispin's Day speech in Henry V, though he doubted he would ever get to play it. He had let Dad listen to some of his music, making him sit through the nearly three hours of Les Misérables on his CD player while Archie went through his newest script for next year, Grease, figuring out who he would audition for and how he would play them, taking notes with a pen at the kitchen table in a fresh notebook. Then, over dinner, they had talked about the ruse itself – they had talked about when he and Harry had switched, how they had done it, why they had done it. But there was one thing he hadn't told Dad about yet, and it was very important that he do it.

He pulled a box out from his trunk and walked it downstairs. It was a heavy box, stuffed with scrolls of parchment, still lined with his and Hermione's magical bookmarks, and a few Pensieve memories. It was more full now than before – he, Hermione and Daine had all shoved their notes on top of the parchment scrolls, and he had added his No-Maj Medicine I textbook too, a post-it note marking the insert on multiple sclerosis. He wished he had books specifically on the disease, but all his reference books for his research had been borrowed at AIM, and he had never gotten copies of his own.

"Dad?" he called out, walking into the kitchen, box in his arms. His dad was there, with the Daily Prophet open and a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. "Dad, I need to talk to you."

"What about, Arch?" Dad folded the newspaper up and tossed it in the fireplace, and Archie dropped his box on the kitchen table. Dad eyed it cautiously for a minute – Archie knew that Dad could see the heavy black letters on it, Diana Black, just as well as he could. "What's this?"

"Mum's records from St. Mungo's," Archie replied grimly.

"And why would you have them, Archie?" Dad reached out with one slightly unsteady hand, popping open the top of the box and seeing the textbook and sheaf of lined paper on top. "I don't…"

"Better not to ask that, Dad." Archie shook his head. "Plausible deniability. I got them because… well, because I took No-Maj Medicine I when I was in third year, and I got an idea. Here." He reached for the textbook, flipping to the marked pages, and held them out for his Dad to read.

Dad was quick about it, skimming the words and a heavy frown coming across his face. "Archie… We don't know, we couldn't—"

"No, Dad." Archie cut him off with a wave of his hand. "That's why I had to get the records. I looked into it – Hermione and I did, and then I pulled in one of my upper-year friends who specializes in complex care and cases like this. We reviewed it, as closely as we could, and my friend Daine found confirmation in the Pensieve memories. The Healers didn't know what they were looking for but still saw the lesions, they just didn't know what it meant. It's... it's as certain as it ever gets, Dad. Mum died of multiple sclerosis, an aggressive form, but… but had we known, had our Healers found it…"

"They couldn't have known though, Arch." Dad's hands were pale, holding his book, and there was a frightening expression on his face – there was shock, there was denial, there was heartrending sorrow. "This must be new, or… or—"

"The first wizarding case of MS was identified in the 1950s." Archie's voice was soft. "For Muggles, the illness is not uncommon – it's rarer for witches and wizards, but it was known. In America, Daine says that they would have taken months to diagnose it, but they would have diagnosed it. Then they would have started treating it. We don't know how Mum would have responded, because she never had the chance, but a lot of Muggles live for decades with this illness, and even witches and wizards are estimated to survive a decade, once diagnosed. The – the late diagnosis really impacts us."

He paused, because Dad's face was blank, frighteningly so, then he took a deep breath. Dad had to know. This was important, and Dad had to know, because Dad wouldn't understand why Archie had to do what he was doing now without it. Standing trial, changing the world, it wasn't just for Harry and Hermione and Derrick and Isran and for the newbloods and halfbloods who would benefit in in the most obvious ways.

It was for himself, too. Mum had died of a treatable condition, which Healers in Wizarding Britain hadn't known about, because they didn't put any importance or emphasis into learning about the Muggle society around them. Had they lived in a country where they were more integrated into the Muggle world, where they knew about science and medicine and where Muggle things weren't automatically dismissed, then Mum would have been diagnosed. She would have been treated. She wouldn't have been cured, but Archie and Dad would have had more time with her.

He had promised himself, long ago, that he would become a Healer so that people didn't have to go through what he had gone through. They wouldn't need to watch someone they loved wasting away, without a diagnosis and a cure. This was no different.

"Mun died of a treatable condition, Dad. That's – that's part of why I have to do this. Pureblood supremacy doesn't just hurt Muggleborns and halfbloods, it also hurts us. I promised myself that I'd become a Healer so that maybe no one would have to go through what we went through, and this is a part of that." Archie took another deep breath and flipped the lid of the box open. He pulled out the notes on top. "My notes, Hermione's notes, and Daine's notes are here. You might want to start with these – we bookmarked most of the key Healing reports, but I don't know that they'll make a lot of sense to you. Um, my notes are the ones in blue ink, here, Hermione's are in black, and Daine's notes are these, the ones with the really cramped handwriting."

