128Francesca needed to talk to Fals, but at the same time, she didn't want to talk to him at all. Or, more accurately, she wanted to talk to him, but not about this.
She had had a good semester – her last semester at AIM, just like him, not that she had told him so. She and Javier had won the magical dance competition, pairs division, and the heavy weight of the gold medal had hung in her skirt pockets for a week until she realized how silly she was being about it and carefully packed it away. She had gone to the duelling competitions, cheering her friends on, watching as Fals, John and Kel made the top four and Fals just missed the podium, with John in second. She and Fals had gone to the Spring Fling together not even a week after that, where she had giggled and blushed with co-mingled embarrassment and happiness when they were crowned the Lord and Lady of Spring. They had danced through the last dance, lost in each other, and it had been about as close to perfect as she could imagine. The looming thoughts of tonight's unwilling but necessary conversation had barely been a glimmer in her mind.
It had been possible that AIM wouldn't accept her proposal. And, she had told herself over the long weeks waiting for approval, one advantage of her proposal being turned down was that she could at least stay in America – even if it meant going to a terrifying new school.
In America, she would have been closer to Fals. But Fals was graduating, going to law school in the Northeast, and she didn't kid herself. Maybe they would have better chances of working out if she stayed in America, but high school relationships so rarely worked out. As wonderful as Fals was, she couldn't make her decisions based on a four-month-long high school relationship. She had to do what was best for her, and when the approval for her two-year independent study project had come through, she knew that she had to take it. This was everything she wanted for her ACD, so she had to go.
She just wanted to freeze this semester and stay here forever. She was happy, and she wanted to hold onto that feeling, guarding it against the passage of time, but even magic couldn't freeze time. Not in the way she wanted.
Her room was packed up, paper-spells shrinking her books, her clothes, a million other sundry other things into her luggage, a massive trunk that she could almost crawl into herself, and then the whole thing shrunk one more time into a small carry-on by the means of a paper charm affixed on the back. The only things left out were the things that she would pack in the morning, before she Portkeyed home to San Francisco: a blanket, a pillow, her Steiff bear, a communication orb. She would have a week at home with her parents, and her plane ticket to Heathrow International Airport was already arranged.
Everything was set. She only had one more thing to do, and that was the thing she had been dreading the whole of the exam season. She hadn't wanted to bother him when he was studying, but it was time. She couldn't put it off any longer.
Fals was in the common room, but it was too crowded in there, full of Duelling kids throwing a raucous end-of-the-year party. She felt John before she saw him, holding court with Merric, Seaver, and Esmond, soon-to-be seventh-years, Merric already jingling the keys to the old Ford that Fals had passed onto him. Kel was laughing in another circle including both Owen and Miri, while Fals seemed to be trying to decide whether or not he needed to confiscate the bottle of Jack Daniels making its way through a group of rowdy fourth-years.
She wormed her way over to him, slipping her hand into his and looking up at him with something like a smile. A few months ago, she had thought him good-looking, if not as sharply handsome as Aldon, but now she saw that he carried his own something. His chocolate-brown eyes were warm, and he always saw the bright side of things. He always had something to give, and he shared himself without restraint. She liked that about him.
He looked down at her. He must have seen something in her eyes, because the smile dropped, and his face took on a resigned cast. "Kel, can you watch that group over there for me? They have a bottle of JD."
She glanced over at him, catching the look at his face, then nodded. "Yes, I'll watch them. Go."
Francesca gripped his hand as they went outside. It was already dark, the stars speckling the night sky, and there was a warm breeze bringing with it the scent of earth, of grass and moss and green things. It was a nice night, and as they walked farther away from the student dorms, the sound of various parties and other revelry, celebrating another end of exams, the end of another year, faded away.
It was silent, and Fals led her to a small copse of trees, where she could still see the lit buildings at AIM. Seaton House was still lit, some clubs holding parties for their members there rather than in the dorms, bright squares of light shining against the otherwise dark building. Beside it, Thompson Hall was dark, shuttered for another year. Oliver Hall was alive, its many windows bright, and Pettingill Hall was even brighter, sending a soothing glow across the grounds. She could barely make out the Mastery townhouses from her angle, but she imagined they were much the same.
He sat down, offering his arms to her if she wanted to curl up in his lap, as she so often did, but she shook her head. Instead, she sat down beside him, pulling her legs to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.
They sat in a moment of silence, and Francesca knew Fals would wait for her to start.
"I'm leaving AIM," she said, abrupt, staring out across campus. "I mean – they don't have enough upper-level classes for me, so I can't come back. I could have – they offered to let me transfer to Ilvermorny, but I suggested an independent study project instead."
"The ACD." Fals' voice was barely above a whisper, and Francesca didn't look at him. "You proposed it as your project."
"Yes." Francesca paused, staring down at her knees, then she took a deep breath. "I'm moving to Britain, Fals. For the next two years, at least. My committee of instructors are there, my funding is there. And you're graduating, going to law school. So – so I think it might be best if we – if we just—"
Her voice broke a little, and she blinked quickly. Despite her efforts, a tear fell onto her knees, and she blinked again, feeling a few more tears start to slip down her cheeks. She scrubbed at her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve – she wasn't supposed to cry. She was the one doing the breaking up, so she wasn't allowed to cry. But she was, because she didn't want to break up with him, not really, because even if maybe she had first accepted an invitation for a date with him on a complete whim, thinking about someone else, Fals had grown on her. He was good for her. His steadiness balanced her, smoothed out her many restless anxieties. He made her happy.
"If we didn't see each other anymore," Fals finished her sentence for her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and pulling her gently into his arms. He fished out a handkerchief out of his pocket, handing it to her, and she could hear in his voice that he wasn't all that steady either. She wiped her face, sniffling, then offered it back, but he shook his head. "I – would it make a difference if I deferred law school? What if I – what if I went with you, to Britain?"
Francesca shook her head harder, dark hair bouncing on her back, talking into his chest. "No – no! You've been planning for law school forever, how could you – how could I be worth putting that off?! I couldn't – I wouldn't ever forgive myself, if you did. You can't. You have to go to law school, and – and move on, and do what is best for you."
She felt his lips against her hair, and his arms were shaking a little around her as he held her. He was weeping too, and she didn't want to move. She shouldn't be taking this comfort from him, but she couldn't pull away.
