AN: As it says on the box, everyone. If you didn't follow Vanguard, you won't follow this, so go back to my profile and start from the beginning!

XXX

Hannah had never liked the Hogwarts Express. It was horrendously loud, for one, the clackety-clack of the wheels running on rails was absolutely deafening to her sensitive ears, and she could not forget that it was the thing that took her away from her family for nine months of the year. The compartments were too small, the seats not built for a girl of Hannah's size, and it wasn't as though she could curl up on a cushion in her rabbit form.

Most years, that was. She and Blaise had managed to get a private compartment this time, which meant that she could, and she did, spend most of the journey in her rabbit form, curled up in his lap while he stroked her in just the way she liked, from the base of her neck to her cottonball tail. He was warm, and he felt safe to her, soothing even as she flicked her ears, listening carefully for anything out of the ordinary.

There were Aurors on the train, one for every three to four compartments. She heard steps tromping up and down the main aisle, a regular beat of the Aurors interspersed with excited students running up and down the corridor. Voices came through, plenty of innocuous conversation about summer plans, but quite a lot of nervous chatter, too. The Aurors, when they met, exchanged brief comments to each other, a million small details that let her put together an impression of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Dawlish was still in charge, much to the displeasure of some half of the Aurors. A lot of the younger Aurors had left or been summarily dismissed. The previous Head, Lord Potter, had accepted a higher than normal ratio of homeschooled halfbloods into Auror training, most of whom were now gone. They weren't being replaced, which meant that there was more work for everyone, even without satisfying requests like guarding the Hogwarts Express. Auror salaries had been frozen, and the extra support that they had been getting, in the form of clerks transferred from other areas of the Ministry, was more a hindrance than a help. The Aurors were tired, overworked, frustrated, and frequently annoyed by the unreasonable demands being put on them. She heard three comment that they would have left themselves, were it not for their families.

Susan Bones, Megan Jones, and Millicent Bulstrode were sitting in the compartment behind her. They were talking quietly, but not quietly enough to escape Hannah's sharp hearing. They were all involved with Bridge: Susan provided legal analysis through her Aunt Amelia Bones, Megan distributed copies of the newspaper around school, and Millie passed on information from the British delegation at the International Confederation of Wizards. Millie planned on joining her uncle in Geneva shortly after getting home, under the pretense of a summer internship, but she was also going to explore the idea of a backchannel with MACUSA, Wizarding Canada, and several other wizarding nations. They shouldn't be talking about it here, but Hannah didn't think that they would be overheard by anyone except her, so she resolved to simply mention it to Rosier, or Blake, or whatever he was calling himself nowadays.

Hannah didn't like Rosier. He was sharp, and he was cruel, and he had forced Blaise, her mate, into an extreme loyalty oath, putting Hannah's life in the line. Nothing would ever make Hannah like Rosier, not after that. Rosier hadn't even tried to see if Blaise was sympathetic to his cause or not, to consider something like trust, before pushing him into it.

Neither had Hannah, before jinxing him. But Hannah had jinxed him to keep him out of it, to keep him safe and out of the budding war. Memory Charms were safe, and what Blaise was doing now, passing information from within the SOW Party, was anything but safe.

Blaise thought the risk was worth it. He thought Hannah was worth it. He had no intention of betraying Rosier, so from his perspective, taking the oath had let him deepen his relationship with her into something that was real. Even Hannah had to admit that he was right; the pull between them would always be there, but there was something else there now, too. Her soulmate bond wasn't only a noose around her neck, but a tenuous connection holding them together.

In some ways, that was worse. Blaise still wasn't Alliance, nor had he ever mentioned putting his candidacy forward, and Hannah would never leave the Alliance. So maybe Blaise's decision would just bring both of them more pain in the end. She shifted her shoulders uncomfortably at the thought, hearing Blaise murmur soothing nonsense at her while he smoothed down her ruffled fur.

They pulled into King's Cross Station late in the afternoon. There was the usual crowd waiting for the train, but even here the atmosphere of hard tension prevailed. Parents searched for their children quickly, pulling them out of the station with wary looks at their neighbours. There was none of the festivity of past years, with very little dawdling to say hello to old friends, or to meet their children's new friends. Hannah followed the crowds, giving Blaise a hurried kiss goodbye before slipping away. Blaise would make sure her luggage got to her little sister or brother, or her cousin, who would drop it off at home for her. She had business, and she dashed off to meet Rosier at a café around the corner.

Rosier was sitting at a back table when she arrived, two steaming mugs in front of him. It was too loud in the busy café, with a crowd of people in front of the counter ordering coffees so fancy that Hannah didn't understand what they involved anymore. Macchiatos, flat whites, cortados – Blaise could have told her what they were, and would have loved to do it, but Hannah didn't like coffee enough to care. Instead, she shouldered her way to the back of the café, apologizing every few steps and hoping she wasn't too out of place in her old-fashioned skirt and blouse.

"Hannah," Rosier greeted her as she slid into the seat across from him. He pushed a plain mug of tea over to her. "How was your journey?"

He looked anxious, worried, not that it made Hannah like him any better.

"Quiet," Hannah said reluctantly, accepting the mug and taking a few sips. "Unusually – unusually quiet. We had an Auror security detail. But – but the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is in shambles, understaffed. The front-line Aurors are upset."

Rosier listened to her stumble through her report with a tight, focused sort of expression. His mouth was a thin, grim line, even as he periodically sipped the coffee in front of him in thought. Her report was a short one, covering only the attitude of the students at school, as well as the Aurors on the train, but Rosier took his time to mull over it. Hannah ignored her tea, steaming in front of her, watching him with a hint of suspicion.

"I don't like it," Rosier muttered finally, with a deep sigh. He looked up, his hawk-like eyes fixing on her, and Hannah suppressed a shudder of combined fear and distaste. "Hannah, my reports from Voldemort's camp suggests that they have something planned for early June, but my spy there isn't highly enough placed to find any details for me. I realize this is a lot, but would you be able to ask the Alliance to send some of their best and least conspicuous spies to Lestrange Manor?"

Hannah blinked – it was rare for Rosier to ask anything of her, or of the Alliance. Normally they collected information and provided it, and he would nod, thoughtful, thank them, and ask if there was anything else before disappearing. She hesitated, but if Rosier had asked, and provided information about it, then it was probably important.

"I – I will ask," Hannah replied, but she didn't have any real doubt that the Alliance would agree. War made for strange bedfellows, or so they said, and they had already lost four in the Unity Ball attack. Five, with David Goldfarb. Five was too many. "I will let you know."

The Warren, the organizational headquarters of the Alliance and her family home, was always busy. There were always siblings, a few cousins, other allies living in the softly lit, warm, half-underground commune. When she arrived, Flooing into the den, she was assaulted with screaming.

"You cheated!" Her cousin Kathleen was shouting, red-faced, a mess of Exploding Snap cards smoking on the table. A quick look showed that she was surrounded by another cousin and three of Hannah's siblings, and that her brother, Stephen, had a too-innocent look on his face. "You're a lying cheating cheater and—"

"I did not!" Stephen yelled back, though the twitch of a smile on his face told a whole other story. "You set it off when you put the last card up, we all saw it!"

"Cool it!" Her cousin Lucie cut in, brown hair flying as she flicked her wand, and a noise like the blaring of a foghorn. Everyone, including Hannah, flinched, and she covered her ears. "Oh, sorry about that, Hannah. Good to see you. How have things been?"

"Hannah!"

A blurred shape threw himself at her, and Hannah grinned at her family members as she caught him – her youngest brother, Luke, only three. "I'm glad to see you too, buddy. I'm good, Luce. Do you know where my dad is?"

Lucie looked up, tilting her head a little, a bit spaniel-like even in her human form. "Dining room, I think. No time to catch up with us, tonight?"

"Business," Hannah explained, setting her younger brother down and pushing him gently to Lucie. "S-sorry. I'll catch up later with you, I promise. I want to hear all about your Mastery program."

Lucie made a face. "My Mastery program is a flaming disaster, that's what it is," she said, waving Hannah off. "Business is business – go. We'll catch up later."

The dining room was on the lower level, underground, and her father was there, nose twitching periodically over a stack of parchment reports. Her father looked nothing like her, a thin man with tanned skin and a narrow nose, but her inner rabbit still sang at the sight of him. Armand Abbott was family, and she went to him and wrapped her arms around him from behind.

"Hi, Dad," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. "How have things been?"

Her father made a small noise of worried discontent. "Not well, Hannah. Have you any good news for us?"

Hannah sighed, taking a seat beside her father, eyeing the worn lines underneath his eyes that hadn't been there over winter break. He was a writer at the Daily Prophet, but he had been off work, unpaid, since the offices burned down. Hannah would have worried, but the Alliance had a reserve fund for exactly this situation. Every Alliance member paid into the reserve fund, and they could all draw from it in times of need.

"Not – not really. I reported to Rosier on my way home." She hesitated a bit, then she sighed, turning away from her father to look at the earthen wall across the table. "He had a request for us."

"Oh?"

"He wants us to set up surveillance on Lestrange Manor. Some – something is supposed to be planned for early June, so it's urgent." She looked back at her father, her lips thinning.

Her father's nose twitched, but he radiated a steady calm, one that stood him in good stead as the Speaker of the Alliance – not the head, because the Alliance operated by consensus, but as the central moderator and the keeper of the bylaws. Armand Abbott might only be a minor reporter for the Daily Prophet, but he was the centre of the Alliance. "Are you volunteering, Hannah?"

Hannah nodded, grim. No one gave orders in the Alliance – all tasks were done on a volunteer-only basis, so while Rosier might have asked for the best and least conspicuous spies, he would only ever get the ones who volunteered for the duty. She would try for the best ones, but it was up to them to decide whether they wanted to take the risk. "I'll also speak to… Christian, Jules, and Mark, to see if they'll volunteer."

Her father nodded, putting one arm on her shoulder. "Good choices. Speak to Trevor and Noah as well. They – they have been restless, recently. No heroics, Hannah – reconnaissance only, all right?"

Hannah nodded her understanding, then went to find her cousins and friends.

It took them an hour over dinner to hash out a rough plan. None of them were familiar with Lestrange Manor – it wasn't a place where any of them had ever had business being, so they only had the vaguest impressions collected over six people to guide them. Lestrange Manor was one of the oldest noble houses, which mean the grounds would be in some ways alive, a layer of security beyond the wards that they would need to consider.

"Mark, Jules, Hannah, Noah, you can get the closest to the building itself," Christian said, chewing his sandwich thoughtfully. He was Alliance, though not directly related to Hannah, and his shifter form was a wolf. As the runt of the litter, however, Christian was small for a wolf shifter, and Hannah liked having him for reconnaissance missions because his nose was as sharp as her hearing. "Trevor and I will have to hang back – wards don't take well to predators, even small ones, but we can look at the wards and run a circle of the estate."

"A circle of the Lestrange estate might take you days." Noah snorted. A sparrow shifter, he was a recent Hogwarts graduate and worked at Flourish and Blotts stocking shelves. "You know how old manors are. We don't have a map of the area, and we have no idea about cover. We need to make this a scouting run – we'll map out what we can tonight, then work out a better plan. It's going to take us days to even set up preliminary surveillance."