Dad hadn't responded. He was staring at the box, at the notes, his face pale. Archie didn't know what to say. Archie had dealt with this alone, but Dad didn't have to. "Do you… want me to walk you through it? Do you want to read it and ask me questions later? Do you want me to stay here with you, or do you want me to leave so you can process? If you want, I can also ask Hermione to find some of the books about MS that I found to be most helpful. Whatever you want, Dad."

Dad looked up at him slowly, seemingly lost for words, and the grief on his face was a punch in Archie's gut. He understood – he had had that too, but for him, it had been a long, drawn-out process where he could try to come to terms with it. He had just dumped it on Dad. He couldn't think of a softer way to do it, not in these circumstances, but that didn't mean he didn't feel bad about it.

"Arch…" Dad sighed, staring back at the box with a grim expression. "Let me – let me read it. I'll come ask you questions when I need to, all right? Alone, please."

"Yeah, Dad. I'll be around." Archie nodded, getting up from the kitchen table. He paused, stopping to give Dad a warm hug, and then he headed for the sitting room.

XXX

Francesca breathed a sigh of relief as John joined her in the tiny airport bookshop, where she was trying to decide whether the exorbitant airport prices justified buying just a few more. She had tried to wait at their gate for him, but people had been watching her, staring at her and her tiny carry-on, and it made her uncomfortable. Most were (probably?) well-meaning, because as well as she dressed, she still looked young, and they wanted to know where her family was. They seemed perplexed when she said that she was travelling alone.

"I'm – I'm waiting for my brother," she had stuttered out eventually at a kind-faced, matronly woman with grey hair who simply would not take no for an answer. It wasn't entirely true, but she hoped it would make the woman go away. She would be fine. She could feel John in the direction of the security gates, and he would be there soon.

"Why don't I wait with you, then?" the woman said, taking a seat beside her, and Francesca didn't even remember what she said as she got up and fled. Moving was better – moving meant she could move away from people who probably thought they were being helpful but really weren't. If she put on her headphones, she could pretend like she didn't hear them, either.

People were scary. Francesca didn't really like people, except for a few choice exceptions. Sometimes she wasn't even sure she really liked her exceptions, so much as she tolerated them.

John was an exception, and Francesca estimated that approximately eighty percent of the time, she genuinely liked John. He was a good person, always ready to lend a helping hand, and he was more perceptive and intelligent than he let on. The other twenty percent of the time, he was overbearing, annoying, and more protective than her own parents, who trusted her to do whatever she wanted, as long as she did well in her No-Maj homeschooling curriculum, passed her magic classes, and kept coding like a genius. Or maybe they just trusted John to look out for her.

She liked John more than any of her other exceptions. Archie was an exception too, but she estimated that she only liked him seventy percent of the time, which was better than Hermione's fifty-five percent. Archie often got too excited and he could be overwhelming, but they were both in the AIM arts scene, so they had things in common that she didn't have with John, or with Hermione. Hermione she liked because they shared a lot of No-Maj cultural references, and Hermione was smart and could actually keep up with her advanced magical theory, or science, or technology discussions. But Hermione was always trying to nag her into doing more – going to more of the Newbloods Advocacy and Support Organization meetings, getting more involved with the Society for the Advancement of Witches.

Francesca didn't really care for either club. She was a newblood, but the "support" the Newbloods Advocacy and Support Organization had never seemed useful to her. Then there was the Society for the Advancement of Witches.

It wasn't that Francesca didn't agree with the Society for the Advancement of Witches. It was that they didn't always agree with her.

Francesca liked to be pretty, and she liked romance novels. She liked wearing dresses, and she liked makeup, and she liked looking good by conventional standards. She liked the stunned look that she sometimes got when she walked into the room, or when she said hello to new people (mostly because she needed something – otherwise the alarm bells screaming someone new this is scary why am I talking would be too loud for her to work through), and she went out of her way to get that look of stunned admiration. And because she did it, sometimes the Society for the Advancement of Witches would make it out like she was betraying the cause or something. She just liked to look good – what was the big deal with that? It made her feel better, like an armour of prettiness that would hold people back, make people think twice about what they wanted to do to her, stop people from being quite so scary.

And Francesca loved romance novels. She was always looking for new ones, especially historical romances, preferably with knights. She liked knights. She would take dukes and viscounts and Scottish lairds and Vikings in a pinch, but she liked knights the most. Fairy tales just went along with knights, really, because what Prince Charming didn't have a sword? And Hermione, and most of the girls in the Society for the Advancement of Witches, hated her books. They said that her romance novels fed into unhealthy beliefs about the world, about relationships, that they were unrealistic and filled with bad tropes.