It hurt. It hurt, and she wished she had thought to give him a chance a year or so earlier. Maybe in another world, she had accepted his first invitation on a date in her third year – maybe in that world, they would have had a better shot than they had now. Maybe in that world, they would have planned their futures together, and maybe it would have made sense for him to go with her to Britain, or maybe she would have stayed in America for him.
Those worlds weren't this one.
"Your ACD," Fals said, and his voice was thick, halting. "Make it a success, Francesca. Make it huge, bigger than anything anyone ever expected. You'll be in the papers one day, you and the ACD together, and I'll be first in line for one."
Francesca laughed, a sad, hiccoughing sort of noise into Fals' shoulder. "I will. I will, Fals. For you – find – find someone that gives you as much as you give to everyone around you, okay? I – I'm not good at giving. I'm good at – at taking from people. You're better than that, so – so find someone who gives too."
"I will." His voice was raspy, and they sat there in silence, neither of them wanting to leave. Just five more minutes, Francesca promised herself, and five minutes turned to ten, turned to fifteen and twenty and thirty, and she lost track of how many times she had told herself, just a few more minutes. They sat there, watching as the lights in Seaton House flickered off, one by one, as parties wound down and students went home, as even some of lights in Oliver Hall went out, and Pettingill Hall dimmed.
It was cold, and when Fals finally stood up, Francesca went with him, her bones creaking. She had stopped crying long before, but she felt wrung out, dry, empty, and miserable. They walked back to their dorm, side-by-side, their hands tucked in their pockets – together but apart.
The party had wound down by the time they came back, and Francesca nodded for Fals to go on first. He was the one who deserved it – he was the one who should get their friends' sympathy, to the extent possible. She waited in the stairwell, wiping her eyes every now and then, for exactly half an hour before reaching in her pocket for an Invisibility paper charm and activating it to sneak into her own bedroom.
John knew where she was anyway, but she didn't want to talk, and she locked eyes with him even under her spell to tell him so. He nodded, seemingly at random for everyone else, but Francesca understood his meaning. He would leave her alone, as she wanted, but he would be there for her if she needed him. She thanked him, mind to mind, and crept to her room.
It was past midnight her time, almost one. Almost one, and that meant it was almost six in the morning in Britain, but Francesca didn't care. Almost six in the morning was early, but it wasn't the middle of the night anymore, and she had gotten up early for team meetings for the ACD for years. And she needed to have the emptiness, the coldness of this feeling to talk to Aldon anyway – in the morning, she would lose her nerve.
She reached for her communication orb, slapping her hand on it. "Aldon. Aldon, are you awake?"
She hadn't expected him to be awake, not really, and she had expected to sit there, calling his name for several long minutes, before he responded to her. She hadn't known if he would respond to her at all tonight – maybe he would be too deeply asleep, maybe she would need to work up the nerve for this another time, maybe she might even need to arrange a time after a team meeting or wait to tell him this in person. And yet—
"Francesca." Aldon's voice came though, stiffly formal and gentle and a little uncertain, all at once, and not as groggy as Francesca would have expected. "What's wrong?"
"I broke up with Fals," she said, feeling jagged and sharp and broken, though moments later she wondered if she should have said so. It wasn't any of his business, and that wasn't why she had called, but they had carved patterns in their conversations all through first semester this year, paths into which Francesca fell all too easily. One of those paths was a certain frankness, an open honesty and trust – they shared things about themselves that they had shared with no one else, and they didn't lie to each other, or at least not much.
"Why?" Aldon's voice was calm, unruffled, and the question hung out there for Francesca to consider.
"The timing was wrong," she said, simple and succinct. "He's graduating. I'm moving to Britain. That's all."
A pause, and Francesca didn't know how to imagine the look on his face. "He's not offered to come with you to Britain?"
There was the barest hint of judgement in his voice, and Francesca couldn't help but curl up, defensive on Fals' behalf. "I told him not to. He was accepted to law school, and that's been his plan for years – I couldn't let him give up on that to follow me over a four-month long relationship."
"I … see." Francesca didn't know what to make of Aldon's tone. She didn't know if there was anything to make of it. "Are you all right, Francesca?"
"Not really." She sniffled a bit, but she didn't have any more tears to cry tonight. She had spent them all on Fals' shirt, on his sodden handkerchief that he had told her to keep. She pulled it out now, still damp, and saw in the light that they had his initials embroidered on them.
She still had his duelling jacket, too. He had gotten a new one, so he had let her keep his old one. She should send that back to him when she had a chance, but the handkerchief she would keep. She reached for her Steiff bear, awkwardly tying the handkerchief around its neck.
"He made me happy," she said, fixing the bandana to show Fals' initials. "I guess – maybe there are things more important to me than happiness. I'm stupid – I should have tried harder. But that's not why I called, Aldon."
"And why did you call, Francesca?"
"To set some ground rules." Francesca took a deep breath. "I'm not coming back to Britain for you."
"I know. You're coming back for the ACD."
"Yes." Francesca paused, searching for her words. She wasn't sure what she wanted to say beyond that, but she felt like she needed to make herself clear. "We aren't – I don't care what happened over the holidays. We aren't friends – we aren't anything. We're nothing, do you understand?"
There was a heavy sigh. "Yes. We should, er, talk about that, Francesca."
"No. I'm not ready to talk, Aldon." Francesca leaned back on her bed, tucking the Steiff bear under her chin. It was her last night at AIM, and she was miserable. The books were lies – she didn't see how ice cream would help her in the least right now. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and hug her bear and be alone to cry with her thoughts.
There was a pause. "Then it can wait. Enjoy your week off with your family, and we'll see you on your first day here. Go sleep."
Francesca sighed, rolling over and reaching to put the orb on her beside table. "Thank you. I – I appreciate it. Have a good week, Aldon."
"You as well," he replied, and Francesca wondered if she heard the echo of something else in his voice, something bittersweet, happy and yet sad, before she drifted off.
XXX
Archie woke up early for the first Portkey out of AIM to New York City. All his things had been packed the night before, so all he had to do was grab his rolling luggage, lift it downstairs, and run for the Portkey Hub. It was not even six in the morning, but Hermione was already waiting for him in the common room, and the jog across campus was brisk.
