Despite agreeing to Patronus Saoirse right away, Archie didn't. He returned to Grimmauld Place, and he stood in his bedroom, wand raised, for fifteen minutes trying to think about what to say.

He couldn't just ask her to come over—even to get her to come the last time, just after the Irish revolt, had been a push. It had taken five Patronuses and two days before she deigned to respond, and the last one had said pretty clearly that she and Sean were only coming over to Britain as a personal favour to Archie himself, as a symbol of their respect for him for standing trial.

Hermione thought that was a lie. "They probably wanted a reason to come and put their ultimatum down anyway," she had said disapprovingly. "They just needed time to decide what their demands were and what more they wanted from us."

Even if that was true, they hadn't responded to any of his messages or owls since then. Indeed, the Irish Gales had ignored the comments of Bridge and The Daily Prophet in their entirety, focusing instead on the progress of the new Wizarding Irish state. Smart of them, according to Hermione—what did any nation care what another nation's paper said about them?

He needed to contact them, and he needed them to respond. He needed them to agree to send help, preferably of the military kind, and he didn't have much to offer. How was he supposed to approach it? Was he supposed to be pleading, or disappointed in them, or angry, or what? How much guilt was he supposed to pour on, right off? He needed to save some to trip them with later, assuming he got them to answer him at all. What was he supposed to say to get the Irish to talk to him, let alone help?

He stood, thinking, for about five minutes before he did the thing he always did when he didn't know the answer. He summoned his Patronus, called Hermione and asked for help.

Her otter appeared within seconds. "I don't really know Saoirse Riordan," she replied, though her voice was thoughtful, completely ignoring the time. "We were both in the BSA, but she was at Ilvermorny, and Tobias MacLean was their representative. They were in the same year, or near to, so he would know best. Try him."

Archie cursed, checking the time. It was half past eleven at night by now, and he knew that Toby was staying at the Boyd Clanhome on the outskirts of Glasgow. Late or not, he did need to contact Saoirse right away. With the next meeting only eighteen hours away, he didn't have any time to lose.

He didn't know if Toby would still be awake, and he didn't want to risk sending a Patronus now. As messengers, Patronuses couldn't wake people up if they were asleep, though they would linger until the message was delivered. This was probably too complicated to be done through Patronus messages anyway, and Archie needed Toby's help now.

"I'm going to the Boyd Clanhome!" he yelled, flying downstairs, not caring that not only could Dad hear him, but the backup unit led by Kingsley Shacklebolt residing on the third floor could probably hear him, too. "Need to consult Toby!"

"Do you need company?" Dad yelled back.

"No, should be fine! I'll try to be back within a couple hours, I just need to talk to Toby about how to deal with Saoirse!"

He had to look up the code to get to the Boyd Clanhome—kept in the kitchen away from the Portkey Hub itself for security reasons, and to be burned immediately if Grimmauld Place was ever attacked. He had most of the main codes he used memorized, but he had never gone to any of the Scottish Clanhomes.

It was almost six minutes before the Boyd Clanhome responded, six very impatient minutes which had Archie clinging to the silver ring through loud humming and pressure. Not very promising, in the event of an attack, so he'd have to mention it. Still, with a pop, he appeared in a room he has never seen before.

It was freezing, and as Archie's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he shivered. The walls were made of stone, the room stark and bare—it looked like a storage shed, or another outbuilding. A tiny window let in a brisk chill, and Archie heartily regretted not grabbing a sweater or jacket. Too late, now.

He wrenched the door open, hoping that someone would come and meet him. He didn't care who it was, he just didn't want to wander around the Boyd grounds aimlessly searching for Toby. As far as he knew from Chess, who had mentioned it offhand when he last visited her, most of the Clans had expansive grounds, a main house and several outbuildings, including small cottages, storage sheds, and former animal sties. Given options, most of them had stationed their Portkey Hubs in outbuildings some distance from the main house.

The wind ripped through his long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and he was immensely relieved to see someone running towards him. He didn't recognize them, but he was relieved nonetheless to see them.

"Andrew Boyd," the man introduced himself. He was tall and thin, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and spoke with a thick Glaswegian accent that Archie needed a moment to decipher. "A call from Grimmauld Place, at this hour? It must be serious."

"I need to see Toby," Archie replied, hurrying towards the man. "I'm sure the Clan heard about the Weasleys?" The Twins, along with their radio station, stayed at the Boyd Clanhome, though they were now with their brothers at Potter Place in mourning for their father. Archie wished he could have gone to them to express his condolences and provide some comfort, but he had work to do. He didn't know whether his comfort would have been welcome in any case; a leader of Bridge he might be, but with the sole possible exception of Percy, the Weasleys were more Harry's friends than his.

Something flickered in the man's eyes, and he led the way not to the main Clanhome but to one of the small cottages that Archie could see dotting the grounds. "We did, but Master Moody provided few details to the rest of us."

"Voldemort struck in Wales," Archie told him briefly, knowing that the Scottish Clans had been warned for at least a week and all of them had been waiting for something like this to happen. The Clans response had been to plan a united effort among themselves—though their fighting force was only about a hundred, the same size as Uncle James' force had been at Malfoy Manor, they had nearly twice that number prepared to act in support roles, a deep reservoir of skill and talent bolstering their defenses. "Probably at least a day ago—there were spells to prevent contact with us, we only heard something was wrong this morning. Two of our scouts came back and reported… well."

Boyd nodded, grim-faced, coming to his own conclusions. "And you need Toby because…?"

"He went to school with Saoirse Riordan, and we need her help."

Boyd stopped in front of a cottage, pounding on it with an open hand. "MacLean! You're a Scot—what are you doing in bed before midnight?"

A minute or so, and Toby opened the door, wearing t-shirt and sweatpants. His short, blond hair was mussed, but his brown eyes were alert. He looked ready to launch a biting retort at Archie's companion, then he spotted Archie.

"What is it?" he asked, suddenly serious.

"You heard about the Weasleys, right?" Archie said, pushing his way inside the small cottage, which had been taken over by recording and broadcast equipment that he didn't recognize. This had to be the headquarters of The Underground. "Voldemort struck in Wales—sealed it off, too. I need your help."