Once, Francesca had lent Hermione one of her books. She didn't even remember which one it was – was it A Kingdom of Dreams? Or maybe it was Honour's Splendor? Either way, when Hermione had returned it, she had included a ten-page handwritten essay titled Why This Book Was Bad. And Historically Inaccurate. And Knights Were Basically Gangsters. And Do You Really Want To Be Barefoot And Pregnant In The Kitchen, Francesca?

Francesca had clarified that no, really, she wanted to be barefoot and pregnant in a castle tower, thank you very much for asking, Hermione. The look of sheer and utter horror that had crossed her friend's face had been worth it. Hermione didn't get romance.

Francesca felt like she was always on – she always had to be sharp, she always had to be ready for anything and everything. At AIM, she always carried a charged shield spell and a few attack spells on her, even when it seemed like John and her other friends, years too late, had finally terrified her more persistent bullies into leaving her alone. And there was always the demanding push of ACD development – more papers for her to read, more experiments to run, a bigger magical theory problem to bang her head against until either it cracked, or she did. And, on top of that, there was always schoolwork, both for her magic classes and her No-Maj homeschooling program.

Romance novels were her escape. Sometimes, offhand, she wondered if this part of her, the part that John liked to call a princess, the part that loved dance and Disney movies, fairy tales and romance novels, was the Francesca that would have existed if she had had a wand – if she didn't spend the first three years at school ducking not-so-subtle digs at her magic, hiding from people who thought it was funny to cast hexes at her because she didn't have a wand to protect herself with, pretending not to hear the whispered complaints when she got yet another accommodation in class. She didn't belong at magic school, they said, and some of them weren't even quiet about it. The rest of her been defined by those years, and she was, she thought, a very different person than she would have been otherwise. More driven, especially on ACD development. More desperate to prove herself, to prove everyone wrong. Less trusting, less kind, more unforgiving. More damaged, maybe even broken.

John hated it when she thought like that, and from her mental link to him, she knew that he was quickly approaching. At school, when he caught her at it, he would grab her by both shoulders and his thoughts would yell that she wasn't broken, when would she stop thinking like she was? Then he would demand to know who had been saying whatever it was, so that he could have a word with them, as he called it, digging into her mind for the memory he wanted. And she would snow him with a hundred different painful memories, too many for him to track down and try to fix, because whatever he did would make it worse for her later. John would just get himself in detention for another fight, and while he was in detention, they would come hunting her.

Here, she wasn't sure what he would do, but it was guaranteed to be unpleasant, so she slid the thoughts under a veil of more immediate concerns, the way she was used to doing. If it wasn't on her surface thoughts, he wouldn't go looking.

"Another one, Chess?" John's voice was a low burr of amusement, and she felt his warm presence behind her.

"It has a knight in it," she replied lightly, picking up the book. Stardust of Yesterday. She didn't recognize the author, but the back said that Kendrick was a knight, and that was all she needed. She glanced up at him, prepared for the onslaught of knowledge that would slam into her when she made eye contact.

He was worried about Archie. He said he wasn't, but really, he was, and he was eager to get to England to check on him. He was also worried about her going to Wizarding Britain with him, a wandless, newblood, runic paper-witch, who was just a little out of the ordinary, and he missed his boyfriend in Germany. She knew that he got the same assault of her own thoughts too, some of her own feelings (the ever-present alarm bells from being in a crowd, the annoyance of having to run away from nosy strangers, a sense of relief that he was there) but she didn't worry about it. She and John were special, and they had a special link, and to be honest – she liked not having to tell him everything. He just knew.

Words were so inadequate. There were only so many words Francesca could stutter out, and none of them really satisfied her. None of them really encapsulated what she was thinking. Pure thoughts were better.

If we keep staring at each other like this, people are going to have questions, Chess.

Fine, fine. Francesca sighed, skimming the rest of the titles on the shelves. There was a new Lisa Kleypas too, so she grabbed that one, and between those two, Beauty in her bag, and her various Britain travel guides, she was probably fine for a seven-hour No-Maj flight. Especially if Stardust of Yesterday was any good, because then she would probably flip to the front and read it again. "Do you think I should get Archie something? Hermione called me – he's under house arrest now, so he can't go out himself."

John snorted, shifting in thought behind her. "He'll probably read whatever you bring, but sure. Not a huge selection of sci-fi here, though."

"There's a Star Trek book."

"He hasn't watched Star Trek, Chess."

"Fine. Dune?"

"Sure, why not?"

Francesca glanced over at him, eyebrow raised. You have no idea what Dune is, do you?

Hell no, but sci-fi is sci-fi. You're both nerds, and it's all the same anyway. Archie will like it no matter what, so can we just get going to the gate?

Francesca smiled slightly, picking up the book and heading to the checkout station. Two romance novels and Dune.