They were unusually quiet. Everyone from Britain knew about the war, and the entire group of students waiting in New York City had their wands close to hand. No one knew what to expect, but this was a generation of newbloods and halfbloods raised to expect nothing from the Ministry, nothing from the powers that be. If there was to be an attack on Terminal M, the Ministry would not be there for them; if any of them were murdered, there would be no one seeking justice for them. They were on their own, and all of them were tetchy.
Some were staying behind. The waiting lounge at John F. Kennedy was emptier than usual, the plane when they got on only half full. The BIA had been lobbying for a shutdown of the plane home, but they hadn't had any success – Hermione had said that MACUSA and Wizarding Canada hadn't known how to house and care for more than an hundred British children for the summer if the schools were shut down. Instead, word had gone out among the students that those that could find places to stay in America for the summer should, and there would be other safety precautions instituted for those that couldn't.
Hermione had been part of the BIA team in charge of the security plan for returning home. They had, in a stroke of genius, managed to talk to someone at the Ministère des Affaires Magiques in France. There were seven French newbloods on scholarship at the Collège d'Alliance, and the French Ministry had been convinced to provide a miniscule security force to ensure the safe return of their students. It would only be about four Aurors, slipping into Wizarding Britain through No-Majs means to avoid the scrutiny of the British Ministry of Magic, but four Aurors were better than none.
Five, if he included Dad. A rampage of wild hippogriffs wouldn't keep Dad from picking him up at the aeroport, even if Archie had cautioned him against it. And Uncle Remus would be there too, and while he was not an Auror, he was an excellent dueller.
For the rest of the newbloods and halfbloods on the plane, the No-Maj world was safer than the magical one, and Hermione and the BIA had decreed as little Portkeying or Flooing as possible. Many of the students had never had Floo in their homes anyway, and most of them had arranged for No-Maj transportation home: buses and trains largely, though Saoirse, who had finally agreed to a meeting with Archie later this summer, had talked the BIA into funding No-Maj flights for the Irish and Scottish students into Dublin and Edinburgh respectively. Archie, for his part, did as much as he could, reorganizing the seating plans to push the younger students to the back of the plane so that they would exit last, making sure that those least likely to be able to protect themselves were the best protected. Throughout the flight, he moved around, checking in on everyone and making sure they all had a way to get home. He clasped hands, hugged kids who were scared, and told them that they would be as safe as he could make them, not that that was worth much. It provided them some small comfort.
Coming off the plane into Wizarding Britain was somehow anti-climactic. Dad and Remus were there to pick him up, wary eyes covering the terminal, as were the four French Aurors who quickly gathered up their charges and led them to a Portkey for Paris. Fewer parents had shown up, choosing to meet their children instead at the No-Maj train station or a café or elsewhere, and Terminal M was bizarrely empty.
Everything went off without a hitch, but Archie still felt something wrong, something ominous. The student flight from abroad, full of known British halfbloods, newbloods, and Archie himself should have been a prime target for Voldemort, but he hadn't gone for it.
Why not?
XXX
Aldon woke up, fumbling for his wand.
Something was wrong. His nerves had been on edge all day, worried that something might happen although he hadn't had anything concrete. Lestrange's last report had said that something big was planned for early June, and Aldon had thought the biggest targets would be either the Hogwarts Express or the student flight from America carrying the British Muggleborns and halfbloods home for the summer. Of the two, he had placed his bets on the latter, and the airport had been as well-guarded as he could manage without raising any attention. Six shifters had been on hand, whom Hannah had promised would all be prepared to fight and all of whom had inconspicuous, easily hidden forms. The Hogwarts Express, he had counted on the Ministry doing its job, and Blaise had mentioned that the SOW Party had their own precautions in place for the students.
Nothing had happened. Hannah had reported to him, soon after arriving herself in London, and he had visited Grimmauld Place to check on Archie earlier that evening. Both had reported tense journeys home, but nothing untoward. He asked Hannah to send her best spies after Lord Voldemort's camp, which his information indicated was still in the Lestrange Manor, and she had agreed, grim-faced, and disappeared.
But when he blinked sleep from his eyes and seized his wand from under his pillow, the book he had been reading in bed falling to the floor with a heavy thud, he knew that something had finally happened. The wards to Rosier Place had fallen.
He knew it, because he was first in line the Rosier title, the son of the reigning Lord. And wards only fell like this if the reigning Lord was dead. Or soulless, or somehow otherwise unable to carry out the duties of the reigning Lord, but most of the time, dead.
A childhood of lessons, from a mother who had to have known well what Aldon was, drove him. He knew what he was supposed to do – were the wards to Rosier Place ever to fall, he was to get there, find the primal keystone, issue his claim, and be prepared to duel. As a child and as the acknowledged Rosier Heir, he had thought she was being hyperbolic and ridiculous, a pain for the sake of being a pain.
As a halfblood adult, he now thought very differently.
He dressed quickly, reaching for a clean shirt, trousers, good shoes, and pulling on both his ACD and a wand holster before he buttoned his cuffs and put on a dark waistcoat. The batteries to the ACD were full, and he flicked the device on without channelling magic to it. His wand was easily accessible on his other hand. He barely paused, picking up the shoulder holster holding his handgun, though he decided to leave the sniper rifle behind – it was too big, and he didn't see how he could carry it and move quickly, easily, and silently. Finally, he sheathed his ritual knife at his belt, snapping it into place with a very final click.
He paused, Alex's training coming into his mind. He needed backup, if he could get it. He focused hard, thinking about the night of the Unity Ball, of that magical half hour after Francesca had kissed him, when he believed that he could win it all. He blocked out what came after, because none of that brought him joy, but that one half-hour had easily been the happiest he had ever been, in many years. "Expecto Patronum," he hissed, and it was a second before a faded merlin came into view, snapping its beak.
"Message for the Lord Queenscove and the Lord Black," he told it, as his Patronus turned one ghostly eye at him. "The Rosier Place wards have fallen. I need to investigate it. Any… any assistance would be appreciated. End message."
The falcon ruffled some of its feathers, a tacit acknowledgement of the message received, and threw itself out the window. It would take a few minutes to reach Queenscove, but Aldon padded his way out into the hallway.
He hesitated a moment at Christie's door, but he couldn't go without telling her. He knocked at her door once, politely, waiting a few minutes before he tried again, more insistent.