"Mine?" Toby was bewildered, but he stood aside to invite Andrew in as well. "I'm not a fighter, Archie."

"I'm heading back on patrol," Andrew said lightly, nodding towards Archie. "Can you make sure he gets back to the Portkey Hub when you're done?"

"Sure thing."

Archie was looking around the room, seeing nowhere where he could sit down. It looked like the radio equipment had completely taken over the living space, and he didn't want to touch anything in case it did anything.

"Let's go to the kitchen, it's where the twins and I usually plan things and so on," Toby said, pushing him in the direction of a doorway. "I can make tea?"

"No need," Archie replied hurriedly. "I don't really have time, Toby, sorry. I need to know more about Saoirse Riordan—I need to know how to approach her so that she'll help us on a rescue mission to Wales. You were at school with Saoirse, in the BSA with her and on the Ilvermorny Triwizard Team with her and everything, so you know her better than we do."

Toby blinked. "Uh… I mean, I'll help you all I can, Arch, but… What do you know about Ilvermorny?"

It was Archie's turn to blink. "As much as anyone who didn't go there does, I think? It's the biggest school in America. I visited there once for a dance competition, remember?"

"Yeah, but…" Toby sighed, and he reached for the fridge, pulling out a bottle of beer. He offered one to Archie, who shook his head. "Okay, so Ilvermorny was founded in the 1600s by Isolt Sayre and James Stewart. Isolt Sayre was a descendant from a very old, pureblooded family in Britain; James Stewart was a No-Maj."

"I know that." Archie frowned. He didn't see the point of Toby telling him all of this now—he had been at Ilvermorny before, and had seen the statues of its founders, hand in hand, at the entrance.

"But you don't know what it means, really." Toby quirked a small smile, a hint of pride in his brown eyes. "Look, to you, AIM was probably this paragon of blood equality, right? Because you come from Britain. To you, anything less than outright discrimination was probably amazing. But AIM only grants one to two scholarships per year to British or Irish newbloods and halfbloods, and every other British or Irish newblood or halfblood who wants to go there still pays international tuition. You had, what, two to three British students per year at AIM?"

"Around that, yeah."

"A tenth of Ilvermorny is British or Irish. More than a hundred students—somewhere between five to seven British students a year, then another seven to ten Irish. Ilvermorny's financial aid system, partially funded by our British and Irish alumni, covers anyone who can't afford the tuition fees." Toby laughed a little, popping the lid off his beer and taking a deep swig. "I guess all I'm saying is, yeah, Saoirse and I know each other and we're friendly, but we weren't in the same year, nor the same House. She hung around mostly with other Irish students. I don't know her that well, on a personal level I mean."

"You're still my best shot," Archie replied, understanding the point. "Hermione barely knows her at all, and the rest of us… I mean, if she mostly befriended other Irish students, you're probably it, and I really need to contact her tonight and get her help on Wales. So, whatever you can give me about her…"

Toby sighed, leaning back against the counter. "All right. Just keep in mind that while Saoirse and I knew each other, and we were friendly, we weren't close. I don't know her that well, okay?"

"Anything, Toby."

"Okay." Toby looked away, thinking for a moment, one finger tapping lightly on the side of his bottle. "So, Saoirse's Choice was Wampus House. We have four houses: Thunderbird, Horned Serpent, Pukwudgie and Wampus. In the Atrium, there's a great Gordian knot, and on our first day, we walk out into it in the Choice Ceremony. There are statues representing each House, and at least two Houses will pick us. We choose which House we want to go to. You follow?"

"Yeah..." Archie said slowly, though he didn't really. He assumed that Toby would get to his point, and he hoped it would be sooner rather than later.

"Yeah. My house, Thunderbird, is supposed to be full of wanderers, people who like adventure. Pukwudgie, they're the Healers, and Horned Serpent is supposed to be full of academics. Wampus House is the House for warriors, and you have to remember that we choose our Houses in front of the whole school. Our Houses reflect how we see ourselves and who we want to be." Toby laughed a little. "When I chose Thunderbird, I told everyone that I had no idea who I was or what I wanted, but I was willing to find out. By choosing Wampus, Saoirse told everyone that she was a warrior, and that she would fight. So, she values that image of herself and she always has."

"Okay." Archie said, thinking it over and making a note of it.

"At school, she was kind of the centre of the Irish." Toby took another swig from his bottle. "In retrospect, having read the articles about her in the Irish Gales, that makes sense—she's a direct descendant of Cuchulainn himself, from the wizarding kings of Ireland. She knew it, and I bet a lot of the Irish did too. She's a symbol of freedom to them, and of traditional magic, and I think that has to weigh heavily on her. When we were at the Tournament, she was the loudest voice for us to stay in after the attacks on AIM. She yelled a lot about doing our duty to the other British and Irish students, making a stand against Wizarding Britain."

"All right…" Archie nodded. "How do I use that, though?"

Toby shrugged. "She cares a lot about her duty to the Irish people, Archie. Whatever you say to her, link it to her sense of duty—she'll feel pressured to respond, then."

"Voldemort is attacking the Welsh in retaliation for the Irish revolt, because they have similar traditional magic." Archie frowned. "Isn't that enough?"

Toby tilted his head. "It should be, I think, but be careful how you approach that. Don't blame her for it, ask her for help, note that they're cousins in a sense. And respect who she is—remember that Saoirse Riordan is…" He stopped, frowning, then made a gesture with his hand.

"Is what?"

Toby shrugged again. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, Arch."

Archie laughed. "I'm not exactly easily offended, Toby."

"I know, and I guess really I'm not talking about you, because you're not like the other nobles…" Toby stopped again, rephrasing what he wanted to say. "Okay, so this is really just a guess on my part, but I think one reason the Irish rebelled without telling anyone was how they were treated at negotiations. You did your best to balance everyone, and there were things that you couldn't have possibly known. But the Irish were publicly called terrorists at least once a day by your other allies, particularly the Light faction, and especially by the person that you later put in charge of the main forces. Saoirse never felt that the Lord Potter would treat her and the Irish fairly or equally—she didn't think he would ever see the Tuatha Dé or the Free Irish as anything other than terrorists. She never believed that, if we won, that they would allow referendums on Irish independence."