"I agree with Noah. We stick together," Hannah said, decisive over her salad. "We stay in – in view of each other the entire time, standard signal cues. If – if one of us calls a retreat, we all retreat, no questions asked."

Her cousin Julia nodded over her own salad. She worked for the Ministry as a clerk in the Apparition licensing department, and there was no one better at deconstructing Apparition coordinates or reading Apparition residue. "Yeah. This isn't a time for risks. We don't have to see all of the others at any given time, but make sure you can see at least one of us, and we'll pass the signals down the line when we see them. We can make a better plan for tomorrow, when we know where we're landing."

Lestrange Manor was quiet. The Apparition point that Julia took them to was covered with shade, near a low-lying wall some hundred and fifty feet away from the manor itself, and they took animal form as quickly as they could and slunk off into the undergrowth. They were closer to the manor than expected, which Hannah did not like, but having seen the area, they could scout another Apparition point farther away for future surveillance.

The building was old, almost gothic in design, but a sort of gothic that rubbed poorly against Hannah's senses. It felt wrong, though she couldn't have explained why. The magic of the wards buzzed against her thin summer fur, uncomfortable, but there was something about the building, too. It felt unbalanced, with tall circular spires spiking to the heavens and stern, blocky lines forming the rest of the monstrous building. It didn't look like a home, and it wasn't lit or maintained like a home, either.

They had only managed to map out the area in front of the house, strategic bushes and fountains and trees, before Hannah heard a warning chitter from Mark, a squirrel shifter, in the trees above her. She froze, one paw raised, her rabbit symbol for a halt, before she heard a hustle of activity on the grounds.

Dozens of witches and wizards, all dressed in black, grey masks dangling off their belts or in their hands, were pouring out of Lestrange Manor. Many of them looked grim, but there was a laughing witch in the centre of one cluster, radiating vicious, anticipatory pleasure. Hannah shuddered, recognizing Lady Lestrange. On the other side of the group, she spotted the Lestrange Heir looking bored. She knew little about the Lestranges, but what she had heard wasn't good. They had formally been charged with sedition and terrorism, not that it mattered when they had escaped Azkaban Prison.

The witches and wizards milled about in front of the doors, and it was another fifteen minutes before another man appeared. The young man from the Triwizard Tournament, the one at the Unity Ball, and Hannah shrank back further in her cluster of bushes. Even from here, she could feel his power, sharp and spiky and unnatural against her senses. He was speaking, giving orders or a speech of some kind, but she was too far away to catch more than a few words. Something about Lord Riddle, something about the SOW Party, and something about the Ministry. The witches and wizards divided themselves into two groups, with the Lestrange Heir and another wizard, one with a hard look on his face, in charge of one, while Voldemort went to the other.

The Lestrange Heir's group Disapparated, the cracks loud enough to come to her hearing, more than a hundred and fifty feet away. Another ten minutes, and Voldemort's group, too, Disapparated. Hannah withdrew, flicking her ears three times, and she knew that the others were retreating with her; they needed to discuss and reorganize, and everyone with her tonight was experienced enough to follow.

"Two – two different Apparition signatures," her cousin Julie whispered, as soon as she reappeared from her rabbit form, well under cover in an empty clearing of trees. "One is for the – the Ministry of Magic, the other I don't recognize, somewhere in Wiltshire. Vol-Voldemort went to the one I don't recognize. We can follow, but we should give them a bit of time to get away from the Apparition point before we get there. We don't want to land on their heads."

"Be a dumb way to die," Christian added, shaking his head with a small snort. "Those were strike forces, Hannah, almost fifty witches and wizards. Twenty disappeared with the first group, the rest with the second. They're attacking something. I don't like this."

"I don't – don't think anyone does," Hannah replied, looking round her small group and making a snap decision. "Jules, Mark, can you go to the Ministry? Don't – don't do anything stupid. Don't fight, if there's fighting. Just wait, listen, and return to the Warren before midnight. Trevor, Noah, stay here, wait, listen, and return at midnight. Christian and I will take the unknown location."

There was a short pause, as they all exchanged dissatisfied looks, but Hannah shrugged, gesturing for someone to make a better plan than the one she had. They needed information, and they didn't have any, and none of them were stupid. None of them would be doing anything to put themselves in harm's way, with any luck. This was only reconnaissance.

"Fine," Mark said, abrupt. "It's been about fifteen minutes since they left – we give them another fifteen, and then we go."

Fifteen minutes seemed to last an eternity. Christian Apparated her into a small copse of trees, thankfully empty, though she shifted almost as soon as her feet touched the ground, just in case. Christian was already in wolf form when she looked over at him, his nose to the ground, then he flicked his tail in a gesture for her to follow.

She couldn't smell as well as he could, but she kept her ears open. Every rustle of trees sounded like danger, and her fur was standing up on its end. She slipped after Christian, hopping between bushes and, when not completely hidden, acting as rabbit-like as she possibly could, until he paused, crouching under some bushes, his belly almost rubbing against the floor of the woods.

Hannah came forward silently, catching sight of the building, and her breath caught. It was Malfoy Manor – not that she had ever been there, but Lord Riddle had given enough speeches from the elegant front steps to the mansion, which fanned out in a circle from the front doors. She knew it, and she also heard the sounds of many bumbling humans in front of her, between her and the mansion.

Voldemort's followers.

She exchanged a glance with Christian, twitching one of her ears. There was one of Voldemort's followers only about fifteen feet away from them, but only one of them. They had fanned out, somewhere. She drew a line with her paw, pointing towards him. Christian bared his teeth at her, unhappy but accepting, and slunk off to search for the others.

It was better that he search for Voldemort's followers than her. Christian had some minor defensive capabilities, not the least his sharp teeth, that Hannah didn't have. As a rabbit, however, Hannah could get a lot closer to the building than he could without being remarkable.

She slipped closer to Malfoy Manor, feeling the tingle of the outer wards against her fur but ignoring them. Most witches and wizards found it annoying to deal with alarms caused by harmless wildlife, so she could normally slip a little closer than most without tripping an alarm. The inner wards closer to the building would be stronger and pick up her nature as a shifter witch in rabbit form, but she didn't need to trigger those for her purposes. She only wanted to know what was happening at Malfoy Manor to draw Voldemort's attention.

Malfoy Manor was a massive, beautiful, white-washed mansion, and she drew closer to the lit rooms. There were huge bay windows, their light spilling out on the grounds, and Hannah clung close to the shadows near a fountain, catching glimpses of the witches and wizards within when they passed by the wide windows. Some of the windows were open, framed on the inside with elegant green curtains which rustled in the light summer breeze.

The Lord Riddle was there, chatting with a tall, stern wizard that she recognized as the Lord Parkinson in one window. Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were standing together in front of another window, having a conversation with Edmund Rookwood and Alesana Selwyn, whom she recognized from school. She vaguely remembered hearing that they had married, some time ago. Lady Zabini walked by, crossing from one window frame to another on the arm of a handsome wizard that Hannah didn't recognize, and there were more shapes in the background. She heard the chatter of voices, though nothing specific, friendly voices mingling in the air. A party of some kind, maybe to celebrate the end of the school year and to welcome their Heirs home? Hannah didn't know.

Then Blaise was there, joining the circle with Malfoy and Parkinson, his friends, and Hannah breathed out a slow, calming breath, fighting her internal panic at seeing him. She was a rabbit. She was a bloody rabbit, and rabbits did not care about random humans talking to other humans. Rabbits did not run towards their mates, not even if there was a strike force of Voldemort's followers around or near the mansion. She was on a reconnaissance mission only, and she was a rabbit, and she would not interfere.

There were wards, she reminded herself sternly, even as she quaked against the fountain. She might have been able to bypass the outer wards, but Voldemort's men were humans, and wizards, and they would trigger them. Malfoy Manor had wards for this, and her job was to wait, watch, and listen.

But she heard the rustle of grass nearby, and her heart nearly stopped as she spotted one of Voldemort's men creeping closer to the building. That was past the outer wards, and unknown wizards not in prey shifter form were something that certainly every Lord warded against, and no one in Malfoy Manor seemed to be acting any different. Not even the Lord Malfoy, who had now joined Lord Riddle in conversation, seemed to have noticed anything.

No. They had something to bypass the wards, or they had broken them, or she didn't know. Hannah wasn't good at things like ward construction or ward breaking, so she didn't know how it had happened, she just knew that if one of Voldemort's men was slinking within the grounds, that meant they probably all were, and that meant bad things.

And Blaise was inside. Her mate was inside.

It was a split-second decision, but Hannah couldn't leave him there. Not if Voldemort's men were on the grounds, not if there were enough of them for an attack. Christian would freak, but Blaise was her mate. He had to get out. They both had to get out, now.

Her eyes skimmed the walls, looking for an entry point. An open window, a gap, she didn't know, but she spotted a likely-looking window down the wall from Blaise. The window was dimly lit, but there weren't any shadows of people in it, so she bolted towards it, lunging for the windowsill. The inner wards had to be down by now, because she could see a few creeping figures inching closer to the building, and she had no time. She needed to get Blaise out.

She just made the window, scrabbling her way inside, and she didn't care who saw. Whatever was happening was bigger than one oddly behaved rabbit. The inside was loud, full of polite remarks and twittering, pleased laughter, and Hannah didn't hesitate as she dove for the closest set of elegant green curtains. Her view of the room was terrible, low to the ground as she was – all she saw were boots, most of them shiny and new and fashionable. She mentally cursed everyone who had ever thought that fashion was sensible, because it made everyone's feet look the same, and then she bolted for a space under a chaise. She didn't have time to care about risks – this was an emergency, and she needed to act as quickly as possible, her heart beating a frantic rhythm in her chest.

Blaise's voice was near. She shut her eyes, listening for him. Twenty-five feet to her right, and she opened an eye to look for the next hiding spot she could go for. There was a side table, then more curtains, and she waited, heart pounding, for each silent opportunity. Twenty-two feet away. Eighteen feet away. Fifteen feet. One huge sprint, from one curtain to another, ten feet away, then a daring hide in the skirts of a stationary, laughing witch for a moment before diving under another set of curtains.

She was taking too long. It was too long, and her ears were open for the sound of Blaise's voice, breaking glass, spell-fire. Every minute felt like her heart would explode, and it was sheer luck and daring and the fastest running she had ever done in rabbit form that she hadn't been noticed before she reached his boots, his calm rumble of a voice soothing her almost despite herself. He was her mate, her instincts screamed, and she was safe with her mate, even as her head grappled with the danger they were in.

She didn't have teeth, and her claws weren't very sharp, but she patted him insistently on the leg from under his robes. Thank goodness for long robes. Thank heaven and cake and sugar cookies that Wizarding Britain's dominant style was still floor-length robes, because she could hide in them in her rabbit form. She felt him freeze, even as he kept talking, his voice smooth and even and perfectly calm, then she heard him excuse himself.

She hopped, trying to time her steps perfectly with his stride, but was only successful at getting herself kicked twice before they made it to an empty hallway and Blaise swept down to pick her up with one arm, quickly moving to an empty room where Hannah could change back. He knew her, of course he did – they would always know each other, because they were mates.