There was a rustle behind the door, and Christie opened it, brown hair falling around her face in messy waves. She looked groggy, but her brown eyes sharpened as she took him in, lingering at the gun hanging off his shoulders. "Aldon, what is it?"
"The wards to Rosier Place have fallen," he said, quiet.
"Evan," she whispered, reaching for the door frame to steady herself. "And Eveline."
"I'm going to go and look into it." Aldon paused, taking in the way Christie's face had gone pale with fear. "Please, stay here, Christie. I'm calling in some assistance, and it will – I will see what it is about. It may not mean anything."
His core twitched, because his last line was an outright lie. If a Lord was bound to the lands, the wards wouldn't fall until or unless that Lord or Lady had fallen. Almost always, that was to death – it was rare that a Lord lost their claimed lands unless they had died. Or, maybe, death was the better option compared to some of the others. It was probable that his father was dead.
"All – all right," Christie replied, taking a breath, nervous. "I can come with you, if you give me a few moments?"
"No." Aldon shook his head. She was an alchemist, and she knew little by way of defensive magic. "Please stay here. I'm sure it's nothing, Christie, and I want to keep the group small."
She hesitated, but she nodded, opening her door wider. "I'll – I'll be waiting in the living room, then. If I don't hear from you within the next two hours, I'll call Aman and we'll go after you, all right? Please, please be careful, Aldon."
Aldon nodded, distracted as he caught the glimmer of a silver Patronus appearing in the corner of his eye. "I will Patronus you within two hours, at least."
Christie nodded, biting her lip, and went back into her room. When she reappeared, she was wearing a dressing robe, and Aldon turned to the Patronus – a great dog, huge, almost a Grim.
"I'll come with you," the Lord Black said. "Meet me at Grimmauld Place – we'll Apparate to Rosier Place together."
"Understood." If they were meeting at Grimmauld Place, that would be convenient for Neal, who could Floo and meet them there. "I will be there shortly. I have called Neal as well."
He checked his weapons over one more time, slipping out into the hallway of his mother's building and heading for the emergency stairwell. The emergency stairwell was sound-proofed, so he Apparated with no worries to the main entrance of Grimmauld Place and let himself in the front gate with a grimace of distaste. He hoped the snakes were sleeping right now, because he had no desire to see any of them.
Neal's Patronus, a leopard seal, appeared as Aldon was taking the steps up to the front. "I'm coming. Will Floo to Grimmauld Place. See you soon."
His Patronus began fading as the message was passed – with the distance between London and Queenscove, almost on the Scottish border, Aldon wasn't surprised that the Patronuses only carried one message between them. He moved to knock, but Archie opened it before the knocker could fall back onto the metal plate under it.
"Come on in, Al," he said, and Aldon didn't bother to correct him. He was too wound up, and something in him said they needed to get over to Rosier Place sooner rather than later. The wards were down. The wards were down, and he needed to go see what had happened. He needed to secure it, if there was no current Lord – he was first in line, and Rosier Place and the title were his. Archie's eyes roved down, lingering on his sidearm, at the dagger at his belt. "I heard from Dad. You'll be careful, won't you?"
"Yes," Aldon replied, succinct. "Is your father ready? Neal is coming as well – he will Floo here, first."
"It could be a trick, Aldon." The Lord Black's face was serious, and Aldon saw that he had picked out clothes that were easy to move in, his wand in a holster on his arm. He was tense, but ready for action.
"I know," Aldon replied. "But I haven't a choice. It's Rosier Place – I need to go, one way or the other. The wards are down – including the Anti-Apparition Wards."
The Lord Black nodded, slow. "I understand. But let's go carefully – we'll Apparate in a distance away on the grounds, and approach slowly. If things look odd, you say so, and we get out. Your life isn't worth the title, Aldon."
Aldon hesitated, but nodded, even if he wasn't sure he agreed. Thankfully, Neal tumbled out of the fireplace a second later, wearing a faded pair of jeans, a loose sweatshirt, his sword in hand. He looked Aldon and the Lord Black over, and his eyes narrowed in a confused frown.
"I thought we were going into a potentially dangerous battle situation, not a formal event?" There was a glimmer of a smile around his lips, and his voice was light, though the fact that he carried his blade out rather than his wand meant that he was prepared to fight.
Aldon scowled at him. "These are my normal clothes, Neal."
"Sure. But I won't be bailing you out if you rip your waistcoat." Neal rolled his eyes. "Let's go. Coordinates?"
"I'll Side-Along everyone." Aldon opened the door, heading to the shadowed corner that the Lord Black used as an Apparition Point, just out of sight of the public, but outside the wards. "I'm going to put us within the Rosier grounds, but I never worked out the coordinates because it's within the usual wards."
"A place with cover?" the Lord Black asked, sharp. "Trees?"
"Sculpture garden. No one would expect it, and one of the sculptures provides good cover." Aldon paused. "Maybe I should have brought the sniper rifle."
"Not too late to go back," Neal suggested, but Aldon shook his head.
"No. If it's not useful right away, it'll be too heavy to carry around. Let's just go." Aldon held out his arms, letting Neal and the Lord Black latch on, and focused hard as he turned.
Rosier Place was dark when they arrived. They appeared in the sculpture garden, just as Aldon had planned, and he cast a wary look around. Everything was still, and silent – a calm summer night, with either everyone asleep, or no one at home. He wouldn't be surprised at either. His mother had only ever been in Britain for half of the year, at most, and his father had always worked long hours.
The sculptures were haunting in their stillness, their forms frozen in the moonlight. He had Apparated them under a massive stone wave, crashing onto a crowd of men, women and children, and Aldon knew that the other side of the wave had an old, wizened wizard, wand raised. His mouth turned, a grimace of distaste as he considered the statue in light of his own family's history, and he privately resolved to have the statue removed and destroyed, if he was the new Lord Rosier. He could have a new one made in its place, something beautiful and not a demonstration of terror.
The other statues were less problematic, graven images largely from wizarding legend. There was one of Beedle the Bard, holding a scroll; another of the Dark Lord and Lady Light, clasping hands. He let his eyes linger on that one for a moment, a hopeful memory assaulting him, but pulled away quickly. He didn't have time for dreams right now, and it was best that he move on.
It looked clear, and it felt clear. The magic of the grounds vibrated a little against his core, inviting – Aldon had been the acknowledged Rosier Heir, and he was still the closest Rosier relation. By blood, he was first in line to the title, and no noble manor liked to sit unclaimed.