John bought her tea on their way back to the gate. It wasn't good tea, because it was no-name brand airport tea, but tea was nice. If she added enough sugar and milk, she could even hide how low-quality the tea actually was, enjoying it for the milk and sugar alone.

The seven-hour flight into Heathrow International Airport was dull. The seats were uncomfortable, the airplane movies were awful, the food was worse than awful, but at least her new book was good. She wasn't sure how she felt about the football-as-modern-battle thing, but there was a happily ever after ending, and that was important. And Francesca really did, on the whole, prefer boredom in her travel arrangements. After yearly trips to and from Hong Kong as a child, airplanes were predictable, but John had said they would Floo to his great-uncle's house.

Francesca had never taken the Floo before, and she didn't really want to, either. The whole idea of stepping into a burning hot fire and travelling through a sooty, dirty fireplace was terrifying, but John thought she would get over it the first time she did it. It wasn't that commonly used in Wizarding America – the distances were too far, and the MACUSA was so decentralized that having one regulatory authority to manage the Floo system was just unwieldy. The Northeast, where John was from, had some Floo connections, but for the most part mages in Wizarding America Apparated. If they couldn't Apparate, they would Portkey through the nearest Portkey Hub, or, if neither of those worked, they sometimes also just drove. America was built for cars, and mages used the roads as much as their No-Maj neighbours did.

She put that thought away when they started the descent, poking at John until he woke up. We're here, she said, mind to mind, when he opened his eyes. England. Castles and towers and moats, knights and a thousand years of history!

He smiled at her. And Archie. Don't forget Archie.

And Archie. And Hermione. And the Lord Black new people nobility what do I say how do I act can I just do a dancer's curtsey I don't know any other curtseys—

"Stop," John said, grimacing, and Francesca sucked in a deep breath, wrestling her anxiety under control. It wasn't uncommon that John got hit with one of her more panicked trains of thought, though usually she kept from verbalizing her anxiety on the surface of her mind where John could read it. Usually it was just a worried sort of background buzz. John reached up into the overhead compartment, pulling out her bag and passing it down to her. Archie's always said his family doesn't do the etiquette thing, it'll be fine. I'll be there.

You should take some time and take off to Germany for a bit, too. See Gerhardt. Stop mooning.

John grimaced again. After the trial. I couldn't – not before. What if he needs me? And you, what if you need me?

You're so stupidly selfless, John. Francesca rolled her eyes, standing up as the airplane started disembarking, breaking eye contact. "Let's go find the Underground – my guidebook says the trains come every ten minutes and its about an hour's ride into the city. We get off at a station called Caledonian Road and walk from there. Did you let Archie know when we would get there?"

"Ah…" John scratched the back of his head, and Francesca whipped around to look at him.

You didn't tell him we were coming?!

How could I? He doesn't have a goddamn phone and owl post takes at least five days by fastest owl from America!

Mages! Francesca scowled. Telephones were century-old technology and apparently mages still communicated mainly by owl post. Just like they wore ugly billowing robes. Stuck in the middle ages! Basically using carrier pigeons! What did they do, choose a random point in time and go yes, this is the best things can possibly be, and try to freeze it?!

You love the middle ages, Chess. John smirked.

I love the idea of the middle ages. I know chivalry was mostly an ideal. And knights didn't wear robes! Robes are ugly. She looked away, breaking eye contact.

"Don't worry, knowing Arch, he's probably expecting us anyway." John's expression softened into a gentler smile. "We did tell him we'd be by within the week, and he's under house arrest, where can he possibly go? And anyway, what's the worst that can happen? We can always Floo to Great-Uncle Newt's from Diagon Alley and stop by and visit Archie later. The No-Maj entrance to Diagon Alley is in London."

Francesca took a deep breath, wincing. Her stomach hurt a bit. She hated when things didn't go according to plan. "Okay. Okay. It'll be okay."

"That's right, Monster," John said, his voice encouraging as he slapped her on the back and pushed her ahead of him in the aisle. "We'll get where we're going. Everything is good!"

Finding the Underground was surprisingly easy – everything was well labelled, and she stuck close to John as he navigated the crowds, bought them both tickets, and pushed onto the train. The train was mostly empty, this close to the end of the line, but Francesca kept an eye on the map of the Piccadilly Line as they travelled, stop by stop. Once they got off, Francesca pulled her map out, taking the lead while John was behind her.

The gate to 12 Grimmauld Place was low, but she could pick up the telltale traces of magical warding. These were good wards – her magic hummed in satisfaction as it examined the careful knots. Twenty-two integrated linked spells, Francesca guessed, at minimum. There was an alert spell in it, so the master of the house would know when they crossed the barrier. She halted, just in front of the gate. New people. She was sure that Archie's dad was nice (probably) because Archie was very nice, but what was she supposed to say to him? Hello, Lord Black, sorry for dropping by unannounced, we're here to check on your son? And was she supposed to curtsey or something?