Archie nodded, understanding. He had heard the comments himself, though Saoirse had given as good as she got, blasting Uncle James for being a Ministry bloodhound. Archie would wade in, sending each of them back to their respective corners, but evidently that wasn't enough. Uncle James never trusted the Irish, and he could see why the Irish didn't trust him either.

"Remember who Saoirse is, Archie." Toby set his beer down on the counter beside him. "She comes from a very old wizarding family, and, by Wizarding British standards, she's probably as pureblooded as they come. She knows it, and she saw the way those nobles treated each other, and how they treated her. Now, she's the interim head of state of another nation until their first round of elections, and to be honest, she'll probably be elected. Treat her like it, and you'll get a better response."

"Okay," Archie replied, nodding firmly. "I think I got it. Respect, and I'll try to work in duty."

Toby escorted him back to the Portkey Hub, for which Archie was grateful. He didn't think he could tell the Portkey Hub apart from any of the other outbuildings, and it was too cold for him to want to wander around outside for long. The transit back to Grimmauld Place was quick—Dad must have been waiting—and soon he was back in his bedroom.

He took a moment to plan his words, as Hermione was always after him to do, then he summoned his Patronus.

"Message to Saoirse Riordan," he told it, adopting an apologetic tone. "Saoirse, I hate to bother you, but Voldemort struck Wales in retaliation for Irish independence. We think he's made a connection between Irish and Welsh traditional magic. We're anticipating a mass casualty situation. Anything you and Wizarding Ireland can do would of course be treated as a favour to Wizarding Britain, to be returned at a later time. Thank you."

When he woke up in the morning, a gigantic silver bull was waiting for him.

"Thank you for your message, Archie," the bull said, the womanly voice somehow incongruous with the appearance of the Patronus. "I'll be on the two o'clock flight to Heathrow and would be pleased to discuss this matter further."

He bolted out of bed, scrambling for his wand and casting a quick Tempus charm. It was past ten in the morning, and he cursed. He never slept in, and while he knew that it was probably to be expected given how late he had stayed up, he needed every minute he could get. He cast his Patronus, calling Hermione.

"Saoirse agreed," he said. "Can you come over?"

Then he found the cleanest sweatshirt on his floor, pulled it on, and ran downstairs. Dad was already gone, a note left on the table saying that he was working with Uncle James to get volunteers for a dangerous mission in Wales, so he poured himself a mug of coffee and waited.

What would Saoirse want? His mind was racing as he tried to come up with ideas. They obviously didn't want to engage much further in the war against Voldemort—at their last meeting, they were pretty clear that they would be defending their own territory only, and that while they would take the same actions that any other country would take, they'd go no further. But they needed military support, and the Irish were the only group that could possibly get there soon enough to help.

It would be a hard ask, he knew. The Irish were independent, and asking them for military support now was like asking any other country. He knew that some of them didn't think it was, because they did have an alliance before, and Ireland wasn't long independent, but it was. Saoirse would probably see the request as being more in line with who they used to be: a downtrodden, subservient part of Wizarding Britain. Not a request of their nearest neighbour.

Maybe he needed Chess, too. Chess, and John, and Gerry.

Hermione was there an hour later, her bushy brown hair already tied back in twin French braids, a wired look in her eyes.

"Wideye Potion?" Archie asked, looking her over.

"Just one, and don't lecture me on this today, Archie," Hermione retorted. "I've been up all night trying to coordinate with the wider BIA. I can sleep after the war council tonight. When is Saoirse coming? How long do we have to convince her?"

"Two o'clock flight," Archie recited back. "So, she'll be here around what, three? And we can get her back to Grimmauld Place from Heathrow by four?"

Hermione winced. "That's not enough time," she muttered. "A flight from Dublin to Heathrow is an hour and a half, more like, and it'll probably be at least half an hour to get out of the aeroport. If we take Muggle means to Grimmauld Place, that's probably another forty minutes."

Archie shrugged helplessly. "She didn't exactly give me options, Hermione. I was thinking, even asking her for help—it doesn't look good for respecting their sovereignty. We aren't calling up the Americans, asking for military support. Or the French, or the Germans, or anyone else. Why did Lina ask for the Irish specifically?"

"Because the Irish are, whether they like it or not, already involved in the war." Hermione sighed. "They started the war as part of Wizarding Britain, and even if they've split off now, they're stuck in it as much as they don't want to be. But you're right, she might see it as an implied challenge to their sovereignty. Realistically, we'll never get the Americans or anyone else ready for an action within the next few days. Have you spoken to Francesca, yet?"

"No, not yet—"

"Then what are we waiting for?" Hermione frowned, and Archie decided then and there that a Hermione hopped up on Wideye Potion was a very frightening thing. "Let's go and get her."

Rosier Place, too, was in a flurry of activity, though Hermione didn't let them linger long enough for Archie to figure out what was happening. Instead, she simply asked the house-elf who met them where they could find Francesca, and walked into the library and pulled out their other friend, who was frowning.

"We need you. And your orb, to talk to John and Gerry," Hermione said, by way of explanation. Francesca nodded, her expression disappearing, and ran to fetch her orb.

They sequestered themselves in one of Aldon's other reception rooms, shutting the door for privacy. It took Chess only fifteen or twenty minutes to get into contact with John—she must have given him some forewarning—but it was another hour afterwards for John to run across Geneva to the offices of Wizarding Germany and speak to Gerry. It was well past noon by the time that Gerry had been rustled out of his office, and they could start talking in earnest.

"What would Ireland want?" Archie asked, after a brief review of what had happened over the past two days. He suspected, based on the stony silence at the other end of the comm orb, that Chess had probably managed to relay at least some of the last few days to them, but he wasn't sure how much. Either way, they didn't have time for shock. Saoirse would be in Britain in only a few hours.

"They want recognition at the ICW," John said, sounding uncommonly serious. "A small Irish delegation is already in Geneva, and they've sought meetings with the ICW to inquire about recognition."