Is anyone here, he demanded, sending his magic through the grounds. Much of his education had been geared towards this moment, towards harnessing and controlling his manor, and while the manor wouldn't respond to him fully until he was its Lord, it would give him some things. Tell me.
The grounds whimpered. Aldon thought that meant no, but he couldn't be sure. His grounds were unsettled, and his father wasn't here. That much the grounds could say, that Evan Rosier, the previous Lord, was not on the grounds, either alive or dead. And there was no Lady Rosier on the grounds either, because there had not been a Lady Rosier in many years.
Aldon blinked at the last. His mother, the Lady Rosier, should have magically been the Lady Rosier as well, but Christie had said that it was a marriage in name only. He left it alone – that didn't matter. His father wasn't on the grounds, and that was what mattered.
He motioned for Neal and the Lord Black to follow him as he crept through the sculpture garden, slipping closer to the dark manor, his childhood home. Rosier Place was lined with Grecian pillars in the front, a triangular piece on top linking the middle four pillars together. Hidden behind the pillars were grand double doors, fashioned in oak, painted and carved with the crest of the Rosiers, a black bird on a white field. The mansion was built in red stone, rare for this part of England and imported, and the windows were lined in black. Black, white and red, the Rosier colours.
The windows to his home were dark, and Aldon focused, trying to feel his way through the manor's inherent magic. Without being a full Lord and the master of the manor, the house-elves were not required to obey him, but they did traditionally obey their master's family members to some extent. He could not summon them either, not unless they were listening for him, but maybe he could prod one of them magically to come to him.
The manor was uncooperative. It wanted him to go farther in, to claim it, but it couldn't give him much until he claimed it. None of the house-elves appeared, and Aldon was close to some of the elves, his old nurse-elf in particular. If Ummi knew he was here and that he wanted to speak to her, she would have come to him.
Nothing for it, he thought, biting his lip and leading Neal and the Lord Black around the back of the house. If there was an ambush, coming in through the front would be foolish, a move anyone would expect. A full circle of the house still showed no signs of life, not that that meant anything. If he was setting up an ambush on himself, he would also make the manor quiet and unassuming, apparently empty.
There was a side window out of the basement that Aldon used to use to sneak out of his lessons when he was a child. He hoped he would still fit, because if he did, it would be a better entrance into Rosier Place than any of the doors or the bigger picture windows. He slipped closer to the building, a mad dash over open ground, diving into the shadows against the walls. The Lord Black and Neal followed suit, seconds later, and he inched along to the window he remembered.
He flicked out his wand and examined the window closely. It would be tight, but he thought he could fit. The wards were down, and there were only a couple minor spells locking the windows, something that even as a child he had been able to undo if he wanted to enough. As an adult, as someone with a NEWT in Curse-breaking, it was child's play for him to snap the weak spells holding the lock together and push the window open.
"Câlisse, you can't honestly expect me to fit through there," Neal muttered, eyeing the window dubiously, but Aldon shot him a glare. He pushed both feet in, wiggling his way, and found that he made it through rather easily. He heard Neal sigh gustily behind him, before the tall youth sat down and did the same. The Lord Black shimmied through last, wincing as he just managed to pull his shoulders through the narrow window.
"Been some time since I had to do anything like that," he said, an amused spark in his eyes. Aldon wondered if some part of the Lord Black was enjoying this, and decided to simply ignore it. Instead, he waved his hand in the pattern for a light rune, sending it to the ceiling.
This room was a storage room, dusty with disuse – there was no sign that anyone had been in it for years. As a child, he had poked under the dark sheets a few times, finding old, mismatched furniture, boxes of ancient scrolls and books, ugly vases and umbrella stands and lampshades. Based on the dark shapes under the sheets, it didn't look like anything had changed.
"Hominem Revelio," the Lord Black muttered behind him. They waited a few minutes, but there was nothing. "Doesn't mean they aren't here and hidden. Let's go."
"I need to get to the study," Aldon murmured in reply. He would be in a better position, all around, if he claimed the manor. He would be tied into the wards, as the new Lord, and nothing would be hidden from him. Lords, on their own lands, were legendarily difficult to defeat. Even if most Lords no longer had castles like Queenscove, their lands were still fortresses, magically speaking.
He slipped out into the storage room, wand at the ready, and he heard Neal and the Lord Black following him out. Other than the wine cellar, the basement level of Rosier Place had never seen much use, though Aldon had explored it thoroughly as a child. There were storage rooms upon storage rooms, several cellars, and a few empty, windowless rooms with cold stone floors in which Aldon had never managed to stay long. Something about those rooms bit at his magical core, uncomfortable, making him shiver, and he had always left a few minutes after he entered.
But he didn't need to check every room of this floor – it would be more far more efficient if he just got to his father's study, claimed the manor, and forced Rosier Place to tell him what he needed to know. He made his way to the dark stairs, creeping along carefully, his ears pricked for any noise.
There was nothing. There was nothing at all, and Aldon felt uneasy, taking the steps upwards as silently as he could. He jumped the fourth step, which squeaked, signalling Neal and the Lord Black behind him to do the same. Neal's sword was out, in front of him, and the Lord Black was periodically casting Hominem Revelio, but kept shaking his head when the results came back.
"Still nothing," he muttered, when he caught Aldon looking at him.
Aldon nodded, feeling even more uneasy, and he pushed opened the door at the top of the stairs to the Rosier Place main level.
It creaked, unexpected, a gunshot in the silence. Aldon froze, listening hard, but there was nothing more. He took a deep breath, waiting for his heartbeat to calm, before pushing the door open fully, walking into the front hallway of Rosier Place.
It looked the same as he remembered – dark hardwood floors, white wallpaper which he knew would be subtly striped with cream and silver in the light, burgundy drapes framing the windows. It was spotless and overly pristine, as always, as if no one lived there. And for the most part, no one did; with Aldon at school, the Lady Rosier in France, and his father at work, the manor was only a stopping place to sleep, more of a hotel and a showpiece than a home.
His father's study, where the primal keystone to Rosier Place was hidden, was at the back of the west wing of the manor, in the family quarters. He passed through long hallways, past open doorways leading to parlours, sitting rooms, formal reception rooms. The Floo, set in the main hall, was dark, and the doors to the ballroom, with its many balconies overlooking the back gardens, were sealed shut. The library doors, too, were closed. He passed the formal dining room with the long grand table seating fourteen, where each chair was heavily carved, ornate.