"Don't worry about it, Chess." John smiled down at her. "Just be yourself. Come on, let's not block the sidewalk." With that, he opened the gate and went ahead, and Francesca took a deep breath and followed.

Sirius Black looked almost exactly like Archie, and he was probably twice as overwhelming and terrifying. Where did Francesca begin? Did she start with the moderately frightening snakes that came out of the grass as soon as she walked through the gate, making her shriek, only for the Lord Black to burst out of the house and, remarkably, pick up the snakes to reassure them? Or did she start with the moment that she and John had walked through the front door, only for her to drop and cower in a small ball when Archie launched himself off the stairs at them, expecting to ambush his father with some sort of loud prank product?

He had skidded to an abrupt stop, seeing them, then he had, not reassuringly, hidden the product behind his back while inviting them into the kitchen for tea. "Sorry, we were testing some new pranking products today," Archie said, by way of explanation, and Francesca was decidedly not reassured watching him disable no less than four traps on the way.

She was just beginning to calm down, over a big pot of admittedly very decent tea, when John decided to become the ultimate betrayer.

"You really don't have to," John said, rubbing one hand awkwardly in his hair. "Chess and I were going to stay at my great-uncle Newt's, you don't have to put us up at all."

"It's no trouble, no trouble at all," Lord Black replied, his voice firmly settling the matter. He stood up to refill the teapot, and Francesca sent a panicked look at John.

You can't possibly be considering staying here, she yelled at him mentally. You said we would stay with your relatives!

He's worried about Archie, Chess. John shrugged a little. He thinks Archie will cope better with house arrest with some friends around. And he's already made up two bedrooms for us – we won't be in the way, and you'll be closer to all the touristy things you want to see, too.

His reasoning was implacable, but Francesca suppressed a scowl. I hate you sometimes, John.

He smirked a little in reply. You never hate me, Monster. Not really.

At least, she could avoid the Floo for a little longer. And John was right; they were right in the heart of London. The Tower of London, Big Ben, Whitehall, Westminster Alley, the British Museum all waited for her in London, and there were more coffee shops and libraries here where she could break out her laptop and get some work done, so it would be fine.

Probably.

XXX

Staying at Grimmauld Place had been a good idea, John decided, watching Chess fiddle around with her breadboard in the Blacks' friendly kitchen, laying out new circuits in patterns he couldn't begin to understand. Aside from the humming concern that he had heard from Sirius about Archie and the worry John, himself, felt over his friend, Chess wouldn't have done well at the Scamander residence.

He hadn't mentioned the creatures to Chess when he had come up with the plan. There was no need for her to worry about it, as she would have done if he had told her about them, and just like Great-Uncle Newt said, worrying only meant suffering twice. It would be better, he thought, for him to just surprise her with the creatures – they weren't so bad, and Puffskeins and Nifflers were cute, and Great-Uncle Newt knew what he was doing. She would adapt better if she was just confronted with them, he had thought.

He was wrong.

He and Chess had gone over to the Scamander residence for lunch that day, only to find that Great-Uncle Newt had added a few Abraxans to his menagerie of magical creatures, his Kelpie was moody (again) and there were baby Nifflers causing havoc. Even with Rolf around, helping Great-Uncle Newt wrangle the creatures, it was a little overwhelming, and Chess had been terrified. Especially of the Kelpie and the Erumpents, but even of the silly little mooncalfs and excitable and adorable pack of baby Nifflers. Damn Wizarding America, and its stance on creatures – he would have to take her over again another time. It would go better the second time, he was sure, but it was probably better that they weren't staying there.

John was pretty sure that messing around with the breadboard was a self-soothing activity of some kind, because he only really saw it come out if she was panicked. If Chess was serious about planning a new design for her ACD, she used graph paper, or at least she kept a pad of graph paper beside her while she experimented with the designs. As far as he knew, nowadays Chess was researching integrated circuits and considering the applicability of microcontrollers, but he didn't think either of those ideas were far enough along that she was ready to plot them her breadboard. That meant there wasn't really much purpose to her fiddling, so she had to be using it as a coping mechanism. Oops.

He heard a rustle from the hallway and looked up. There was a newcomer in the doorway – he was slender, wearing elegant, dark blue robes cut in the Wizarding British style. He was a few inches shorter than John, with dark hair and bright, glowing golden eyes, his whole body vibrating with tension. John straightened, eyeing him closely.