"Hannah, what are you doing here?" His face was pale, his eyes wide, and inside Hannah knew he was panicking as much as her. She changed back, and she knew that her face was equally pale.

"We have – have to get out." Her words were fast, tumbling over each other in her rush to get them out, and she wished, for the umpteenth time, that she didn't stutter. She headed straight for the window, finding the catch with one shaking hand and struggling to get it open. "Vol-Voldemort's here. Outside. Strike – strike force, past the wards. We need to go."

Blaise's hand covered hers, his hand making quick work of the lock on the window and pushing it open. To his credit, he was following her directions, though Hannah could feel that he was upset with her, he was angry that she had put herself in danger like this, and he would have words with her later. She didn't care, and he knew that she didn't care, and she would pay that price to get him out. Behind them, she could hear behind her the sounds she had been dreading since her hare-brained mission into Malfoy Manor: breaking glass, spell-fire, and screaming, and she saw Blaise turn, a worried look coming over his face.

She grabbed his arm, shaking her head firmly, and she plunged out the window. In human form, she had a stone on Blaise at least, and they were in mid-air when she shifted, feeling Blaise shifting to his Italian black wolf beside her. Her ears were ringing with the sound of battle, and she streaked off into the night. Blaise would follow her, and she knew it.

The only thing that was important now was getting away, getting back to the Warren and meeting with the rest of her crew, and she ran, heedless, ignoring bushes and trees and all cover. Blaise would have to come with her, and she would deal with the fallout as it happened. He was her mate, and he was shifter, and something major was happening tonight. The Alliance could provide cover to Blaise tonight, even if he wasn't one of their own.

Christian ran into them, panting heavily, a hundred yards out from Malfoy Manor. He barely growled at Blaise, following Hannah as she streaked away, another four hundred yards over a hill, in a mess of trees and bushes and long, uncut grass that couldn't have been cared for by anyone. Once there, she shifted again, back to her human form, gasping for air.

"What was that, Hannah?" Christian hissed at her, furious as he reappeared, glaring at Blaise as Blaise also turned back into his human form. "This was a reconnaissance mission, not anything else, what were you even thinking?! I almost died when you went into that window! There were thirty of them, including Voldemort himself. He's young, but he stinks of power, and not the good kind, Hannah! Old blood and iron on him, absolutely filthy."

"My mate," Hannah coughed, wheezing, bent over for air. She wasn't a stranger to running, especially in her rabbit form, but five hundred yards was a lot for her. "I had to get my mate. I couldn't – couldn't let him stay there when it was going to be attacked."

Christian blew out a breath, eyeing Blaise cautiously, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "Zabini, eh? Not Alliance."

"You can't choose your mate, Christian, and you – you know it," Hannah choked out, then she gagged. She felt Blaise's hand on her back, rubbing in a soothing motion, and she took a few more breaths and gagged once more before straightening. "Tonight, it doesn't matter whether he's Alliance or not. We bring him back with us – I saw Lord Riddle, Lord Malfoy, Lord Parkinson, and a dozen of the most high-ranking SOW Party Lords in that manor tonight."

"It's a coup, or an attempted one," Blaise added, and his voice was heavy with realization. "There was a meeting tonight. We need to go. Report it to the Ministry, get Auror support."

"We c-can't." Hannah shook her head. "Vol-Voldemort has a second force holding down the Ministry, twenty witches and wizards. We tracked him from Lestrange Manor. We – we have two trackers there, for recon. We need to go back to the Warren and wait."

"You want to bring him to the Warren?" Christian asked, his dark eyes widening. "Hannah, he's not Alliance!"

"I'll – I'll deal with it," Hannah snapped, her voice final. "We go to the Warren, and we fortify. We'll – we'll see what the others have to say when they return, and we'll report to Bridge as soon as we can."

Christian shook his head, but he offered both of his arms for Side-Along Apparition anyway. "All right, Hannah. To the Warren, and on your head be it."

XXX

Draco watched as Blaise disappeared quickly out into the nearest hallway, radiating panic. The bathroom, Blaise had said, apologetic, so Draco didn't worry himself over it, only giving him the directions to the closest water closet.

There was a time when coming home for the summer holidays was a small, intimate affair with him and his family, but he supposed that as he grew up, more of these formally-informal-but-quite-formal affairs would become more the norm. Pansy and the Parkinsons were there, since they would be family in only a few years, and Lord Riddle had seen fit to call a few other families to discuss the political situation. And it had snowballed from there, growing to include Uncle Severus, Minister Fudge, the Rookwoods, Lady Zabini with her lover, one of the non-noble Travers, and a handful of other SOW Party families.

It was an honour to be invited to these meetings. He had already sat in on a very interesting, high-level discussion with Lord Riddle, listening as Father provided a thorough update on the activities of the Ministry. A third of the clerks from the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had been transferred to support the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and a third of the active creature-handlers and Improper Use of Magic officers would soon be added to the Auror corps as well. They had also gone through the Ministry and dismissed anyone likely to be involved with either Bridge or Voldemort and his terrorists.

The reduced force, with no increase in funding, and the known influx of incompetents would tempt Voldemort into overreaching his hand and leaving the well-fortified Lestrange lands. Once off them, Lord Riddle and the SOW Party would be able to cut them off from their base and destroy them. There was a risk that the Ministry would fall in the meantime, but the reporting from Bridge had lowered the Ministry's reputation to the point where, Lord Riddle considered, the current administration was an acceptable loss. After Voldemort was addressed, a new administration could be set up, and then they could turn to Bridge.

It should have made him happy, being invited to these discussions. It was exactly the life he had been preparing for, but nothing felt the way he had always expected.

He sighed, swirling his glass of wine. Pansy was beside him, but there was some part of her radiating resignation, though she never showed it when she looked at him. She smiled at him, perfectly pleasant, and she never said anything objectionable, even if Draco suspected she might disagree. Millicent hadn't talked to him the rest of the year, choosing to spend her time primarily with her friends in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, and of course Draco hadn't come anywhere near forgiving Theo for his testimony about Harry in the Black trial. That only left Blaise, who was if anything more present than usual, but his emotions were too sharp, too annoyed, not as aloof or amused as he had been in previous years. Even among a crowd of people, Draco often felt alone, as if his friends had somehow moved on without him.

He wished Rigel – Harry – were here. She would have been welcome company, and her dry sense of humour would have immediately set him at ease. Halfblood or not, she fit right in with the SOW Party. Just like Uncle Severus did, and he was sure that, as soon as Voldemort and Bridge were dealt with and things calmed down, he could convince the SOW Party to allow her into their ranks. He was already being invited to high-level discussions, wasn't he? Blaise was very envious, he had said, though Draco had never felt anything like envy from him.

There was a light breeze from the window, the movement of the curtains attracting his attention. Draco turned to look outside, catching a scent that was just a little different, a little unexpected—

And the world exploded.

He heard shattering glass, and he didn't think before he threw himself on Pansy. A rain of glass blew towards them, barely missing them as they went down. Pansy had turned to the source of the noise, and her wand was already drawn.

"Impedimenta!" she shrieked from the floor. Her voice was drowned by the explosions rocking around him, but Draco couldn't she if she had hit anything. She probably hadn't, her aim thrown off by Draco knocking her over, and she pushed him off her roughly, shifting to her knees, her eyes sharp and focused.

Draco rolled, looking up to see shards of glass flying – someone's attack spell now, since the glass was flying in formation, headed in one clear direction. "Protego!" he shouted, but his voice came out a breathless whisper. It didn't matter, as his shield snapped up, deflecting any glass from hitting either him or Pansy.

The window gallery was a nightmare. He didn't know what to look at first – there was smoke everywhere, not all of it natural, and he heard someone casting a Ventus spell. The room was swarmed with people, so many people that he didn't recognize, all dressed in black and wearing masks. His nostrils were filled with the scent of burning cloth, smoky and sour, and he coughed, tasting hot dust in the air. Someone was screaming, or many people were yelling, and he couldn't differentiate the different voices. There was too much noise, and his emotional senses were flooded: fear, anger, shock, rage, and a strange thrill of pleasure ran through him, from a dozen different sources.

His head ached, and he wanted to vomit. His shield wavered, and he staggered to his knees, upright.

Pansy was kneeling beside him, her blue eyes clear as she launched Banishing Charms at his mother's vases and lamps, knocking them over and blowing out the delicate light crystals inside. She looked around the room, her eyes fixing upwards, and she raised her wand.

He looked up, seeing the grand chandelier, and his eyes widened.

"What are you doing?" he shouted at her over the sound of crackling spellfire, raising his own wand – to stop her, or to help her, or to defend her from others, he didn't know yet. "What—"

"We're being attacked, Draco," Pansy snapped, carefully aiming before she fired a Severing Charm at the chain holding the chandelier up. It rocked, but it didn't come down, and she aimed again. "I don't know how many of them there are, but we need to go – we need to get out, and now. Help me!"

"But – but Malfoy Manor…" Draco leaned over, his hands on the floor, and he retched as one particularly strong wave of anger hit him. Someone near him, that he couldn't see, was beginning to cast at a speed that Draco hadn't heard before. "My father—"

Pansy reached over and grabbed his wrist, her long nails pinching at his skin as she fired the second Severing Charm. She was panicked, frightened, but also intensely focused. The chandelier rocked a second time, more violently, and she shook her head and started the spell again. "Diffindo!"

The chandelier crashed down, spilling crystal light spells across the floor and extinguishing them. It was dark, so dark, and Draco could see sparks of light as people started casting Lumos Charms. The flickers of light didn't make things any clearer, only turning the morass sickening, flutters showing moments as people screamed in pain and cast spells and cried for their family members. A woman's voice was screaming the Torture curse, and Draco swallowed, wanting to vomit again.

He could see the shapes of the masked intruders, at least a dozen of them. Spells were being thrown willy-nilly, with no regard for friend or foe. He looked around for his parents, pale bobbing wandlights near useless with the sheer movement in the room, and he couldn't find them. He staggered to his feet, one glimpse in a flash of light showing his Uncle Severus blasting a nameless, masked witch or wizard into a wall with a sickening crack. He needed to do something – he couldn't stand here, frozen with shock and fear, even if a tsunami of emotion was rushing through his core. Mostly Pansy's, but there were so many people, and so much emotion, that even her anchor was barely holding.

He raised his wand, casting his own shaky Lumos charm, which didn't help other than to show that Pansy was covered in dust, a cut across her jawline dripping a line of blood that she hadn't noticed. Her blue eyes were alive, scanning the room frantically, then she shook her head, brisk, and Draco was slammed with another emotion through the anchor – desperation, resignation, firm determination, and a pain in her heart that ripped all the way through Draco's core, so strong he had to lean over, catching his breath.

A flash of green, and Draco gasped, whirling around. Green light meant the Killing Curse, even if Draco couldn't hear the incantation. He looked around for the source, sending his wandlight spinning through the air. Across the room, he caught sight of Lord Riddle face to face with a younger wizard, presumably Voldemort, the two men duelling in a gap left as other witches and wizards threw themselves out of the way. There was no sound from that corner, no spoken words – no warning to the spells they were casting. Both were intent, silent, focused entirely on the death they were throwing at each other.