"Stupefy," he heard the Lord Black muttering behind him, and he looked over his shoulder. The Lord Black was stupefying the portraits as he went, and he caught Aldon's look. "Don't want any of them communicating with any other portraits."
"None of them are connected anywhere." Aldon turned forwards again, creeping along the hallways. It was too silent, and every creak and groan of the building was thunder. "The Rosiers have never been that notable, to have major portraits elsewhere."
"Better safe than not," the Lord Black replied, Stunning another portrait. "Let's keep going."
It was as if Aldon had never left. Everything was the same; everything was still arranged with the same sofas, the same themes and matching décor that had occupied his entire life. He supposed there had no real reason to change it, even if he had been gone for almost a year, but somehow the familiar settings felt odd to him.
He didn't fit in here, anymore. Rosier Place as it was did not fit him anymore, because he had changed too much over the last year. Here he was, dressed entirely in Muggle clothing, equipped with a Muggle handgun and an ACD alongside his wand and a ritual knife. He had behind him the Lord Black and the Lord Queenscove – one a Dark pureblood known largely for changing his family to Light politics, the other a Light wizard of unknown blood-status raised and trained in America. He wasn't the same person, and he had somehow expected his childhood home, his manor and his birthright, to have changed with him.
The door to the family quarters was the same, and Aldon reached, almost hesitantly, for it. Warm oak, but the wood was cold when he touched it. He glanced back, at Neal and the Lord Black, but the Lord Black shook his head.
"Still nothing – no one is here."
Aldon nodded, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
Nothing happened.
The air that streamed out was a little musty, as if there hadn't been much life in the manor for some time. His own rooms were on the third floor, and he wondered vaguely whether those had been left in the same condition, but he could find that out later. It was his father's study, and the primal keystone, that was important now.
He had been in his father's study only a few times in his life. His father used it rarely, preferring to work at the Rosier Investment Trust offices in Diagon Alley. The room was dominated by massive desk, which looked to be carved from a single piece of stone, dark, polished mirror-bright and bare. The walls were lined with shelves, showing a variety of knick-knacks from around the world: a globe, showing a map of the world with certain places marked, a collection of masks that looked Italian in origin, a few sculptures that looked Greek. There was a small Muggle picture of Christie, looking much younger and laughing, on a shelf, one that Aldon passed with a short pause.
It was unlike his father, so he stopped and drew a quick Sight rune. There were traces of magic on it, fading, and his lips tightened. He recognized his father's magic to feel it, and the fact that it was fading was another sign that his father was dead. He took a deep breath, turning around in the room.
Neal and the Lord Black were looking around the study, eyes wary. They would look out for any attacks, so Aldon focused on what was important. Something had happened, but he didn't know what, and the sensible thing to do would be to secure his position and wait for information. Hannah would be back with a report, likely soon for something this serious, or Zabini, or Lestrange.
He reached for his ritual knife, briskly unbuttoning the sleeve of his arm. He glanced at the two scars lining it and winced – he was vain enough not to want yet another scar, and yet sensible enough to know that he would likely have many more before this war was through. He was not a fighter, and blood magic was an edge that he could not afford to abandon.
The primal keystone to Rosier Place shimmered, its polished surface reflecting his face as he looked down it. Many lords kept their keystones hidden, one plain-looking stone nested among others, but the primal keystone to the Rosier lands, and their title, was this desk, right here. He held his arm over the table, and with the other, he cut a small, shallow cut, waiting as a few drops sizzled onto the surface of the desk, immediately soaking into the stone.
"My name is Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier," he said, his words dropping still as stones into the silence. "By right of blood, I claim the Rosier title and these lands."
The briefest moment of silence, and then magic roared in his ears. Nothing could have prepared him for this moment; Rosier Place took his blood and with it, issued a challenge loud as a trumpet, soaring out to anyone else who might have had a claim. Knowledge rushed into his brain, a maelstrom of information – Aldon gritted his teeth, determined to hold it, ride it, master it because he didn't have time for anything else. He couldn't afford to spend weeks mastering his lands, because unlike Neal, he was a blood noble bastard who could be fighting challenges to his birthright within the next few days.
He found the wards, including the Anti-Apparition Wards, and he threw them back up. They would need work – they were good enough for his mother and father, but they were not good enough for him. He located six traps located across his grounds, resetting them magically, and he refreshed the numerous fading locks around his new mansion. Magically, he sensed the other eleven keystones located across the property, including one in the sculpture gardens, and he refueled their power from the primal stone where needed.
No one was home. Nothing was there.
He opened his eyes, seeing that the cut on his arm had already scarred over, and he winced a little as he shook his arm out. Neal and the Lord Black were watching him, and Aldon shook his head slightly.
"There's nothing. No one is here – I can confirm that," he said, his voice short with tension. "Let me send a message to Christie to advise that I'm fine, then we can keep looking to see what happened to my father."
"Is this the traditional time for me to extend my congratulations?" Neal asked, a wicked glint to the smirk on his face. He bowed very properly, the bow that Aldon had spent no less than twelve hours drilling in him to make it exactly thirty degrees. "Congratulations, my lord Rosier. I look forward to your entrance into the Wizengamot."
Aldon glared at him, considering the merits of hexing him, while the Lord Black snickered. He decided against the hex in favour of summoning his Patronus, sending it winging to his mother with a quick report and telling her to go back to bed.
"You don't need to remain," he added to Neal and the Lord Black, sheathing his wand in favour of reaching through the manor in search of the house-elves. "I can take it from here."
Neal exchanged a glance with the Lord Black, but shook his head. "If it's all the same to you, we'll stay and help. There's a Floo here, so heading home won't be an issue."
"I'll just send a message to Archie," the Lord Black said, summoning his own Patronus.
Aldon paused, thinking over his possible responses, before simply nodding in gratitude. He didn't really want to be left alone that night. "Thank you. Let me call one of my house-elves, we can see what they know."
It took Aldon a second to find the part of his manor's magic that connected him to the house-elves, tugging at it as gently as he could. "Ummi! Ummi, could you come here, please?"