"That's hardly something we can help with, though," Hermione retorted, frustrated. "We're the rebel side of an ongoing civil conflict. Even the ICW has recognized this as a legitimate armed conflict to which humanitarian aid should be provided, that doesn't have anything to do with other decisions. Our support means absolutely nothing."

"But it's an attempted genocide," Gerry spat across the connection. "I would argue that every nation has a moral obligation to become involved."

"Through the ICW?" Hermione sighed, glaring at Chess' pale green orb. "Gerry, you know as well as I do that it'll take each separate nation-state a week to argue internally over whether to become involved, then another week to work out the details of military command and which nation will be in charge, and then a third week to actually mobilize. By then the Welsh will be dead."

"I know," Gerry snapped. "But the Irish cannot fail to help. If they do, in the face of this information, Wizarding Germany will not support entry. We are, understandably, sensitive to genocide."

"Gerry…" John said, and if Archie could watch them, he thought he would have seen John laying a hand on Gerry's arm, or leg, or shoulder. "I think Saoirse wants to help. If she didn't, she wouldn't come over—our connections in Ireland suggest she's on the campaign trail for their first elections in December. She's breaking off campaign trail for you, and that's serious. She's looking for a basis on which she can help, without threatening her country's sovereignty. That's all."

"So, what bases can we give her?" Archie asked, throwing his hands up in the air. "We don't exactly have an expert on the law of armed conflict, here—all I know is, there's something about just cause."

"If Ireland wanted to use just cause, they have it already," Hermione cut in. "They started the war on our side, technically they're still in it because they never negotiated peace with Voldemort, and even if they had, Voldemort has struck at Ireland multiple times. If they wanted to fight back, they could, but they're setting up for a withdrawal from the war. If we want them to become involved further, we need an Irish nexus."

"Are there are any Irish that live within Wales?" John asked, his tone considering. "America has a history of launching extraction operations when their citizens are targeted in other nations' wars. Given that Wizarding Ireland was a part of Wizarding Britain for so long, it's reasonable to guess that there have to be families whose lines split across that border, right?"

Hermione thought about it, but then she grimaced. "We can try it, but Ireland is such a young state. I don't know that they've sorted out citizenship yet. Can you be living outside a country when it comes into being, and still be a citizen of that country?"

"I'm sure that Irish parents living in Ireland would take great offence to their children not having Irish citizenship," John replied dryly. "I think the easiest way they'd have to do it is probably residence, then naturalization, and any mage holding No-Maj Irish citizenship will probably be accepted. But you're right, I don't think Saoirse has thought that far ahead yet. Can we name people who are definitively Irish who are currently in Wales?"

There was a pause. Archie checked the time—it was past one-thirty, nearly two. He winced. Aldon's elves had delivered a platter of tea and sandwiches an hour ago, which they had all been munching on as they talked. "We could probably make some inquiries, but we don't have time."

"It probably wouldn't help, anyway." Hermione muttered, similarly checking the time. "So many Irish mages are undocumented—they wouldn't be tracked in magical records. If I had time, I could do a dive of the BIA records, but we don't."

"Um…" Chess said, the first thing she had said since getting John's and Gerry's attention. "This might not be helpful at all, but there were a couple Irish-American magical theorists that were in Wales recently. They published a paper not too long ago in The American Journal of Magical Theory comparing the similarities in traditional Irish and Welsh magic—they were inspired by the Triwizard Tournament, last year. Normally, when researchers work on something, they don't just publish one paper and leave. I mean, they might have returned to America to work through their collected data, but they might also have stayed."

There was another moment of silence.

"Names?" Hermione asked, a bright fire in her eyes and sounding like someone had handed her the moon.

"Declan Smith and Eoghan O'Connor," Chess replied promptly. "I mean—I can't guarantee they're there. There's a good chance they're in America, sorting through their data. Researchers on these kinds of projects often travel repeatedly to the location needed, but they usually work through the data at home—"

"But we don't have time to check if they're there, do we?" Hermione interrupted, a smile spreading across her face. "We don't have time to check to see if any specific Irish or any other citizens of other wizarding nations are there. We have a reason to believe that there may be Irish citizens or citizens of other Wizarding nations in Wales right now, and that has to be enough."

"I don't know that it is a good plan, but it's a plan," Gerry said, sounding serious. "I will stand by to attend the diplomatic meeting."

"Thanks," Archie said with a sigh. "All right. I'm going to go prepare Grimmauld Place for a state meeting—Hermione, would you meet Saoirse at the aeroport? You can bring her in the back way, if she doesn't Apparate with you."

Chess returned to Grimmauld Place with Archie, her comm orb in her pocket. She frowned at most of the rooms that he presented for the meeting, none of them being good enough for, in her opinion, a state visit, but eventually she settled on the formal sitting room near the front of the building. It had the grandest furniture, she decided, and then she walked off to the kitchen to prepare another tray of tea. One could not, she said, have a state visit without tea.

The last hour of waiting was painful, and he walked around the formal sitting room picking things up and putting them back down. He wanted things to be formal enough for Saoirse, but also welcoming and friendly, only he had no idea what that looked like. He was anxious.

Something was happening in Wales, and aside from the report last night from Blaise and Hannah last night, they didn't know what. They only knew that it was bad, that people were dying, and he wanted to be doing something more—but he had been moving for most of the day, and he only had this one brief bit of time free, but he felt like he should be doing something more. Something was happening, now now now, and he wanted to be moving. Things felt easier when he was moving, and just past four, he went to wait on the back stoop, Chess beside him.

It was past four-thirty when he saw a ripple at the fence at the back of the yard, which promptly resolved into the figures of Hermione and Saoirse Riordan. It turned out that dodging the Ministry officials at his gate was absurdly easy and simple, if one used Muggle means—all it needed was a Disillusionment Charm, a walk down the street parallel to theirs, and a climb over a fence. To his relief, Saoirse seemed to be amused by the manner of entry into Grimmauld Place.

"Thank you for coming, Saoirse," he said, rising to his feet. "My apologies about the back route. We're under a fair amount of Ministry surveillance, see?"

"And they didn't think to plant anyone on your back route?" Her blonde eyebrows raised, with a hint of humour. "Francesca, good to see you."