His shields weren't very good – some combination of the American School and the Continental School, self-taught – and John was hit with the newcomer's sense that this was it, this was the moment he had been building towards, this was his first step into a new world. The boy – a young man, probably, John would pin him at somewhere between sixteen and twenty – was looking around at the people in the room, identifying Archie (as Arcturus) at a glance and Hermione as the spokesperson for the AIM team in the Triwizard Tournament. His gaze roved over to Chess briefly with no recognition, only a passing thought that she was quite pretty, then moved onto John himself.

There was a moment of eye contact, and John felt the slight resistance as the young man realized who he was and recognized that he was in his mind, then, remarkably, he let him in. Come on in, Aldon Rosier thought, and there was a sense almost like a sardonic bow as he dropped his meagre shields and let John into his mind. Read whatever you need to read.

John hesitated a moment, but when the shields remained open and Rosier's expression remained expectant, he sighed and leapt, drifting gently into Rosier's mindscape.

It was a scene of sharp, snowy mountains, not unlike the Alps, and he felt the sense of crisp, cold air. The tongue of a great glacier reached down between two peaks – Rosier's core, John realized. Rosier's mental avatar pointed him towards an elegant chalet, nestled close to one edge of the glacier, and John mentally motioned for Rosier to go first. Rosier snorted and stalked ahead, opening the door to the chalet for him and waving him through to a warm, comfortable sitting room, with a wall full of books.

The books would be the memories, and John didn't have the time to read them all. Instead, he looked around – he was a Natural Legilimens, and he didn't need to sit and read the books, not unless he needed specific information or a specific memory. It was enough for him to be in the space, to examine the room, and the key pieces of knowledge, the things that Rosier himself found important, rose into his consciousness as he walked around, running his avatar's hands over furniture, the objects in the room.

Aldon Rosier was a noble. He was the Heir to the House of Rosier, a prominent noble house known for their wealth. The Rosiers ranked as the wealthiest family in Wizarding Britain by income generation, though they had less asset wealth than many families. He was well connected in Dark pureblood circles – he had few close friends, but few dared to cross him, either. He was eighteen years old, a fresh Hogwarts graduate. He was strong in Charms, Runes, Ward Construction and Curse-breaking, but he loved magical theory most of all. He had been in Slytherin House at Hogwarts and was proud of it. He was Dark by magic, but not that Dark – only a five on Erlich's scale, like John himself. But he had thought of himself as being Dark for much longer.

Rosier tapped a book, left open on a low coffee table, drawing it to his attention. John picked it up, studying the memories curiously. Rosier was also a friend of Harriett Potter – he had been her strategist in the Triwizard Tournament, he had gotten her out of the graveyard. Then, on a few splotched pages that made John suspect that he had attempted to erase his own memories, he had broken her out of Hogwarts and let her get away. He frowned at the pages of the book, suspicious, and lifted the splotched part for a closer look.

Alcohol. It wasn't a scent, because he was in a mindscape, it was more the idea of a scent. A few thoughts of that time bubbled up – regret, because he knew his best friend Ed would be furious with him, a resigned sense that he would be feeding into what Ed wrongly thought about him. Then an entire bottle of Firewhiskey.

John frowned, glancing at Rosier's avatar; the young man was stone-faced. Suspicious, John stalked over to the wall of books, running a spectral hand over the memories and ordering them to give him exactly what he wanted.

Memories spilled out – not just Firewhiskey, but wine, fairy wine, other liquor, the feelings of needing a drink to cope. There were several Gala scenes, where it seemed that Rosier fully intended to drink himself to distraction, where a bigger boy, Ed, would hex him with a Sleeping Curse if he went too far. There were party scenes, in large, low-lying room that John realized had to be the Slytherin Common Room, where Rosier took several shots of Firewhiskey to steady his nerves after something or other. There was a Tournament afterparty, where the only reason he hadn't drunk more was that his friend Ed had lied to him about whether they had any alcohol.

Rosier was an alcoholic.

It wasn't as if Rosier drank every day, meaning it was all too easy for him to lie to himself about his problem. No, Aldon Rosier was a binge-drinker – he drank to cope, and when things got stressful, he would always want a drink. When he did drink, it was never just one, or two, but he drank to get drunk, to forget. The night of Harry's escape, he had intended on drinking to pass out, to forget what he had done.

That's over, Rosier snapped at him mentally, razor-sharp as his avatar came to stand between John and the wall of books. I haven't had a drink since, and the scent makes me ill. I don't think I could drink again. I would throw up.

You're a liar, John snarled back at him, even as he stopped looking at those memories. Not that he couldn't fight his way through to them if he really wanted; John had been a Natural Legilimens since he was four, and his experience and facility in the Mind Arts, both Legilimency and Occlumency, were on par with any Master of the Mind Arts. There was no way that a self-taught mage who had only been training his Occlumency for a few weeks would keep him out of whatever he wanted to know. What other coping mechanisms do you have?