There was a crack of Apparition, and his old nurse-elf was there. She had been a young elf when she was given care of him, and was now quite the business-like middle-aged elf, wearing a clean tea towel stamped with the Rosier crest and a small handkerchief over her head. Aldon went to her immediately, dropping to one knee to talk to her from her own height.
"My Lord Rosier," the elf said, her voice unusually low for an elf and worried. "I is happy to be seeing you home, but very worried. What can Ummi be doing for you?"
"Ummi, do you know where my father is? Do any of the elves know?" Aldon was surprised to hear his own voice sounded worried, almost fearful. He didn't even like his father. "Or my mother?"
Ummi frowned. "Ummi is not being sure. Ummi is remembering that Lord Evan is returning home this night near seven-thirty, but is not eating at home. He is leaving soon after, and Lady Eveline with him. Lady Eveline is being home only a month ago from France but is in her quarters most of the time. Let Ummi be calling the other elves, my lord Rosier?"
Aldon swallowed. It was odd to hear himself being referred to by his father's title, when she had called him Master Aldon his entire life. "Yes, please, Ummi. And if I may, I am directing you in charge of the elves."
"Rolly is not liking to hear that, but it is being my lord Rosier's decision. He is being Lord Evan's chief house-elf." Ummi was unruffled as she snapped her fingers. There was a moment, and another half-dozen elves popped into the study, including a young one that Aldon did not recognize, still sucking at its thumb. "Is any of yous knowing what is being the Lord Evan's plans tonight?"
The house-elves looked at each other, at Aldon. Most of them shook their heads, but one of them, an older elf with his tea towel perfectly pressed, grimaced. "Rolly is knowing that Lord Evan and Lady Eveline is having a meeting at Malfoy Manor tonight. He is getting home early and is telling Rolly he is having a SOW Party meeting, and Lady Eveline is going with him. He is telling Rolly to be expecting him back before midnight."
"Malfoy Manor," Aldon murmured, his lips curving in annoyance. There was little he could do about that – Malfoy Manor was the most frequent meeting spot for SOW Party meetings that he knew, largely because the Lord Malfoy stood so highly in Lord Riddle's favour. He wouldn't be flying to Malfoy Manor on this, not with only Neal and the Lord Black behind him, and not without further information and planning. He wasn't close to the Malfoys, had never been, but if there had been a SOW Party meeting, then the Parkinsons would have been there, possibly also the Selwyns. And Ed, whom, his informants had advised, had taken his father's favoured position within the SOW Party. "Thank you, Rolly, elves."
"You is being very welcome, my lord Rosier." Rolly exchanged a look with Ummi, who nodded. "We is preparing rooms for your guests?"
"No need," Neal interrupted with a friendly smile. "Sirius and I will probably Floo home, after we help Aldon search the manor. Thank you for the offer."
The old house-elf threw him a bullish look. "We is preparing rooms anyway. Just in case the Lords Queenscove and Black be changing their minds." There was a crack, and all the elves disappeared.
"Well," the Lord Black said, his expression tightening. The Lord Black, Aldon recalled, had a family connection to the Malfoys, and he had only grown closer to them through Harriett's ruse, since for many years he had believed Draco Malfoy to be one of Archie's best friends. As far as Aldon had always been able to tell, Archie's own feelings towards the Malfoys and the Parkinsons were decidedly neutral, and he wasn't sure what that meant for the Lord Black's fragile relationship with either family. "Aldon, do you—"
"I am not going off to the Malfoys in the absence of more information, and possibly an army," Aldon snapped, then he took a breath, trying to decide what to do. "You should not, either. If the wards fell, then my father is dead or otherwise incapacitated."
The Lord Black raised his eyebrow. "I wasn't going to suggest it."
Aldon paused, then he sighed, shutting his eyes. "My apologies, Lord Black. I am... tense."
"Apology accepted, Lord Rosier." Aldon opened his eyes, glaring at the Lord Black, who was smirking slightly. "We now have the same status, so unless you call me by name, I am, by etiquette, required to return the formality. Let's search the house – where does your father do most of his work?"
"Not here." Aldon shook his head, ignoring the rest of the Lord Black's speech. It was unlikely that his parents had left any trace of anything in the house, but it was worth searching. "He did most of his work at the Rosier Investment Trust offices in Diagon Alley. But we might find something in his personal quarters."
"Then let's go look. Keep an eye on your wards, Lord Rosier."
Aldon snorted, but he led the way through the family quarters, breaking into rooms that he had never been in before.
There was nothing of importance, but maybe a million things of minor note that Aldon had never known. His father's rooms were done in a soothing midnight blue, complemented with bright notes of silver, and there was a tall stack of Muggle mystery novels on his bedside table. Aldon picked one up, thumbing through it, and a worn picture of Christie fell out. He found a very respectable port collection in his father's parlour, where the bookshelves were lined with yet more mysteries, as well as thrillers and spy novels, and Aldon picked out names like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, and Raymond Chandler. There were traces of magic everywhere, illusion magic that must have covered these titles previously, turning these books into something proper and wizarding. He found a photo album hidden in a drawer, the old sealing charm fading, and flipped it open to see picture after picture of his father and Christie. At least twenty years old, these pictures, and his father was young, Christie was young, and they looked happy.
He closed the photo album and moved on, the similarities between him and his father rubbing him oddly. His father, too, had treated his rooms as his sanctuary, a place where it was safe to be himself, to indulge in pastimes deemed less acceptable by the Wizarding British mainstream. Aldon had partaken in banned magical theory books; his father, into Muggle culture, specifically the same sort of books that Christie loved. His father wouldn't have kept anything useful here, not in a place that he had felt safe enough to read Muggle books.
His mother's rooms had been even more puzzling. Her rooms were white, minimalist, except for a heavy wooden trunk that he and the Lord Black pulled out from underneath her bed. He had tried to open it, but the lock bit him – he had thrown a set of curse identification charms at it, and the trunk had been blinding with spell-light. He recognized about half of the curses, all of which were Dark and malicious, as well as a blood ward. As a Dark wizard himself, he could only break into this trunk only with time and much difficulty, so he grimaced and left it alone. At least, if the spells were still alive, that meant that his mother was likely still alive.