The room was too small, and there was still crying, screaming, shouting, yelling. Another blast rocked the room, throwing Draco sideways and shoving him into Pansy. They fell down, sliding against the floor, but Pansy was up, pulling Draco up as well.

"We need to go!" She yelled at him again. "Out of the Manor, Draco!"

"I can't just—" Draco said, his voice a stutter. "I have to help!"

Pansy shook her head, throwing another spell over Draco's shoulder, a Stupefy. "We aren't being helpful here, Draco, we're only in the way. Where is the closest door, or window, or way out?!"

Draco hesitated, then began pulling her backwards towards the open window, when his attention was caught at the back of the room.

It was an arc of green light, one like so many that had been thrown earlier, curses that cleared a space around Lord Riddle and Voldemort that other witches and wizards desperately avoided. The Killing Curse took more power and focus than most wizards were willing to use, particularly in a duel when one often tried to conserve power, but when one had the power of Lord Riddle, or Voldemort, then it became a weapon of terror. Instant death in the form of an arc of light, and when it struck Lord Riddle underneath the ribs, there was a moment of sheer shock, of silence, as the strong, stern statesman teetered.

And then Lord Riddle, the most powerful wizard in the world, the guiding force of Wizarding British politics for nearly half a century, crumpled to his knees, falling with his face forwards, lifeless.

Draco stopped breathing, frozen in shock, and he heard the cry from the front as someone seized him and Pansy from behind. Pansy turned around, a spell already on her lips, but her wand was plucked out of her hand with no ceremony. Draco barely had time to raise his wand before it, too, was taken from his numb fingers. Light flooded the room, not from the chandelier, but from a brightly glowing ball of greenish-yellow light that threw the room into sharp relief.

The Malfoy window gallery was a ruin. Nearly every window had been blown inwards and glass littered the floor. The grand chandelier lay shattered, tilted in a grotesque array over a sofa and a broken coffee table. Some of the curtains were on fire, the crackle and pop letting live sparks into the air, the heat palpable. It smelled of blood and flames, and Draco swallowed hard, seeing slick blood on more than one person. There was a high-pitched laugh, and he looked around, seeing more masks than people he knew.

"It's over." A voice boomed out from the other end of the room, a cold, almost nasal voice that Draco would forever remember. The voice was comparatively high-pitched, for a man, but it wasn't the timbre that made it cold. It was the sense of utter and complete uncaring, of cruelty that echoed through it, which made Draco shudder.

The man was young, sharply handsome, with dark hair and cold, pitiless black eyes. His nose was narrow, pointed and delicate, like most pureblood witches and wizards, but he had heavy brows and a strong jaw. The wand in his hand was long, black, and he was the only one of them not to wear a mask. He didn't need one, because he had no need to hide.

None of them would have need to hide anymore, he realized, a hole opening up in his stomach as the waves of desperation, anger, sorrow, fear swept over and around him, like he was an island in the middle of a storm-tossed sea. The man standing behind him, holding his arms, pushed him and Pansy forward, and with a distant sense of horror he saw that it was Travers, Lady Zabini's lover. The fighting had mostly stopped, now – his father was being held by a wizard that Draco didn't recognize, while his mother looked furious at the laughing witch who held her. Aunt Bellatrix, of course.

"Not so perfect now, are you?" he heard her crooning to his mother. "Perfect Narcissa, pretty Narcissa, powerful Narcissa who did all the right things… not so pretty or powerful now, are you?"

His mother didn't dignify her sister with a response, even as Aunt Bellatrix stroked one finger along her jaw.

"Bella…" Voldemort's voice carried a low hint of warning, and his aunt straightened, shoving his mother away. His mother fell to her knees, but not a hint of complaint came from her. "Not now, pet. You can play with her later."

"My lord," Aunt Bellatrix murmured, almost singing, and she stepped back in line. Draco had rarely, if ever, seen that happen before. Aunt Bellatrix was famously unstable and uncontrollable.

He heard the sound of someone scrabbling, and he turned his head to see that the Lady Rosier had dropped, forcing her captors to bear her full weight as they dragged her forward. She was not a small witch, though she seemed to have lost some weight recently, and she still wore an expression of rage and defiance. Draco skimmed the room, taking a short, rattling breath as he realized there were bodies on the floor, and not only a few.

Edmund and his wife were pale, upright, standing with the Lord Selwyn, but the Lady Selwyn was on the ground and Alesana seemed to be on the verge of tears. The Lord Rosier's body lay not far from the Lady Rosier. Lady Zabini was still alive, though Draco felt her betrayal, sharp and keening, as she stared at her lover holding Draco and Pansy hostage. Blaise was nowhere to be seen, and Draco desperately hoped that maybe he had just gotten lucky, being in the washrooms, and he could still get help for them. Theo's uncle, the Lord Nott, was dead; Theo himself was not the Heir to House Nott, he was something like eighth in line, but now he would be the seventh. The Parkinsons were alive, Lord Parkinson's face pale with shock, Lady Parkinson teary. Seven masked, black shapes were lying on the ground, motionless, three of them close to the Lord Rosier's body. The Lord Rosier must have gone down fighting.

And Lord Riddle. Lord Riddle was dead, and Draco's mind was stuck, a single repeating line running over and over in his head. Lord Riddle was dead. Lord Riddle was dead. Lord Riddle was dead.

It wasn't grief he felt – his emotions towards the Lord Riddle had always been more in line with deep respect and fear than affection – but it was shock, it was a concept so unbelievable that Draco just couldn't process it in one moment.

There was a flash of silver – a Patronus, but not one that Draco recognized. Some kind of wild dog, Draco thought, perhaps a hyena. He didn't know well enough to be able to tell, and the silver masked any markings.

"The Ministry has been secured," a chilly voice said, and Draco suppressed a gasp. Caelum Lestrange, his cousin, had always been nasty but Draco would never have imagined he could have joined Voldemort, his family notwithstanding. Draco couldn't imagine anyone joining with Voldemort, any more than he could have imagined anyone joining Bridge.

"Twenty-seven dead, including three of ours," Caelum continued, his voice clinical and emotionless. "Mulciber wants to play with the clerks in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Instructions requested."

Draco leaned over, a punch in his gut as the wave of terror swept through the room. There would be no rescue, he realized – the only organized group that might have rescued them had been captured that same night. Even those few that had escaped, if they had escaped – Blaise, and he couldn't see his Uncle Severus anywhere – wouldn't have anywhere to go to get help. They were lost. They had lost.

His brain couldn't process it. He was numb, and nothing felt real. Or it felt too real, like a vivid dream, and Draco wanted to wake up. Nothing about this made sense, and it couldn't be real. Lord Riddle could not be dead, and the Ministry could not have fallen. He could not be a hostage to a madman – such things simply didn't happen.

Voldemort had a slight smile on his face as the wild dog dissipated in the air. He twisted his wand, looked around the room, and his own Patronus, a great snake, appeared. Draco tried desperately to wake himself up.

"Message to Caelum Lestrange," the madman said, his voice light and pleased. "Well done. Mulciber may play with three of the clerks of his choosing – three of theirs for three of our dead. You have my approval to use all necessary measures to stop him after three."

The wizard flicked his wand, and the Patronus flew out the window, bound for the Ministry of Magic. Then, he turned back to room, scanning it with a small smile on his face, and waved his hand casually to the empty space before him. Draco and Pansy were pulled up, dragged into a rough line, and Travers handed their wands to another wizard, one that Draco didn't recognize.

"Seven dead," Voldemort said, his cold eyes looking over the floor, then he eyed Draco and the rest of the survivors. "Seven dead means seven examples, is that not right?"

The masked witches and wizards murmured, approval floating through Draco's emotional senses, and he shuddered, wanting to throw up. He pulled closer to Pansy, who was stiff, hard, radiating fury.

"Do we have any suggestions?"

Voldemort was amused, taking a step closer to their line to inspect each of them. Pansy stared him back, her blue eyes wide and angry as Draco gripped her hand, anchoring himself. Draco could barely look at the so-called Voldemort, choked as he was by Voldemort's intense sense of pleasure and happiness, while Edmund, beside him, was expressionless and projecting fear. Alesana, beside him, was crying, her dark makeup streaking down her face, while the Lord Selwyn was in shock, staring at his wife on the floor.

"You promised me my sister," Aunt Bellatrix said, petulant. "I want my sister. I want all the Malfoys, and the Parkinsons, too."

"Lord Parkinson was the lead witness against us at the Ministry." Draco looked over, recognizing the slow voice – Rabastan Lestrange, a tall, hulking figure in the back. "I agree that the Parkinsons should be made an example."

There was a slow murmur of agreement among several of the witches and wizards, and Draco could feel Pansy getting angrier, her rage underlaid by a hard sort of calculation. He was barely breathing, anymore – his hand was gripping hers, and suddenly, she shook him off.

He reached for her again, but she crossed her arms over her chest. Without his anchor, he couldn't breathe, the reeling emotions of fear and dread and horror mixed with an unsettling triumph and glee coming from everyone around him so strong that he was choking on it, his own fear only a drop in the sea. He heard everything being said, but it felt distant, dreamlike, drowned out by the emotions soaring around him. He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming.

"The Malfoys and the Parkinsons make… six," Voldemort said, his lips curving into a small smile. "Seven of my dead means seven examples. We need one more."

There was a wave of whispers around the room, but no other voices called out. Draco swallowed, reeling, his mind frozen, battling the paralyzing fear suffocating him. He was dreaming, and he wanted out – he wanted to wake up, to find himself still in his bed at Hogwarts. Pansy would soon come knocking on his door and they would eat one last breakfast at Hogwarts to close out his year, before boarding the Hogwarts Express for their traditional journey home. He would meet his parents at Platform 9 and 3/4s, and they would go home, and they would have a quiet night with just his parents, just Pansy, just the Parkinsons. There would be no party, nothing, and everything would be as it always was.

His legs were leaden, heavy, and his face, his body were numb.

Voldemort's eyes lingered on the dead close to the Lord Rosier's body, then he went to the Lady Rosier, who was now upright, her eyes scanning the room. Draco tried to reach out to her emotions, but he couldn't feel them – the tsunami of fear was all-encompassing, even Pansy's fury only a tiny note in the wave.

"There is no escape, Lady Rosier." Voldemort's voice was light, considering. "But with three of mine dead at your hand, you would do well in my organization. Past mistakes can be forgiven."

Lady Rosier looked at him, her brown eyes uncommonly bright, and then she spat in his face.

Voldemort wiped the saliva off his cheek, expressionless, and then he slapped her, full across the cheek. "That makes seven. Bring the examples forward."

Draco felt himself being ushered forward, and he stumbled, tripping over his own feet. Travers cursed and punched him, a hard blow to his stomach, and Draco retched, vomiting over the man's leather boots. And that, more than anything, made it connect – this was not a dream. Draco could not feel this awful in a dream, and he forced himself to pull it together, to try to make sense of the madness.