"And you," Chess replied, her voice soft.

"You know how it is, Saoirse—a lot of mages in Wizarding Britain have been cut off from No-Maj society for so long it hasn't occurred to them that there are ways other than magic." Archie grinned, hoping that this was a good start. Saoirse had agreed to talk to him, but that didn't mean she would be willing to attend the meeting in less than two hours. Indeed, if he couldn't convince her to help, then she probably wouldn't stay for the meeting. "By now, they probably know we're off the Floo, so they're staking out our official Apparition point."

She let out a laugh. "Especially because anyone working in the Ministry is a Hogwarts-educated, wizarding-raised, probable pureblood, I'm not surprised."

"Come on in, Saoirse," Archie said, opening the back door with a flourish. She had laughed. That was good, and Dad hadn't returned yet from helping Uncle James find volunteers for a rescue mission. He and Hermione both thought that a smaller meeting, with people that had all been educated abroad, would help Saoirse come on board with the idea of helping. "Make yourself at home."

Even cleaned up, the formal sitting room didn't look like a room in which one conducted a state visit. Chess already had a tray of tea on the low-lying table in the centre of the couches, and she traced a quick Heating rune on the pot as they settled down. It wasn't fancy, nothing like the many Rosier reception rooms and formal dining room, and it was made for comfort and not to make an impression. It was only marginally better than the other rooms.

Saoirse didn't comment, only sitting down neatly in an overstuffed, velvet red armchair. "So, Archie, Francesca. Hermione. How bad is Wales? It must be bad for you to contact me."

"John and Gerhardt Riemann are with us as well," Chess said awkwardly, clearing her throat and pulling out her comm orb. "Our liaisons with both MACUSA and Wizarding Germany."

Saoirse paused, her eyebrows twitching upwards slightly as her smile disappeared. "I see."

"It's genocide, Riordan." Gerry's voice was blunt from the other end of the comm orb. "Voldemort is exterminating the Welsh."

"We heard about the strike yesterday morning, with a garbled Patronus message—it looks like Voldemort set wards or a spell around Wales to keep any alarms or messages from going in or out," Archie said, rushing to explain. "We think there's a delay, probably at least six to twelve hours, for Patronus messages in and out of Wales, and they don't arrive intact. We sent in four scouts to see what was happening."

"And?" Saoirse's blue eyes focused on him, considering.

"Two came back late last night and advised that they had found a village massacred, bodies burnt. There were signs of both Dementor and vampire involvement. At least fourteen dead by now, and we suspect they may be planning on massacring all of Wales." Archie took a deep breath, mentally reminding himself not to call it a revolt. They might call it a revolt among themselves, but part of recognizing Ireland as an independent nation was changing the words that they used to reflect it. "Our information suggests that this is a retaliatory strike for Irish independence; Voldemort can't strike at you, so he chose a weaker target within Britain."

"Why would you think that?" Saoirse's voice was even, and she reached for a cup of tea.

"Our spymaster managed to obtain a list of possible targets about a week ago." Archie hesitated, but Lina had said to say whatever he needed to say to get Saoirse to help. Somehow, he didn't think that she had meant the truth, but the truth was what Archie had, and the truth would have to do. "The Welsh were on it. We think that—that Voldemort noted similarities between traditional Irish casting and traditional Welsh casting. Traditional Welsh casters had been thought to have died out, but—"

"But Cedric Diggory, a Welsh team member on the Hogwarts Triwizard Team, used it in the Tournament," Saoirse finished with a nod. "Yes, we saw that."

"Yeah." Archie repeated, not sure where to go from here. He sent a panicked glance at Hermione, but her responding look told him nothing helpful. Or that he was doing fine on his own. He wasn't sure. "We were hoping, in the circumstances, as one nation to another—"

"That we might extend some help." Saoirse's eyes were sharp, and she raised the teacup to her lips. "I'm going to speak bluntly to you, Archie, because I'm rather shit at politics and I always have been—I say what I mean a little too much, and bartering for favours isn't in my instincts. But I didn't leave the campaign trail for nothing. We want to help, because the Welsh are our cousins, and we want to provide them with support. But we're a young state, and we haven't even had our first elections yet. I am worried that taking steps to help you will threaten our push for recognition before the ICW. You're essentially asking us to interfere with another nation's internal dispute. Convince me that there's a basis for Irish involvement that doesn't, implicitly or otherwise, suggest that we're here for anything except our own interests."

"It's genocide," Gerry said from the connection to Geneva. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"And Wizarding Germany is being asked to provide military support?" Saoirse snapped, glaring at the orb.

"We would put it before the ICW, if there was time, and you know it," Gerry retorted, equally sharp. "You're the closest nation, you've been involved in the conflict whether you like it or not from the start. If you want to be an accepted member of the ICW, act like it, Riordan. You know our history—you know that, with me at this meeting as a liaison with Wizarding Germany, if you don't act, I will have no choice but to pass your reluctance onto my superiors, and Wizarding Germany denounce your failure to act in the same breath as we denounce Voldemort for the genocide!"

"MACUSA would probably be behind Wizarding Germany in that statement," John said, his voice more threatening for all that it was mild. "The Second World War looms large in our national consciousness."

Saoirse's mouth was a thin line. "Give me a reason, then—a legal basis for interfering and providing support. The fact that Voldemort is flouting the law of war, particularly as it pertains to proportionality, is not a basis on which other nations have to interfere, and you know it. Not all nations accept the responsibility to protect doctrine."

"Voldemort wouldn't know what the law of war was if it smacked him in the face with a haddock," Hermione muttered, shaking her head. "You have Irish citizens living in Wales. Is that basis enough?"

Saoirse paused. "We don't even have citizens yet, not formally. We aren't a state."

"But No-Maj Ireland is a state," Hermione said, and somehow, she made what was probably an irrelevant statement sound like it was perfectly relevant and reasonable. "And your heritage is a fact. People are Irish, the way people are Kurdish, regardless of whether you have a recognized nation-state or not. Surely you have plans for how you will determine citizenship."

"Yes, but…" Saoirse shut her mouth, frowning. "How do you know that there are people who would be Irish within Welsh borders, currently?"