I don't know. Rosier whipped around, pulling a book off his wall of memories and shoving it at John. But it's not important, because everything has changed. I've changed. Read this one.

John raised an eyebrow at him, skeptical, but opened the book anyway and skimmed the memories.

Aldon Rosier was a halfblood. He was a bastard, the bastard of his father and a Muggleborn woman at his father's company. He was a Truth-Speaker. He was sick to death of pretending to be a pureblood, of being afraid that someone would work out his secret, of being worried about losing his status. He wanted to be himself – he wanted to live a life where he was not afraid, at every turn, of being discovered. He wanted to change the world – or, barring that, he would be satisfied to burn it all down.

John exited his mind gracefully with a bit of a snort, letting Rosier pull up his meagre shields again. They were just enough that if John wasn't looking to hear anything, Rosier's thoughts were muted, as if they came from a television playing next door. He leaned over to tap Archie on the shoulder, making him look up.

"Aldon Rosier," John murmured into Archie's ear, gesturing towards the newcomer. "You should hear him out."

Archie nodded, a glint of recognition coming into his eyes as he looked at Rosier. Rosier swept him a low bow – forty-five degrees exactly, the bow of a halfblood to a pureblood, Rosier's memories whispered to him, and John suppressed a grimace. Different etiquette based on status, to forever remind the lesser-blooded of their inequality. One glance at Archie, and John knew from the pinched expression of distaste on his face that Archie was well aware of the honour being done him, and he didn't like it.

"My name is Aldon Rosier, and I am not a pureblood. I am here…" Rosier's voice was quiet, but strong with his own conviction. He took a deep breath. "I am here to help you plan a revolution."

Silence greeted his words – a minute or so of silence. John took a second to glance over at Chess, whose hands had stilled on her breadbox and who was glaring at Rosier, eyes narrowed, her thoughts barbed. He's the one who figured out my ACD in all of three minutes in the Tournament. Figured it out, then misinterpreted the obvious data in front of him! As if anyone could hold a Fortis shield for as long as you did with a power reduction of only a third.

He hid a smile, glancing back at Archie, who was looking at Hermione.

"Am I that dramatic?" Archie asked lightly, head tilted. "Because if I am, I kind of understand why you roll your eyes at me."

"I guarantee you that you are, in fact, that dramatic," Hermione replied dryly. She turned to face Rosier. "Revolution. What, exactly, are you proposing for a revolution?"

"That is a rather unrefined question, is it not?" Rosier asked, turning his odd, hawk-like eyes on her. "I could ask you the same, and you would hesitate to answer as much as I do. It depends on the circumstance. At this point, I can see that you plan on using Arcturus' trial to draw attention to your cause; I would like to help. After that, I do think it depends on the response of the public. In the best-case scenario, we could push for change peacefully – change enough minds in the Wizengamot and repeal the laws on blood purity. I find that unlikely. In the worst-case scenario, I can envision us in open war, but I also find that unlikely – barring any external factors, we're simply not unstable enough for open war, nor do we have enough allies, and we would be crushed."

"You're the one who brought up revolution." Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Is that not what you're thinking?" A half-smile played about Rosier's lips. "Changing the world, advocating for blood equality, creating a new world where blood status doesn't matter? What is that, except a revolution?"

Wow, he's a douchebag. That was Chess, catching his eye. Who talks like that?

British nobles? John sent her a mental equivalent of a shrug. He's smart, though, and angry – he's a halfblood, a bastard. A Truth-Speaker, too. He is sincere about changing the world, and he broke Harry Potter out of some pretty hefty wards after the Tournament.

Interesting. Archie doesn't know that – remember, he and Hermione left before the end of the last game. He probably should. Chess looked away, back down at her breadboard, though she wasn't working on it anymore.

"Calm down, 'Mione," Archie was saying, a glint of humour showing in his eyes. "He gets the drama from me, no doubt. We are cousins, of a sort – his great-aunt married into the Blacks and is my great-aunt too. And he proposed to my cousin, last Gala. Or, the noble equivalent of it – his father approached Harry's father with an arrangement."

Hermione's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Arranged marriages are regressive and a horrific infringement of a person's right to choose. And you know that means you're not blood related, Archie."

"Is this a good time to mention that you have an arranged marriage, Black?" Rosier's eyes lingered on the way Archie had his arm slung around Hermione's shoulders. "Or have you formally broken your betrothal to Harriett?"

Archie stiffened, the expression of mild humour on his face quickly disappearing. His reply was terse. "You guessed yourself that it wasn't a serious engagement, Rosier. That hasn't changed. It was… a loose arrangement which I agreed to for her protection, with a clause to break it for unsuitability at seventeen. Harry is like my sister, and the arrangement was never intended to go into effect."