Her parlour was equally bland. There was a row of books on her shelf, thick tomes without titles that didn't let Aldon handle them. They were warded with the same spells that guarded her trunk, biting at his fingers, and Aldon left them alone. The few other books in the room were informative enough; more than half of them were in French, and the remainder were books on offensive and defensive magic. He knew that his mother had a Mastery in Defense, but as far as he knew, she had not touched those skills in many years. There was nothing obvious in her rooms that told him what the SOW Party was meeting about, or anything else.
He barely checked his own rooms. One look, and it was exactly as he remembered, done in royal blue and grey with his chaise and wall of books on magical theory. All the best books he had taken with him, but the rest were here, along with the detritus of his childhood, the paraphernalia of a person that he was no longer. He shook his head, shutting the doors – he didn't think his parents had taken a single step in his rooms since he had been formally disowned.
From there, he moved through the rest of the family quarters, but he and his parents had always been people who had kept to their own spaces. The family sitting room was bland, the sofas hard and the coffee table bare. The family dining room, the one that he had eaten breakfasts and dinner in every morning and night when he was at home, carried the trappings of a family, with a table set for three and numerous pictures of them decorating the walls. Lady Eveline Rosier, holding a five-year-old Aldon on her lap, the Lord Rosier standing behind them. A family picture with Aldon in his school robes, on the morning of his first trip to Hogwarts. Another family picture, taken only a few years ago, in the ballroom before the SOW Party Gala, before Aldon had gotten drunk. A wall of lies, one that now disgusted him, even if it didn't make his core waver.
There was nothing in the family quarters either. Aldon moved on to the rest of the mansion, his hopes waning. The main house, with the beautiful reception rooms, library, formal dining room and ballroom were used only to impress, which in Aldon's life had meant if they were hosting Lord Riddle. There was another wing, one with guest rooms, but that had never been used in Aldon's memory. He checked room after room, Neal and the Lord Black at his side. The Lord Black was true to his word – he now referred to Aldon exclusively as Lord Rosier, which Aldon now was, though he didn't feel any different now than he did a few hours ago. All the rooms were empty, devoid of anything useful, or any information at all. There was nothing.
Like Aldon, his parents had kept their thoughts, their beliefs, their histories close to their chests.
He, the Lord Black, and Neal had returned to the family dining room by half two in the morning, and Aldon had asked one of the elves for a carafe of coffee for them all. They should sleep – he was about to suggest that they either Floo home or that his elves show them to rooms in the family quarters, when something triggered at the wards.
"What's up?" Neal asked, yawning, even as he struggled to pull himself together. The Lord Black threw back his cup of coffee, grey eyes sparking at the expression on Aldon's face, as Aldon very carefully set his mug down and reached to check his weapons.
He shut his eyes, demanding that Rosier Place show him the intruders onto his lands. The wards said that they were familiar, that they weren't strangers, but it took a moment for Aldon to demand that they show him an image.
It was his mother – not Christie, but the Lady Eveline Rosier, striding across the grounds, half-supporting the Lady Parkinson, who seemed to be crying. With her was the Lady Malfoy, pale, one arm around her son, Draco Malfoy. All of them except the Lady Rosier seemed to be in shock, while his mother only wore an expression of hard determination.
Aldon bit his lip, trying to think. He was tired, and his brain was slow, his thoughts more jumbled than usual. The good thing was, with the Anti-Apparition Wards alive, he had time – the bad part, he realized, was that he knew nothing about his mother, nor Lady Parkinson, nor the Malfoys. These were not his family, and they were not his friends; he couldn't take the risk.
"My mother," he explained briefly, standing up from the table and willing the caffeine to do its work. "The Lady Rosier, who was not magically the Lady Rosier and also not my mother. With her is Lady Malfoy, Lady Parkinson, and Draco Malfoy. We'll go meet them, and be prepared to fight."
"We don't know that they're enemies," the Lord Black reminded him, his voice soft. "We should proceed carefully, but do give them the benefit of the doubt, Lord Rosier."
Aldon made a disgruntled noise, something like a mmph, which wasn't very eloquent of him, but he was tired. It didn't matter. Needs must, so he led the way to the front of the house, opening the grand oak doors. He motioned with his head for Neal and the Lord Black to fan out, behind him – four on three weren't the best odds, especially when he was so tired, and Draco Malfoy was a good dueller. With a Mastery in Defense, he also could not discount the woman he formerly called his mother, so he unsnapped the button holding his gun from sliding out and pulled it from his shoulder holster with his left hand. He was not left-handed, but with his wand in his right hand, Alex had trained him to use his gun in his left.
He waited until they came into view, within talking distance. He knew they saw him, because their pace picked up, but he pointed his gun at the sky and fired a warning shot, before levelling the weapon at the group. He saw the Lady Rosier's mouth curve in an appreciative smile, while the Lady Malfoy looked ashen, staring at the weapon, and both Draco and the Lady Parkinson seemed too distraught for anything Aldon did to have any impact on them.
"Halt!" He snapped, and he was happy to hear that his voice sounded much sharper than he felt. "State your name and business. Be warned that I will know if you lie."
His mother transferred the Lady Parkinson's weight to the Lady Malfoy, with a few words that Aldon couldn't hear from their distance. She took two steps forward, but Aldon didn't lower his gun, or his wand, and instead he scowled, hoping she didn't come any closer. Aldon heard a sharp intake of breath from Neal, standing not far away from him, and his friend's sword rose into a guard position. The wind picked up, a warning from his friend, the beginnings of his winter wind.
"My name is Lina Avery, Stormwing," the woman he used to call mother said, her voice confident, clear, and carrying. She flicked her hand, and a silver bird appeared, arrowing upwards, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. "My torture limit is thirteen minutes and forty-four seconds, my chosen attributes duty, tolerance, and caution. I come to offer you, my lord Rosier, my services as a warmage. The Lord Riddle is dead, and the Ministry has fallen."
XXX
AN: Only three reviews last time? I would say that is why everyone gets this ending to the entirety of Vanguard, but that would be a lie - I planned for this from the start. I might have started posting the next work, Cataclysm, sooner with a bit more encouragement (your reviews are writing fuel, you know), but unfortunately I don't have enough buffer for anything other than the usual. Thanks go to meek_bookworm, the most amazing beta-reader/editor ever, and to everyone else that is supporting me!
This is the end of Vanguard, so make sure you're following me as an author to get an email when Cataclysm starts. Until then, if you want the summary, it'll be posted on my profile. Thanks for reading!