"Because it's probable," Hermione improvised. "Wizarding Ireland used to be a part of Wizarding Britain. People who grew up in Ireland, who have family in Ireland and be Irish by birth, have likely moved to live and work in Wales for reasons of their own. Among No-Majs, Northern Ireland is still a part of the UK, so even undocumented Irish mages living in the No-Maj world could have reason to live in Wales and therefore be at risk."

"Have you done a search of the BIA membership lists, then?" Saoirse asked, her gaze direct.

Hermione shook her head. "I haven't had time. But Francesca has concerns about two Irish researchers."

"Irish-American, now," Chess said, on cue. "Irish by birth, but living and working in America as magical theorists. Declan Smith and Eoghan O'Connor—they published a paper last year comparing Irish and Welsh traditional magical methods. They may be in Wales—MACUSA is confirming whether they are in America right now, but, um, we don't know yet."

"And you want Ireland to interfere on the basis of probable Irish citizens, who might not even exist, currently living in Wales," Saoirse summarized, her voice flat.

"Well—er, yes." Archie smiled, a little sheepish. "And the, uh, genocide."

"You're the closest," Gerry said, his voice coming across from Geneva. "It's genocide. The usual rules don't apply, and I think it would support your case to be admitted to the ICW next May were you to take action now."

Saoirse glared at them, but she shook her head. "Fine," she sighed, her mouth twisting in distaste. "We can send two ships, crewed by forty mages. Rescue and support only. When's the war council?"

"Great!" Archie's smile stretched into a grin, and he pulled out his wand to check the time. "We have half an hour."

Saoirse was visibly less comfortable at Rosier Place than she was at Grimmauld Place. Aldon had cleared the formal dining room for the meeting, and Archie had to admit that even he was somewhat uncomfortable with the new locale. The Rosier formal dining hall was designed to impress—not one, but three fine glass and crystal chandeliers lined the ceiling over the thirty-foot-long table, all of them alight. There was food clustered at one end, simple sandwiches and snacks, while Aldon himself sat closer to the middle of the table with a stack of books in front of him, pouring over notes with a pink Puffskein sitting incongruously on a blue velvet pillow beside him. Chess sailed over to the tiny critter, picking it up and cooing at it, and Archie couldn't help but be impressed at Aldon's ingenuity in ensuring that Francesca would now be sitting beside him for the meeting.

Aldon looked up from his notebook, a tired expression on his face, when he heard them enter. He rose to his feet, giving Saoirse a solemn bow. "Lady Riordan. A pleasure to see you again, though I wish it could be in better circumstances. Welcome to Rosier Place."

"Lord Rosier," Saoirse acknowledged stiffly, with a curt nod.

"Have a seat," Aldon invited, sitting back down himself and glancing around the room. "Hopefully we'll begin shortly."

"Convenient." She settled down, adopting a bored expression that didn't hide the twist of her mouth when Uncle James, Lina, Moody, Dad, and his cousin Tonks walked in.

Lina took her time settling in, taking in the other occupants of the room at a glance. "The food is a distraction, Aldon."

"I rather thought that we would think better if we weren't also hungry," Aldon replied. "Are we ready to begin?"

Lina shook her head, but Archie didn't think that was a denial, more an expression of unhappiness. Lina hadn't been happy to be pushed to making plans for what she obviously considered to be a probable suicide mission into Wales. "I think that is everyone we need, yes. Lady Riordan, pleased you could come."

"I wish I could say I was pleased to be here," Saoirse replied, straightening in her chair with a cautious look around the table. "Stormwing Avery. Lord Potter, Lord Black. Stormwing Moody, I presume. Detective Constable Tonks."

"Just Tonks, please," Archie's cousins said with a snort. "I spend every day being called Constable, and I got reprimanded for my hair colour today, so I could do without the title right now."

"Just Tonks, then." Saoirse eyed the newcomers carefully, caution in her blue eyes. "Archie has been kind enough to inform me of the genocide occurring in Ireland, and I am here to express our grave concern. We are particularly concerned about the risk of our countrymen being caught in the conflict, and we recognize the Welsh as our cousins. However, any assistance we provide must be recognized as coming from a separate nation, and there are limitations to what we, a budding nation of our own preparing for our first elections, can reasonably—"

"Cut to the chase," Moody snapped gruffly, waving a hand. "Yes, Ireland is a separate country, we recognize your sovereignty for all that a rebel force can recognize anyone's sovereignty, and yes, we understand that you're not going to throw your whole army at our disposal. Get on with it."

Saoirse glared at the aged Stormwing, and when she continued, her voice was stiff. "We are willing to deploy two ships to the Welsh coastline, for support only. They'll be crewed by twenty mages each. We'll cross into British waters, but we won't come on shore—best use for them is to provide covering fire for a retreat. I gather that we aren't going to be talking about an assault anyway."

"That's right—this is more in line with a moderately-suicidal rescue mission," Lina replied flatly.

"Coastal support…" Aldon made a tsking sound. "I received a message from an informant. The Welsh are gathering in Snowdonia."

Lina swore. "That is the stupidest idea I have ever heard. How is that that defensible?"

"Snowdon peak is a holy place," Saoirse said neutrally. "For Welsh traditionalists."

"That's an even stupider idea, then," Lina snapped. "Yes, just have all your people gather at a spiritual location, instead of thinking about how to best survive, where anyone can reach you for help, or anything else. Why? What on earth possessed them to pick Snowdon peak? I trusted them to know their lands. I trusted them to come up with good plans and good escape routes. Why did I do that?"

"I'm not sure that Snowdon peak was on the escape route list." Moody shot her a stern glare. "Their escape routes were probably designed for individual families being attacked, much like our own escape route planning. Grimmauld Place evacuates to Potter Place, and if not Potter Place, to Rosier Place, and so on. They didn't anticipate that everyone within their network would be struck at once, nor that they would be unable to contact anyone outside Wales easily. They're not acting on plans; they've chosen Snowdon peak as their best hope for a stronghold."

Lina swore again. "Does it have any defensive fortifications? Spells?"