Travers made a noise of disgust, kicking him, before shoving Draco to stand in a small group with Pansy, their families, and Lady Rosier, who was eyeing the room with an intense concentration that Draco couldn't understand. She had just lost her husband, but there was no shock, grief, sorrow or sadness on her face. Everyone behind him was reeking of guilt, exhausted relief, horror – one look back, and Draco knew that as much as the others might have been sorry for him, they were too guiltily grateful not to be picked. He felt a distant flash of anger, his own, but he could do nothing.

He didn't have his wand. And even if he did, what could he have done?

"The rest of you, hear me," Voldemort was announcing to the room. "The world is now a different place. The Lord Riddle is dead. No longer shall we suffer at the whims of a ruling class with no connection to the people, an oligarchy of the wealthy and nobles with access to different laws, different rights than the rest of us. No longer shall we work, only to see those less deserving earn greater rewards by a circumstance of birth. No longer shall we cower before the International Confederation of Wizards, nor shall we suffer the turmoil of a rabble of the lesser-blooded in the guise of a newspaper, simply because the ruling class, your ruling class, has decided that our priorities, our needs, are meaningless. You have each erred grievously in following the orders of the Lord Riddle, but I am forgiving. Loyalty brings reward, as each of my followers will tell you, while disobedience and disloyalty will bring swift punishment. There will be no nobility. There will be no Lords, no Ladies, no Heirs, and there will be no Wizengamot. Let this be a lesson to you: seven deaths of mine bring seven examples. We begin with the former Lord Malfoy."

Draco watched, his head aching abominably from the high emotions running as his father was dragged forward. He sucked in breath, long, deep breaths, trying to control himself and his gift, trying to rise above. One look at Pansy and she was staring at his father with a hard look on her face, a small crease between her eyebrows. She still burned with anger, and so did the Lady Rosier, standing close to his mother, who was now behind him, gripping him hard on his shoulder. He focused on her – she was afraid, so terribly afraid.

Voldemort nodded at his aunt, who had taken off her mask. A wild light danced in her eyes and her lips were curved upwards in a delighted, insane smile. Draco looked back at his mother, who was glaring daggers at her sister. Aunt Bellatrix caught the look and her smile widened as she took her position. "Your time will come in turn, my dear sister. I think… I'd prefer to let you watch your husband and son die first."

Draco swallowed, his throat dry, watching as she raised her wand. And the screaming began.

He shut his eyes, unable to watch, fixing his gaze on the floor. He focused on something else, anything else. His stomach still ached from where he had been kicked. His mother, behind him, radiated a potent mixture of fear and fury, while Pansy silently raged beside him. Lord and Lady Parkinson stank of terror. The people behind him, not long ago cheerfully discussing the state of the world, poured guilt and relief and horror into his senses, which were bizarrely underlaid with a haunting sense of pleasure coming from Voldemort's followers. He gasped, panting, trying to block out the sound in his ears.

It wasn't only once. His aunt was insane – totally and completely mad, and she took pleasure in doling out pain. She stretched it out, and Draco couldn't look. He didn't want to see his father like this, he didn't want to hear his father screaming, and it all became worse when his father lost his voice. Then, there was nothing but silence and fear, nothing breaking up Aunt Bella's taunts as she mocked him.

Worse still, he knew he was next, and some small, pitiable part of him hoped his father took a good long while to die because he was afraid. He was afraid for himself, and he ought to have been afraid for Pansy, for his mother, and he should be like his father or the Lady Rosier, facing death with a look of defiance on their faces. But he wasn't, because he wasn't even sixteen years old yet, he hadn't lived yet, and he was terrified for himself. He hated it. He hated himself for being afraid.

He didn't know how much time had ticked away, before he realized Lady Rosier was muttering something under her breath. He focused, listening.

"A diversion," she was muttering furiously, so soft he could barely hear it. "If I had more of a diversion…"

"You need a diversion?" Pansy's was interest piqued, and her voice was equally soft. "For what?"

"To get out," Lady Rosier replied, her voice only a whisper. "My son needs me. Aldon needs me."

Aldon wasn't her son, Draco recalled, as if from a distance. Blake wasn't her son, and she and the Rosiers had been the scandal of the year for concealing Aldon Blake's origins. He was a bastard, a halfblood, not a Rosier. He had been disowned, the Rosiers cutting him off to save themselves. It didn't make sense, but nothing made sense anymore. The world had turned upside down, in one night, and he couldn't make sense of anything.

"I can get you a diversion," Pansy was murmuring back. "In return, take them with you. My family. Draco, and Lady Malfoy."

There was a cool moment of silence, as Draco struggled to make sense of Pansy's words. Her emotions were high, but they were still angry, and he didn't understand. He didn't understand then what she was proposing.

"I can't guarantee all of them." Lady Rosier's voice was quiet, but hard. "I can't guarantee any of them. Prioritize. I can try to shield one or two, but beyond that, I can give only a chance."

Pansy hesitated, and Draco heard a slow, rattling breath from her chest. "My mother. Then Draco. Please."

"Done," Lady Rosier said, her voice firm stone. "Whenever you are ready."

Pansy nodded, the smallest movement given that she was so stiff, and she waited. Draco reached out for her, for her hand, not understanding anything, and she paused, looking at him with a cool, determined look in her eyes. "Be safe, Draco," she whispered, so soft he could barely hear it, and then, before he could say anything further, she lunged forward, pulling a wand from her robes – not her own.

"Retexo!" She shrieked, pointing her wand directly at his father, who exploded into nothingness. Draco sagged, his mother catching him, recognizing the spell – the Unravelling or Unmaking spell, the Light equivalent to Avada Kedavra, but so much worse because it left no body, nothing for families to mourn or Draco looked at her, mouth open in shock, she wore a hard, cruel look on her face. She strode forward, every step confident, flipping loose, golden blonde hair over her shoulder.

The wards fell to him, open, waiting for a new Lord Malfoy.

"My deepest apologies, my lord," Pansy said, and she swept a beautiful curtsey. "I have wanted to do that for months. Your people are not so good at protecting their own wands as they are at confiscating mine, I'm afraid. I could not let the opportunity pass me by. You and I, we are more alike than you think."

He froze, stiff, but his mother's fingers dug into his shoulder, and in the second where people were focused on Pansy, his brave, gutsy Pansy spewing elegant lies to a madman, he felt, more than he saw, a broad, sharp hand movement from the Lady Rosier, and a wave of magic slammed through the floors.

A crashing boom, and Draco flinched as the floors blew up – this time behind Voldemort's followers. The floor rocked, half the room staggering, and Draco smelled smoke and burning flesh. There was a roar of flames, hungry, and Draco felt himself being shoved backwards.

Lady Rosier had a wand out, a short, dark one that Draco didn't recognize, and she landed a vicious slashing curse of some kind on the guard behind them.

The guard fell back, swearing, and Lady Rosier didn't hesitate. She blasted him out of the way with an incantation Draco didn't recognize, grabbed Lady Parkinson and Draco's arm, and threw herself towards the closest window.

The curtains of this window were aflame, hot, and Draco felt several sparks catch on his robes. It hurt, the flames hurt, and he stumbled.

"Don't let her sacrifice go to waste," he heard Lady Rosier hiss, shoving him forward with a strength that he couldn't imagine her possessing. "Go, go – out the window! Now!"

Draco felt the breeze of the outdoors on his face, and he shut his eyes and jumped. There was another explosion behind him, and Lord Parkinson's voice rang out. "Go, Rose. I'll try to get Pansy. I love you – if I don't return, protect our home."

He didn't hear a reply, but his mother was beside him, her face a mask of pain. The Lady Rosier, dragging Lady Parkinson with one hand, landed heavily beside him. She whipped around to Malfoy Manor, made another sharp movement with her wand, and part of the roof and wall behind him collapsed in an avalanche of stones.

"Now run," she ordered, and she ran, faster than Draco would have ever thought a woman of her size would be able to move. She was pulling Lady Parkinson, who was sobbing while looking back at the smoking wreckage behind her. His mother slapped him on the shoulder, gesturing with a quick movement of her head for him to get moving, and Draco found his feet and started running after them.

He shouldn't. He shouldn't be running from his house, his manor. He shouldn't be abandoning Pansy, or the others behind him.

"Where are the outer limits of your Anti-Apparition wards, Narcissa?" Lady Rosier asked, calm, setting a strong pace. People were coming after them, but Draco heard other sounds – explosions, screaming. He glanced over his shoulder, watching as something blew up behind him, getting in the way of those chasing them. Bombardment and explosive charms, he realized, that Lady Rosier or someone had to be throwing down as they ran. "They didn't go down when Lucius fell. We have to get past the wards and Apparate – Rosier Place."

"The wards were built to remain if Draco or I were within," his mother panted, struggling to keep up. "Another hundred yards."

Lady Rosier nodded, the smallest movement, and put on another burst of speed.

Draco followed, picking up his own pace to match, but his mother stumbled. He grabbed her arm, pulling her upright, forcing her to follow and fighting his urge to turn back. Or, maybe he was forcing himself forwards.

He shouldn't be running – he should be claiming his manor, a part of his mind was screaming, and he should be using the powers behind Malfoy Manor to kick out these intruders, to protect Pansy and the others, to do something. But he couldn't get to the keystone now, it was inside the manor, inside the grand ballroom, and even once he claimed it, what could he do?

His father hadn't been able to keep Voldemort out. The wards they had weren't enough to keep Voldemort or his followers out. And he didn't have a wand.

Lady Parkinson was struggling to keep up, and Lady Rosier pointed her wand at her. From the jerk, Draco guessed she had slapped a Weightless Charm on the woman, because she bolted forward. Draco sped up more, forcing himself forward, his breath harsh and uneven in his chest.

He felt the change in pressure as he passed the wards, a part of his core noting it and telling him so. His mother grabbed his arm, twisting into Side-Along Apparition, and Draco barely found his feet on the other side. A different part of Britain, rolling hills with few trees that he could see, and the grounds were well-manicured.

"The wards are up. Aldon remembered," Lady Rosier remarked, only slightly winded, a note of approval in her voice as she approached the invisible line in the dirt. She paused at it, thoughtful, then crossed over. "He's allowing us entry. Come, it's a walk. He's wary, and we can see what three months of boot camp have done to my boy."

"Is anyone following?" his mother asked, panting and pale. She was terrified, and Lady Parkinson was sobbing, taking ragged breaths as she indecorously wiped her eyes with a shaky hand. "I don't understand how… the wards…"

"Unlikely," Lady Rosier replied, striding forwards. "It is good that Evan fell in the first wave – Aldon had a bit of time to secure his position. Voldemort got in probably because Travers, Lady Zabini's lover for the past year, was on his side – he either found a way to disable the wards from the inside, or he carried something that created a weakness to exploit. My guess would be the latter. I also dropped a surprise on our Apparition point. It will wipe our Apparition residue and hopefully blow someone sky high."

Draco didn't understand half of what she had said, but he looked between Lady Parkinson, sobbing, and Lady Rosier, who was able to comment that her husband's death was fortunate. He strode after her, not entirely sure what else to do – he had no manor now, no wand, and what else was he supposed to do now?