Judging by the expression on Hermione's face, though, Archie would be hearing about this from her later. He'd also be hearing from John – John knew that Archie had never wanted to get engaged to Harry, he had bawled over it so much in their first year! He had told Archie that there were other options! And yet, somehow, in the intervening few years, Archie had still gotten himself engaged to her?

Chess touched his hand gently, getting his attention, and he looked down at her.

Don't, John. she thought at him. It's Archie's business, and what is done, is done. I'm sure he had his reasons. More importantly – if Rosier is sincere about helping, you should probably intercede. They'll miss the point, otherwise.

She was probably right. He cleared his throat.

"Leave that for now, Hermione, Arch." John glanced between the two of them, and Rosier. "He helped Harry escape from both the graveyard and from Hogwarts afterwards – he's sincere in wanting change. You've been muttering about needing homegrown, British, support for awhile. Rosier is well-connected, and he is a halfblood who grew up here, who went to Hogwarts. He has an understanding of Wizarding Britain and the nobility that you don't have, he'll know better than you how certain things will fly with the public here. He can help you build the homegrown British base you need."

"And he's intelligent," Chess added, her voice soft. "He worked out the ACD in the Tournament, in the Hogwarts-AIM match. He might have misjudged it, but he did work it out faster than anyone at AIM."

Rosier took a deep breath in, then let it out slowly. "We got started on the wrong foot," he said delicately. "Kowalski is correct. I do want to help. My apologies for my flippancy and rudeness – this is, you must understand, the first time I have publicly introduced myself as being anything except a pureblood. It is a … difficult position for me, given my family's membership in the SOW Party ranks. Forgive me." He bowed again – another forty-five-degree bow.

"Don't bow like that, please." Archie stood up, returning the bow, but his wasn't as deep as Rosier's had been. From the expression on Archie's face, sympathetic, John knew that the tense moment was forgotten. It probably had been from the moment John had said that Rosier had broken Harry out. Hermione was not so inclined – her expression was still cautious, but Archie wasn't watching her. He was too focused on Rosier. "We are all equals here. Thank you for helping Harry."

"It was… the least I could do for her." Rosier looked away, uncomfortable. "She was not the only halfblood at Hogwarts, only the one unlucky enough to be publicly unmasked."

"Are there many halfbloods at Hogwarts, then?" Hermione's ears had perked up, and she leaned forward slightly in curiosity.

"I don't know of any others, but I strongly suspect that they exist." Rosier shook his head. "It… if you are a halfblood at Hogwarts, that is your most precious secret. I suspect some halfbloods may be at Hogwarts on falsified family trees; others may have more complex histories or stories. I knew only of myself, Harriett, and my friend Alexander Willoughby, but there are likely others. I … only discovered that I was not a pureblood with the awakening of my gift."

"Truth-Speaker," John said, realizing that none except himself and Francesca knew that part yet. "He's a Truth-Speaker – he can tell when someone is lying to him. It's a highly specialized form of Natural Legilimency. He can't use it to enter someone's minds, but he bypasses Occlumency shields to tell when people are lying. It's one of the wildest gifts, and it's never been known to manifest in a pureblood."

"To be strictly accurate, I believe I can only tell if the person knows they are lying to me," Rosier corrected. "I can't identify objective truth." There was an awkward pause, and he cleared his throat. "I would like to help you with whatever you need. I have some ideas for how to deal with the trial, and after that, we shall see where we are at politically. As Kowalski says, I am well-connected and politically aware; I can attempt to connect you to other groups that I think would be supportive, I can assist you in planning strategies that would win over new allies, and I can help predict the political reaction both to your actions and to external events. Please – let me help you."

John glanced over at Archie, who was looking at Hermione. Hermione shrugged, slightly – John was tempted, as he sometimes was, to assault her shields and find out what she was thinking, but he didn't. He wouldn't. That was a temptation he always lived with, because he knew that, with his abilities, he could assault anyone, and at least some of the time, he would be successful. But his curiosity did not override others' rights to privacy, so he didn't.

Archie nodded, coming to a decision, and looked towards Rosier with a cheerful smile on his face. "Welcome to the team, Aldon. Call me Archie, or Arch."

XXX

AN: And this chapter was the one where I realized "I'm here to help you plan a revolution" is a great line for ending a fic and a terrible conversational opener. That was a fun save! Thanks to meek_bookworm, faithful beta-reader (500K words in and she's still reading), and to the lot of subject matter experts! Also thanks to support from the discord server - you are all the best. Please leave me a review and let me know what you think, especially of our new multiple PoVs! As a quick reminder, a running list of differences between this and Rigel Black canon is on my profile because at this point, we're in a whole new world!

Next Chapter hint: These whereabouts unknown / Please know you can come home / It's alright (Rise Against, Whereabouts Unknown)