"To my knowledge, no—"

"Yes, it does," Saoirse interrupted. "Traditional magic isn't internal, and it isn't core-based—it relies on our relationship to the land. The more you can cultivate your relationship to the land, the likelier it is that the elements will like you and will respond to your call. Snowdon peak is a holy place because it's the most powerful well of magical power in Wales. They're gathering at the spot where traditional Welsh magic is strongest and likeliest to answer their call."

"That doesn't help with an extraction and rescue plan." Uncle James leaned forward, reaching for a sandwich. "Two ships, fine, but they won't make a difference unless we can get people to the shore. We need to be able to communicate with the Welsh."

"I've spent the afternoon considering the problem." Aldon's voice is stiff. "Wales is not insignificant in size, and if Voldemort has indeed struck the entirety of the region at once, he and his followers must be able to communicate and move effectively within the area. We can reliably assume that while the barrier insulates the Welsh from the outside, within Wales, both magical communication and transportation ought to work."

"And the Anti-Apparition Ward?" Dad asked.

"There are three settings for an Anti-Apparition Ward," Aldon explained. "One can control Apparition into the warded space, Apparition out of the warded space, and Apparition within the warded space. Most Anti-Apparition Wards forbid all three, but in this case a ward allowing Apparition within is the likeliest solution. It also takes less magical power to raise an incomplete ward as compared to a complete ward."

"What do we have by way of troops?" Lina asked, shooting a look at Uncle James.

"Thirty."

"And anything from the Order?" Lina looked towards Aldon.

"They can have a unit to us in a week, and no, they can't do any better." Aldon snorted. "It took me sixteen tries to get Alex's attention."

"Damn military protocol." Lina scowled. "Alastor and I spent half the day at the Welsh border, examining the barrier, though we weren't able to determine much. We weren't able to find any alarm spells, but it's possible that the spells aren't set to go off until certain conditions are met: the number of people crossing, how often people are crossing, where they are crossing. Voldemort almost certainly does have an alarm spell set to send him warning of a large group crossing at one location. Accordingly, we're going to suggest that we split into three groups and cross into Wales at three separate locations, with no more than four crossing at any time."

Lina reached for a glass of water, taking a deep breath. "We know from Harry's group that it allowed four to pass through in one location without harm. If we cross at three separate locations, we'll be able to get everyone through faster, and it'll be less likely that Voldemort will notice anything amiss. From there, we'll be in enemy territory, so we ought to stay separate. A group of thirty will attract notice. Once inside Wales, we should connect with the scouts and the Welsh, and try to direct them towards the sea, if we can. How far is Snowdon peak from the coastline? In case Apparition is not possible?"

"Far enough." Saoirse tilted her head, thinking—or, Archie amended, maybe she was asking her magic, since he felt a breeze whisper around her. "Ten miles or so, rough terrain."

"What about Voldemort's followers, though?" Dad asked. "Three groups of about ten each—it's still a noticeable group, but it's small enough that if we are noticed, we might be hard pressed to defend ourselves."

"Balance," Moody replied gruffly. "Lina and I both suggest groups between eight and twelve people each. On one hand, too many, and we'll attract notice and certainly be attacked; too few, and on the off chance we are found and attacked, we're all much less likely to survive. Ten works because we will still be able to split into smaller groups if we need to, without being left too weak. Gods all forbid being caught in a group of two or three."

"We know that Voldemort's followers are off terrorizing the Welsh countryside." Lina shrugged. "Our best guess is that they're likely to be in smaller bands as well. Should any of our groups run into theirs, we'll have to hope that ten is enough."

"I'll notify the Chief—we'll put out a Muggle alert to prohibit entrance to Snowdonia National Park, and keep people clear from the route to the sea." Tonks nodded, a cheerful tilt to her eyebrow even if her expression was serious. "We'll probably still have an epic clean up operation afterwards, but it's the best we can do."

"So—" Uncle James leaned forward, reaching for the plate of sandwiches. "The plan is: we split into groups of around ten, we enter into Wales, and we send messages to Harry and Leo and to the Welsh, if we can. What do you suggest then?"

Lina shrugged. "We hope we make contact and can formulate a better plan, and if we can't, we head towards Snowdon peak and try to hit Voldemort's forces from behind and buy enough time and distraction for the Welsh to head to the sea, and the Irish can cover the retreat. It's flexible, and communication is key. If we had a week, I'd recommend we get comm orbs, but we don't. The potions and spellwork required for those require a week to set. So—Patronus messengers, we share all information, and we make plans on the go. We leave as soon as possible, given the urgency."

Uncle James stared at Lina for a moment, then he looked over at Moody. "This sounds like an awful plan."

"It is." Moody broke into harsh laughter. "Oh, it is. The fact is, on the information we have, this is the best we can do, and even it relies on a lot of guesswork. Make sure everyone knows their Patronus spells for the Dementors and fire-spells for the vampires."

"Better have your last wishes in place, too." Lina smiled, but there was no humour in it. "Suicidal, practically non-existent plans are my specialty, but I can't say the survival record is particularly good."

XXX

The wall loomed in front of them, barely visible in the darkness. If it wasn't for the odd light sparks dancing near the ground and the oppressive weight of the magic in front of her, Lina could have missed it.

The group of mages behind her muttered among themselves, uncomfortable. She had terrified this lot into silence already. Unlike with the Malfoy Manor strike, she hadn't simply taken volunteers. James had pointed her at a group, and she had gone with them. She thought they were regretting it already.

The Lords Potter and Black had, somewhat predictably, gotten volunteers by invoking heroism. Their allies were under attack, and of course they had to go charging in, preferably on stallions, to the rescue. They had talked about the danger, of course they had talked about how it was dangerous, but coming from the mouths of two former Gryffindors, she shouldn't have been too surprised that the thrill had come across more than the reality. She had fixed that with a cold reminder that this was probably a suicide mission, and by pointedly asking if they had their last wishes in place.

"Who wants to come through with me?" she asked, not looking behind her. "Three of you, let's go. Wait ten minutes, then second group, then ten minutes, then the third group. If anyone wants to go back, last chance."