It was cold that night, and Draco shivered – he was still wearing formal robes, and ones for a warm summer event indoors, not ones for hiking across the grounds. The breeze blew right through them, his cold sweat chilling him to the bone. His boots, fine grey velvet, were ruined in the mud. It seemed to take them an hour to walk the grounds, though realistically it could not have taken so long.

He recognized Rosier Place from a distance, the four columns holding up the front foyer, and he hurried forward, seeing the light and warmth. Blake was no friend of his, but Blake was safer than Voldemort, and Blake knew and cared for Pansy. They were even still in contact, Draco thought, so he would help. He had to help, because there was no other option. Someone had to help.

The shot came out of nowhere. "Halt!"

Blake's voice was hard, and Draco froze, seeing the foreign item in Blake's left hand, while he held a wand in his right. There was movement on either side of Blake, and Draco picked out two others coming out of the shadows closer to the house. The Lord Black, wand drawn, stood on Blake's left, with the Lord Queenscove, not even a real Lord, stood on the right, his sword gleaming slightly under the stars.

Blake's hawkish eyes were predatory in the dark. "State your name, and your business. Be warned that I will know if you lie."

Draco took a shaky breath in, but the Lady Rosier radiated a strange sense of approval as she gestured for his mother to take Lady Parkinson from her. She turned to Blake, taking two slow steps forward. Blake's arm didn't waver, his aim shifting to track his mother, but the Lady Rosier showed no fear whatsoever.

"My name is Lina Avery, Stormwing," she said, her voice echoing oddly in the silence, and she made a motion that Draco couldn't see, a flash of silver appearing in the dark. "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

Aldon stared at the woman he had formerly called his mother. The statement read as true, but he didn't trust it. He knew her, and a few pounds lost or not since he had last seen her, this was still the woman he had called his mother for eighteen years. He was tired, but this was important, and he couldn't lose focus now.

"Are you known by any other names?" he asked, mentally scrambling for a plan.

His mother's lips curved into a bigger, approving smile. "I am known as Eveline Rosier, the Lady Rosier, within Wizarding Britain. I prefer to be known as Lina Avery. There are other names, but they're not important."

Aldon thought, not lowering his weapon. That was not a lie, but he wasn't sure what to make of it. He wished he could take a look at Neal, or even the Lord Black, but he didn't dare take his eyes off his mother. Even if he had, he wasn't sure either of them would have provided much help.

"And what am I to you?" The question was awkward, but his brain wasn't working. He was so tired, and his thinking was staccato, broken, small points of sense floating in a sea of sludge.

"You?" The woman tilted her head in thought, a motion so familiar to Aldon that he had a sense of déjà vu. "My … foster son, should we say? I raised you as my son, though you weren't. Have me state that I intend you no harm next. That should satisfy enough of your concerns – I'd like to get under cover, and preparations need be made."

Aldon scowled – he ought to have thought of that. He would have, if he weren't so tired. "State whether you intend any harm to me, or to the Lords Black and Queenscove. Or to Rosier Place."

"I intend you no harm, Aldon," his mother said, and the statement rang as true. "I further intend no harm to the Lords Black and Queenscove and to Rosier Place."

Aldon wavered, thinking it through. She wasn't deceiving him, and while he knew his gift could be tricked and that things could change, he was reasonably certain that the statement was enough, at least for one night. He didn't lower his weapon, not yet. "My father?"

She shook her head, expression grim, and Aldon didn't need to ask further. Instead, he shifted his weapon to the Malfoys, standing behind her, and the Lady Parkinson. "Each of you, state your name and your business, and whether you intend any harm to me, or to my allies."

A moment of silence, but Lady Malfoy spoke first. Her voice was weaker than Aldon was accustomed, unlike anything he had ever heard from her before, but Lord Riddle had fallen. As tired as he was, he could still tell that whatever had happened, it was grim and harrowing. "My name is Lady Narcissa Malfoy. I and my son seek sanctuary, Lord Rosier. We intend you no harm, nor to your allies, nor to Rosier Place."

"I see that you believe that," Aldon replied, trying to sound polite and cordial, but firm. It was no small thing for one noble family to ask another for sanctuary, and she was telling the truth. "I accept the statement for yourself, but I will need your son to state the same."

Lady Malfoy nodded, small and bird-like, and patted her son on the shoulder. Draco Malfoy started, staring at Aldon as if he had only just seen him. "Draco – Draco Malfoy. Heir Malfoy. I am – why do we need to do this?"

His mother leaned over, whispering into his ear, and Aldon was almost surprised to notice that the Heir Malfoy was as tall as his mother now. Narcissa had always been tall for a woman, taller than Aldon even at his full adult height. Malfoy frowned. "He knows who we are, mother, and Pansy—"

"Do it, Draco." Lady Malfoy snapped, and her stern voice was loud enough to come across the short stretch separating Aldon from their small group.

The Malfoy Heir let out a breath, turning to Aldon. "I intend no harm to you and your allies, or to Rosier Place."

Aldon's core rang – it wasn't a lie, but something weaker than a lie. It was only mildly uncomfortable, a careless statement which he guessed meant that Malfoy hadn't thought much about whether he intended any harm or not. He shook his head. "Liar," he muttered, but he could deal with Malfoy later, under cover. "Lady Parkinson?"

"My name is Lady Rose Parkinson." The woman was standing on her own power, now, and her words were slow, grief-stricken and weary. "I – I intend you no harm, Lord Rosier, and I need – my daughter. She's still back there, at Malfoy Manor. I will give you whatever is in my power to give, if you will assist me in getting her back. I—"

"Aldon has no resources to assist you in getting your daughter back, Lady Parkinson." His mother's voice cut in, quiet but firm. "Pandora gambled with her life, but she and your husband bought you your escape. Be grateful. Go home and fortify your estate. We can see what world we have in the morning."

Lady Parkinson broke again, falling to the ground in wailing sobs that Aldon hated to see, but he didn't know what else to do. He had no army, and as he had said to Lord Black earlier that night, he would not be haring off to Malfoy Manor without more information. Based on what he saw before him, it was worse than he had imagined previously. It had not been a bloodless coup, and he distantly wondered who else had been there, who else had died that night. He pulled himself back together, focusing on the situation in front of him – he could find out later.

"Avery!" Lord Black snapped, his wand already sheathed, and he strode forwards to kneel beside Lady Parkinson. "You could have some empathy – If I understand rightly, she lost her daughter and her husband in one night."

"I have no time for empathy right now, Lord Black." His mother turned around, scanning the grounds. She made a movement with her wand, a Summoning Charm, and a ritual knife flew into her hands, as well a Pepper-Up Potion and two Blood Replenishers. "I, too, have lost a dear friend tonight, but I haven't time to grieve. Voldemort has made his move. We are safe enough for tonight, I believe, but we must fortify. Aldon, your decision?"

Aldon hesitated, glancing at Neal, who tilted his head from side to side. He couldn't read his friend's mind, but the sword had lowered, so there was no imminent risk, he thought. Lord Black had one arm around Lady Parkinson, rubbing her back while she sobbed. Lady Malfoy was pale with apprehension, while Draco Malfoy still seemed to be in shock, his blue eyes roving between Aldon, the Lord Black, Neal and Lady Parkinson.

"Very well," Aldon said finally, clicking the safety of his gun back on and shoving it back in his holster. "Mother—"

"Just call me Lina, Aldon, if you don't mind." His mother uncorked the Pepper-Up Potion, throwing it back. She swallowed, and for a second Aldon saw that she was exhausted, if pushing herself forwards. "Christie is your mother, not I. What is it?"

Aldon sighed, motioning for her to come closer with a careful look at the Malfoys. He hesitated a moment, but he didn't see any other option, and she had told the truth. He lowered his voice. "You – you offered your services as a warmage. Neal told me about Stormwings. He said you sell your talents. What is your price?"

His mother's eyes brightened, and she smiled suddenly, amused and alive as Aldon had never seen in his life. His mother had always been even, slightly bored, focused on her newspaper or her own pursuits. She had never paid much attention to him – not that she hadn't cared for him in her own way, but she was often away in France, and had left much of his upbringing to the house-elves. She made sure he was fed, that he had good clothing, and that he kept at his studies, but she had never been present in his life the way that, well, Christie had been in the last year. Christie always asked after him, checked on him, spoke to him and invited him to watch telly with her, or to get dinner with her, or to go out to the shops with her.

The woman before him looked like his mother, and she even felt like his mother, but there was something very clearly not Eveline Rosier about her. Her brown eyes were sharp, alive, her posture confident, and mentally he corrected himself to her chosen name, Lina. It made more sense than trying to force her into the mold he remembered.

"We will call this my payment, Aldon," Lina said, reflective. "Your father did me a considerable service, providing me with a cover and giving me a home in Wizarding Britain these last few decades. I made my promises to him years ago in return. This is one of them."

Aldon swallowed, nodding. He wasn't sure he understood, but he didn't know if he had to understand, tonight. "Then – what comes next? What do we do next?"

"Next?" Lina shut her eyes, thinking for a moment. "Tonight, we fortify. Call your mother. Get her and her people here, or they need to be out of the country as soon as possible – Wizarding Britain has just become more dangerous for her and all lesser-blooded. I'll call Alastor Moody – he is annoying, even for an old Stormwing, but he is a halfblood and he chose righteousness as an attribute. He'll help, and we'll set traps across the grounds. If Voldemort wants to assault Rosier Place tonight, he'll bleed for it."

"What about the Malfoys?" Aldon gestured to the two blondes with his wand, keeping his voice down. "Lady Malfoy spoke truth, but Draco – Draco repeated the words, but it rang as… a lie of omission. My sense is that he hasn't considered whether he has an intent to harm us or not."

Lina shook her head. "That's your decision, Aldon. I recommend we give sanctuary to Lady Malfoy – she was a ranking member of the previous government and is an eyewitness to what happened tonight, and she has political credibility. If she can be trusted, she might be helpful rallying the remaining SOW Party members, or we can send her to the International Confederation of Wizards to raise the alarm. As for her son, we can hold him as leverage for her good behaviour, but it is a risk. We have holding cells in the cellars, or you can put him under house arrest in the guest wing."

Aldon nodded, biting his lip and thinking it over. He would have liked to say the holding cells, but the Malfoy Heir hadn't outright lied. Ill treatment would only be an encouragement for him and for the Lady Malfoy to betray them later, but neither could he intrinsically trust that Malfoy wouldn't betray them. "Guest wing, then."

He turned to the Malfoys, taking a few steps towards them and bowing properly, a bow of equals. "Lady Malfoy, I accept your request for sanctuary on behalf of yourself and your son. However, since your son cannot clearly tell whether he intends any harm to me, my allies or my manor at this time, I will be restricting your movements to your rooms in our guest wing. This may of course be revisited at a later time, when you have overcome your shock."

Lady Malfoy nodded, her forehead creasing as she looked down and curtsied. It felt odd, surreal, because Aldon was only newly the Lord Rosier, and his was a Book of Copper family, while Lady Malfoy was in the Book of Gold. Even now, she outranked him. "I … thank you, Lord Rosier, for your consideration."

Aldon nodded, a little jerky, and called for one of his house-elves. Ummi agreed, without comment, to make the Malfoys comfortable in a nice suite in the guest wing and led them indoors. She would put up elf-wards to restrict movement, but Aldon took the moment to rearrange the wards around that section of the guest wing to provide him with notice if either Lady Malfoy or Draco attempted to wander.

The next few hours were exhausting, and Aldon was so tired. Later, he would remember only pieces, all of them connected with a sort of dreamy quality that he thought came from his own exhaustion and wrung nerves. Lord Black walked Lady Parkinson inside, going with her through the Floo to Parkinson Palace to help her fortify her estate. Neal, however, stayed with him, though Aldon told him he could go.

"I'll stay the night. Let me send a Patronus to Mama. I want to know what happened," he said, shaking his head, then he dismissed his sword into non-being in favour of his wand. A ghostly leopard seal appeared in the air, which twisted in the air while Neal recited a message for it, then disappeared.

Aldon nodded, wordlessly grateful, casting his own Patronus to send to Christie, telling her to come to Rosier Place as soon as possible. She appeared not even a quarter of an hour later, her eyes wide and anxious, and Aldon would never forget the moment when Lina took her aside to tell her that his father had died.

"Evan?" Christie whispered, her expression crumpling, as tears began forming in her eyes. "No, not Evan. I – I can't—"

She was incoherent after that, dissolving into tears, while Lina glared at Aldon. Aldon gestured wordlessly, helpless and unsure of what she expected of him, but Neal took over. He went over to Christie, wrapped his arms around her and let her sob quietly into his shoulder.

"Put her in your father's old rooms," Lina murmured, putting one hand on Aldon's shoulder and somehow sounding disappointed in him, though Aldon didn't know why. "It'll provide some small comfort to her, and had your father any balls, it's where she ought to have been for decades."

Aldon agreed, and walked Christie to his father's old rooms. She sat down heavily in the sofa in the middle of his father's private parlour, sniffling. He fished in his pocket for a moment, finding a handkerchief, and handed it to her while he went into his father's bedroom in search of the drawer of clean, monogrammed handkerchiefs he had found earlier. He hesitated, then brought the whole stack out for her.

"Is there, er, anything else I can do for you right now?" he asked, setting the stack on the low-lying table in front of her.

She shook her head, a wordless no. Aldon stood, turning to go outside, but hesitated for a second. "Er, call me, or one of the house-elves, if you need anything. You can just, er, call out and clap your hands twice. The house-elves know the signal."

Outside, Lina was sending her Patronus, a lynx, with a message for Alastor Moody. The famed former Auror, Duelling Master, Stormwing and former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts Apparated in only a few minutes later, not even sending a reply Patronus, and Aldon wordlessly shifted the dimensions of his estate to give the man a shorter distance to cover as he hobbled over the hill. Aldon had never had any interaction with him, having refused to take Defense beyond his OWL year, but he recognized the lion of a man, electric blue eye rolling, from Hogwarts.

"Caution," the old Auror said, his voice husky and grating. The word was directed to Lina, who smiled, a little mocking, at the sight of him. "How goes the mercenary business?"

"Righteousness," she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. "Very well, thank you. Mind stating for the Lord Rosier whether you intend any harm to him, to Rosier Place, or to anyone staying here? It's our policy."

Moody's electric blue eye roved over to Aldon, looking him over from head to toe. "Truth-Speaker," he acknowledged in a rough grunt. "I intend no harm to you, to Rosier Place, or to anyone presently staying at Rosier Place."

The words passed through Aldon's core, without any indication of a lie, and Aldon glanced at Lina and nodded.

"Thank you." Lina smiled, but there was nothing truly warm about it, only tired and resigned. "This isn't a social call, however. Lord Riddle is dead, Alastor. The Ministry has fallen."

The old Auror laughed, a rusty, creaky noise coming from his chest. "And you, Lina? Dropping your respectable pretensions?"

Lina shrugged, uncaring. "Respectability doesn't matter anymore, not in the world Voldemort wants to create. I made my choices, and my promises. Are you helping or not? As few exploits as you have to your name, you are a Stormwing."

Moody snorted, one eye spinning wildly around to examine Rosier Place, Aldon, Neal, and the Lord Black. "I have never tried to compete in the ridiculous Stormwing game of exploits. I am not you, Lina – I did not get my fellow trainees killed in my efforts to do something bigger, wilder, and more dangerous. But if Lord Riddle and the Ministry have indeed fallen, then we are now at a crossroads. I will help, if only to act as a check on you."

"I chose caution for a reason, Alastor." Lina's voice seemed to have dropped several degrees, a sharp warning. Her brown eyes flashed, and one hand twitched towards her wand. "I have not been that Lina Avery for many years."

"And yet, since then, I have heard about a dangerous hit in Wizarding Africa, two insurgencies in the Middle East, and an insanely difficult hostage extraction from a Wizarding manor in Russia?" Moody's eyes, both of them, fixed on Lina for a moment, but a small smile danced on his lips. "You still love the thrill, Lina, though you plan better now than you once did. Who else have you in mind? I will call Benjamin – a halfblood, he was the only one of my protégés to choose Stormwing training. He's working in South America devising plans against the cartels for Wizarding Colombia, but he will return for this."

Lina shook her head. "I know no one else, but I will make a request for trainees. We'll see who steps forward. I need to mine the grounds, Alastor – your help would be appreciated, especially since you are Light, and fresher than I."

"Running off a Pepper-Up, are you?" Moody laughed again, but there didn't seem to be any cruelty behind it. "I see that, and the knife and Blood Replenishers. It's been a long time. Let's go mine the grounds, then."

"Aldon, redo the wards," Lina ordered, turning to the edge of the grounds, ritual knife in hand and pulling up the sleeve of her robes. Aldon could see Lord Black eyeing the knife with distaste, but Lina was ignoring him. "The most complex ones you can manage for tonight. Master Regulus Black was at the gathering tonight, which means Voldemort now has a Master of Ward Construction at his disposal."

Aldon grimaced, and went inside to secure the wards. He did not have a Mastery in Ward Construction, and he didn't know how his self-taught talents would hold up against someone formally trained in the skill. He would need several more days, but for the night, he added the three-layer password that he had developed for Queenscove onto his Floo, as well as the explosive collapse charm, and wove in two more defensive charms and an extra four layers of monitoring spells. He wished, for a moment, that he had Queenscove's solid walls to fall behind as well.

It was near four in the morning before they settled into the family dining room, the Lord Black having returned, and Aldon called for a second carafe of coffee.

Lina took a moment to pour herself a mug, black, wrapping her hands around it and lifting it to her lips. The sleeve of her robe fell to reveal her forearm, and Aldon saw six fresh cuts. They would scar, he knew, because he had one of those himself. Blood magic, and he wondered vaguely why she hadn't Healed herself.

"Lord Riddle called for a meeting at Malfoy Manor tonight," Lina began, her tone succinct and clear, and Aldon brought his eyes back up to her face. "It was not a serious meeting, only one to discuss the current situation and plan next steps. Lady Zabini's lover, Burgess Travers – he was Voldemort's spy. My guess is that he was carrying a runecatch tonight, creating a weakness in the wards that Voldemort could exploit. They hit around eleven-thirty, perhaps a little earlier—"

"Terrible reporting, Lina," Moody said with a snort, though there was a spark in his one brown eye, while his electric blue one rolled, looking around Aldon's dining room. "They taught you better than that, in the Eyrie."

"It wasn't as if I expected an attack, Alastor," Lina sniped back, then she yawned. "Burgess Travers has been with Lady Zabini for more than a year. He wasn't considered to be part of the inner circle, as Lady Zabini was, but he was thought trustworthy. I caught sight of the time close to midnight, after the main fighting had calmed down – the death of Lord Riddle shattered the resistance. We were outnumbered. After the deaths, I counted about two dozen of them, so their assault force numbered thirty."

"Only thirty?" Moody huffed a laugh, sarcastic, but from the expression on his face, Aldon didn't think he found it funny in the least. "You're losing it, Lina. I know you've faced worse odds."

Lina shook her head, grim. "Small quarters, Alastor. There were twenty-three at the party – the Malfoys, the Parkinsons, Lady Zabini with Burgess Travers, the Selwyns, the Rookwoods, the Notts, Master Black, Master Snape, Lord Riddle, the Crouches, Minister Fudge, and us. Aside from Evan and Riddle, Lord Nott, Lady Selwyn and Minister Fudge also died in the assault. Seven of theirs died, and I think the younger Zabini and Master Snape managed to get away in the hubbub."

Aldon shuddered. He knew the Lady Selwyn, Alice's mother, and she had been a kind woman. He hadn't known her well, but any time he and Ed had gone to the Selwyns, she had always greeted them personally and made sure that they had a plate of cookies and milk close to hand. He had liked that, as a child; Lady Selwyn was present in Alice's life in a way that his mother had not been in his. And with Minister Fudge dead as well as Lord Riddle, the Ministry, too, was without a leader, figurehead though he might have been.

"How many at your hand?" Moody's tone held no judgement, only curiosity, and a glance showed that the man wore a tiny smile.

"Three." Lina took a sip of her coffee, and there was wry pause. "I could have done better. They took me by surprise."

Moody laughed, a harsh sound, but Aldon thought it was in genuine amusement. "Constant vigilance, Lina!"

Lina shook her head, looking upwards as if in a plea, but continued with another sip of her coffee. "Voldemort was less than pleased at losing seven, so he picked seven of ours to be tortured and executed as examples to the rest."

"Very Old Testament," Neal muttered, red-eyed from lack of sleep. He had turned down the coffee, and he looked ready to drop. Aldon wasn't sure why he was there still, but having him sitting beside him, someone his age but seemingly more familiar with battle, provided some comfort. He would owe Neal for this, he suspected, but that was fine.

"I suspect Voldemort is an eye for an eye, hand for a hand sort of man," Lina remarked dryly, stifling another yawn. "He picked the Malfoys, the Parkinsons, and me. I might have gone unnoticed, if I hadn't killed so many, and if I hadn't spat in his face when he offered me the chance to join his mad organization. Then, when he was having Bellatrix Lestrange torture Lucius, I seeded the grounds with explosion and fire runes. I still had my second wand, but didn't want to show it so early, so it took some time to do with runes alone. Pandora Parkinson agreed to provide me with a diversion, in exchange for her mother and Draco Malfoy's lives, so while she drew attention, I fired the runes and made it out."

Aldon shut his eyes, a ball of pain forming in his chest, and he swallowed. Lina's voice was cut and dried, but this was Pansy. He had known Pansy since they were both children. She was only sixteen years old, and she should never have had to make that choice. She should never have done it – it should have been someone else stepping forward instead of her. It should never have been Pansy.

Lina sighed, a long and low breath, looking down at her mug. "Lord Black—"

"If my brother is there, then Grimmauld Place isn't secure," the Lord Black finished with no inflection, and he shook his head. "Just Sirius, Lina. I'll call James. I have regent powers over Potter Place in his absence and sealed the wards, but only the sitting Lord can invoke the hidden defenses. James may also be able to pull together some of the Ministry to mount a defense, if the Ministry has fallen."

Lina nodded, short, then she looked at Aldon, liquid brown eyes surprisingly alert even if she was so obviously tired. "Aldon, who can you call on? How many groups have you made agreements with, this past year?"

Aldon swallowed again, his throat a little dry. It took a minute for him to unstick his jaw – there was a part of him unsure of what, if anything, he should say, but he didn't think it mattered anymore. Lord Riddle and the Ministry had fallen, so the time for subterfuge was gone. "The British International Association funds Bridge, and obviously seek a repeal of the halfblood and Muggleborn discrimination laws. Cedric Diggory is gathering the Welsh, though there are few of them, in return for a revocation of the laws on traditional casting. The Scottish Clans and the shifter Alliance – the Clans are seeking Scottish independence, while the shifter Alliance wants greater representation in the Wizengamot. I also have a spy in Voldemort's camp passing me information, but he is lowly placed. He didn't know about tonight."

His core rang slightly with his own lie, but if the world had changed, that only meant that Lestrange was in a more dangerous position, and that the information he had to give would be even more valuable. Saying anything different was dangerous, and Aldon could only hope that his life debt was enough to keep Lestrange in line.

He would have to research the extent of life debts, he realized. He didn't know how far his life debt would stretch, but it couldn't possibly cover this. Maybe a few months of this kind of risk, but a life debt was not a blank cheque, much as it often was treated as one. He would need to find something else to promise Lestrange, or another motivator, and he made a note to come back to this issue in the morning.

"The Irish?" Lina's voice was sharp. "The Guilds?"

Aldon shook his head, weary. "Arcturus Black managed to persuade one of the priestesses of the Tuatha Dé to a meeting later this month. I have had no contact with the Guilds."

Lina sighed, looking around the small table. There was Aldon, and there was Neal beside him. Lord Black sat on his other side, grim, while Lina and Moody were across the table, serious but in control. "I don't need to explain this to anyone, but the world has changed tonight. We need what allies we can get, we need to organize a formal resistance, and we must raise the alarm internationally. Lord Black, if you could reach out to Lord Dumbledore? And we'll need to find someone trustworthy to rally the other SOW Party families, as well, before Voldemort can get to them. It's past four – we ought to sleep a few hours, then the owls can begin going out first thing in the morning."

Aldon nodded, standing up, and he gestured politely for the others to follow him. His house-elves were excellent – true to their word, they had prepared guest rooms for Neal and the Lord Black already. While the Lord Black opted to return home to his son, that meant that a room was already prepared for Moody, who inspected the premises with one mad, rolling eye before expressing gruff thanks and shutting Aldon out of his rooms.

"Stormwings," Neal muttered, sounding both awed and resigned in the same breath. "Absolument fous, the lot of them."

Aldon nodded his agreement, before opening another door for Neal. "Thank you for staying tonight," he said, looking down awkwardly. "I – appreciate it."

Neal studied him with a bright, emerald-green eye. "Don't worry about it, Al," he said, and Aldon let the nickname go, this time. "Queenscove will be behind you. I'll see you in the morning."

There was one more surprise waiting for Aldon in his old rooms, the rooms made for the boy that he once was, but that he was no longer. The ghostly swallow paced along the back of his sofa, looking around warily – a private message, one to be delivered only when no one else was present. The Patronus saw him, stiffened, and its beak opened.

"Immunity," it said. "Etiquette for All Occasions, seventh edition, London printing."

Aldon let a long, slow breath out, feeling both relief and responsibility pounding on him, as the Patronus faded away.

XXX

The halls of Rosier Place seemed different already, with Aldon as the sitting Lord. Lina sighed, deeply tired, opening the doors to the family quarters. She wasn't young anymore, and tonight she felt every one of her fifty-seven years. In her twenties, even her thirties, blasting through impossible situations on magic, physical skill, and wits had been a thrill like nothing else, but now she felt slow, drained, and her entire body ached. She was running on less magic than she had in years – she had blown her entire core in her escape, then had fortified the grounds in blood magic and Pepper-Up Potion.

Aldon, she assumed, had taken back his own rooms on the third floor. She skipped the door to her own rooms on the first floor, taking the stairs for the second, each of her steps heavy. Exhausted as she was, she could go longer without sleep; Stormwing training included a significant sleep deprivation component, and she wouldn't begin to hallucinate for at least another two days.

She could use a few hallucinations right now. If she didn't look, she could imagine another shape walking beside her, mocking French ringing in her ears. Étienne would have had something to say about tonight, most of it biting and angry. He would have hated the pomp of Malfoy Manor – he would have hated Rosier Place, and he would have probably hated Eveline Rosier, too. He had always said that Lina wasn't really one of them, one of the vaunted, wealthy, pureblood nobility, and Lina had believed him. Étienne had walked with her on a different path, one where she would be free.

Then he died. He had died defending her, and Lina had run back to the life she had once run from, because it was easier than coping with a future without her best friend. And for years, she had jumped between places she didn't want to be, people she didn't want to be: Lina Avery, the Stormwing who had gotten her best friend killed, or Eveline Avery, the noblewoman who never wanted to marry. It was only here at Rosier Place that Lina had found her place.

She had only ever wanted a place to belong. She hadn't belonged with the Averys, Dark, pureblood, and noble as she might be, but she hadn't belonged entirely in Étienne's world either. She was comfortable in his half-Muggle, half-wizarding world, but it could never be her home – not without him.

Christie and Evan had given her a home, unorthodox as it might be. And Aldon had been a part of that home – family and not family all at once.

She had promised Evan she would protect them.

Evan's rooms weren't the ones that she remembered. She had only rarely been in them, but the books had always been cleared away, a picture of his family had held the position of pride over his mantlepiece, and the titles on his bookshelves were a motley array of spellbooks, wizarding business guides, and biographies of notable witches and wizards. Those had now turned into mysteries and thrillers, which were also stacked on his coffee and side tables, while a promotional poster for a film called Murder on the Orient Express now hung over the fireplace. Lina wondered, offhand, which of them had been into the genre first – him, or Christie? Or maybe it was something they had found together, the glue that had bonded them over the years, made them feel as if they were together even when they were worlds apart.

Christie sat, head in hands, on the sofa in the middle of Evan's parlour. She said nothing when Lina entered – the woman had been crying, Lina assumed, but there were no more tears now. There was only numb silence.

Lina sat down beside the other woman but made no move to touch her. She had never been demonstrative with her affection, but Christie knew her well enough to know that.

There was no sign that Christie acknowledged her presence beside her, and Lina cast about for something to say. She would have liked to shove this duty onto someone else, anyone else, but there was no one. Christie knew few others, and Aldon was no doubt in shock and refusing to admit it even to himself. Aldon would not have been a good choice anyway – with the ruse of his childhood, she and Evan had effectively deprived him of the warmest influence he could have had, and a year of Christie had not fixed that. Based on his helpless reaction to Christie's tears earlier, he wouldn't have known what to do.

"Evan loved you," Lina settled on eventually, looking away from Christie. Instead, she focused on the coffee table in front of them. John le Carré, The Little Drummer Girl. It looked like Evan had been about three-quarters of the way through it. "He never stopped loving you. This room, everything…"

"I know," Christie replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "He wrote me enough letters, begging me to come back to him – I know."

Lina bit back the words that she had said to Christie far too often. Leave him, because you are far too good for him. Christie had always laughed, a sad and embarrassed sound, and said that she knew she should. But it was Evan, and between his cowardice and the hurt of being not good enough to be acknowledged, there were thousands of moments where none of that mattered. There were trips abroad, there were an untold number of gifts and casual kindnesses, there were romantic nights and morning afters. There were movies with buttery popcorn, dinners at greasy diners and high-end restaurants both, a million meaningless conversations about anything and everything. And there was the Rosier Investment Trust, holding them together.

"I'm sorry," Lina said, though she wasn't sure why. She wasn't sorry over Evan's death – a dear friend Evan might have been, but they had known the danger of the last few months. Evan had known he was unlikely to survive. They had talked about it – in any situation of danger, Evan had made clear to her that he was not to be a priority. "Evan, he was never…"

"He wasn't a fighter." Christie laughed, a sick sound, and she hugged her arms around herself a little tighter. "He wouldn't even fight for me, or for Aldon, so—so—"

Lina nodded, but even as Christie said the words, she knew that they didn't help in the least. The head could reason all it wanted, but the heart was another thing altogether. Christie had no doubt told herself this very thing a hundred times, and yet she had always been pulled back into Evan's orbit.

"Evan loved you," Lina repeated uselessly, waving a hand around the room – at the bookshelves, at the poster, at the stack of books on the table. "He would have wanted you to be here, to have everything here. He tried, in his own way. He always gave you and Aldon everything you could have ever wanted, didn't he?"

"Except himself." Christie looked up, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I would have – forget the penthouse, Eveline, and the jewelry and the vacations and the money and the business. I just wanted him and Aldon with me. We could have been beggars, but I wouldn't have cared, if they were with me."

"And he couldn't imagine that you would have loved him regardless." Lina smiled, thinking about it. She had had that fight with Evan, many times – Evan knew well what she thought of him, and she called him a coward at least once a week when she was at home. He had always said that a coward he might be, but his cowardice gave his love and his child the roof over their heads, the clothes on their backs, and safety. Evan was an idiot.

He had been an idiot, she corrected herself mentally. Evan was dead.

Christie laughed, the sound odd in the grim silence. "Aldon is… a lot like him."

Lina didn't reply for a moment, leaning back and thinking about it. In some ways, Aldon was very much like Evan, and Lina had thought they were cut from the same cloth almost his entire life. Aldon had the same calculating mind, at least for business and politics, and the same heart. But sometime in his late teenage years, Aldon had changed.

"In some ways," Lina agreed thoughtfully, "but on the whole, not at all. Aldon has a disturbing streak of recklessness that Evan never showed."

Christie laughed again, this one a little lighter. "He gets that from you, I guess."

"Not sure how." Lina snorted, but she smiled nonetheless. "This is the first time he's seen me as a Stormwing. No, his recklessness is all his own, though I don't know where he got it. Historically, he has always preferred to overthink things and take no action rather than acted without thinking."

Christie made a small noise of agreement, or maybe it was disagreement. Lina couldn't be sure, but it didn't matter. Aldon was still alive, just a few floors above them, so what he would become wasn't yet fixed. Until people died, they were always capable of change. Her responsibility was to ensure that Aldon stayed alive to change through the turbulent months or years to come.

"Bed," she said firmly, standing up and offering a hand to Christie. "Come on – it's past four, and I need a few hours of sleep where I can get them. Alastor Moody is keeping a watch."

Christie stood up, slowly and a little weakly, and Lina led her to Evan's old bedroom without comment and tucked her into his expansive bed. She paused for a moment on her way out, wondering if Christie wanted her to stay, but a glance back showed her that the other woman had rolled over, her back to the door, curling into a small, hurt ball.

Lina turned away, sighing, and walked out to settle onto the sofa in Evan's old private parlour. It was hard, too firm, but she had slept on worse.

Tomorrow would be a new day.

XXX

AN: And here we go again, a new beginning! If you've followed this long, congratulations - there are so few of you left :O. Thanks to meek_bookworm, amazing beta-reader that I definitely work far too hard. Comments very much appreciated - reviews are fodder for more writing, you know.