There was another sound of uncomfortable shifting, before Abernathy stepped up beside her. A former Auror, Lina remembered. He was a solid fighter, but since Malfoy Manor, there's something a little different about him. Abernathy now carried himself like a man who had already lost everything, or, as Lina considered it, prime suicide mission material. Ironically, the more he was prepared to die, the likelier it was that he would survive.

"We're ready," he reported quietly. "Lead the way, Avery."

"Off we go, frolicking into Wales, then." Lina took a step forward, feeling the air press around her, choking her. Time seemed to slow, but another step, and the feeling was gone. Abernathy was a step behind her, his wand already in hand, and two others followed him.

She looked around. Wales looked no different than England—the same hills and valleys stretched before them, with the same bushes and trees and low-lying grass. It was silent, hauntingly so, which Lina counted as a success.

"Monitoring Charms and basic defensive wards," she ordered, one hand reaching to check her weaponry. Two guns, wand, crossbow. "I can't be entirely sure about the nature of the barrier, so eyes open, everyone."

She didn't hear a response, but she trusted that her unit would follow orders. Instead, she summoned her memory of the day that Étienne had helped her set up her Muggle identity, and of the raucous pub they had gone to afterwards to celebrate her getting her own bank account, her own driver's licence, her own credit cards. They had gotten incredibly drunk, then into a barfight, then they had been tossed out onto the Paris streets. It was still one of the best nights of her life.

Her silver wolverine appeared. "Message, to Harry Potter and Lionel Hurst, private. Backup units arrived. Report." She rattled off a set of Apparition coordinates, close enough to her own position that she would see them coming, but far enough that if anything went amiss, there would be plenty of time to shoot them before they came close. She had no interest in being betrayed.

Both James and Alastor would also be sending them similar messages, just in case. Lina had no real expectation that Harriett Potter would come to her over her own father, but it was a security measure. None of them could be entirely sure whether communications did work properly within Wales, so it was better that she receive three messages and report wherever she needed to than none at all. She called two more Patronuses in quick succession, sending them to James and Alastor, each of whom were in command of another unit. A third Patronus went off to Cedric Diggory, set to private viewing only, and Lina only hoped that the boy had survived this long.

It took a few minutes, before a bright stag appeared in response. "Received and clear," James said, his voice low. "One message only, it seems. Keep them short."

Lina sighed, understanding the point. Normally her Patronus could handle the distance to James and back easily, but the fact that James had to cast his own meant that there was still something in Wales inhibiting messaging spells. The barrier was the largest problem, she guessed, but it seemed like there was a magical drain or something weakening Patronuses even within Wales. It was another minute before Moody's hare appeared from the darkness, confirming that his unit was coming through as well.

Ten minutes, and the second group in her unit were through the barrier. They looked around, nervous or cautious, and Lina gestured for them to help their unit-mates with the security spells.

The clap of Apparition was thunderous in the silence, snapping from the hillside across from them a hundred yards away. Lina's guns were drawn instantly, and after a quick, silent spell that allowed her to see heat signatures, she made out the figures of two people in the darkness. The shapes seemed to be right, and they hurried towards Lina's group.

"Halt," Lina said, eyeing the two of them. They certainly looked like Harry Potter and Lionel Hurst, if a little weary. She cast a non-verbal Finite Incantatem at them, followed by a quick runic screen to highlight any magic. Both of her checking spells came back clean, but Polyjuice Potion was always a concern. "Potter, how often did your father want you to report when he permitted you to act as a scout?"

"Every eight hours," Potter replied easily. "Avery, how many nights has it been since we met last?"

"Two, if we include this night."

Potter nodded, and Lina waved her within the circle of their protections, limited as they were. It was good enough. "I am surprised you've chosen to heed my call, rather than your father's."

"You were closer." Potter cast about for a moment, before she settled on a convenient, if sharp-looking, rock. Her companion, Hurst, conjured a small stool for himself. Both looked exhausted and drained. "The barrier sealing Wales—we've conducted a few experiments. It is possible to Apparate within Wales, but it takes two to three times as much magical power as usual. You can't Apparate out of Wales. It seems that Patronus communication works, however, judging from the messages I received from Dad, from you and from Professor Moody."

"We suspect drain as well on the Patronuses—short messages only, and they don't travel as far or as powerfully. Consistent with Apparition, I think. Isn't there some law of Charms or something that lays out the relationship between Patronus message distances and Apparition?" Lina shook her head. Aldon or Christie would know, but it didn't matter. She motioned for one of her mages. "Singleton, Patronus the Lord Potter and advise that we've made contact with the scouts."

The woman nodded, turning away.

"That's right. Hughes' Law," Potter said, putting her head in her hands with a sigh. "I ought to have thought of that."

"Report, Potter."

There was a moment before Potter looked up from her hands. "Where do we begin?" She glanced over at her companion, who wasn't looking much better than her—in some ways, the blank expression on his face was worse than the distraught one that Potter had on hers. "I suppose Blaise and Hannah already told you about Ottery St. Catchpole and the Burrow."

Lina nodded, gesturing impatiently with one hand for the girl to carry on. Thirty years of experience had gotten her too used to military reports from other mercenaries and the dhampir—they always knew what to say and where to begin, and there was none of this wasted time. She would never cease to be impatient with disorganized reporting.

Potter took a deep breath, shutting her eyes for a moment, before opening them again. "Leo and I searched the other wizarding family homes that we knew would be in that area—the Diggorys, the Fawcetts and the Lovegoods. The Diggory homestead was burnt to the ground, but there was no sign of any of the Diggorys. The Fawcetts are dead, both mother, father and their son who was too young to go to Hogwarts. The Lovegood residence was in shambles, so we believe that Xenophilius Lovegood managed to blow up his residence before fleeing, because we didn't find him in the rubble. We opted not to search for survivors who might have gotten away in the darkness, since it was well past midnight at that point, and we returned to the Burrow to sleep the night. It was in the best condition, still standing and defensible, and we didn't think that Voldemort's followers, the Dementors, or the vampires would be returning.

"This morning, we went back to search for the Diggorys and for Xenophilius Lovegood. We didn't find any leads for the Diggorys, but we found a blood trail for Xenophilius Lovegood and followed it for about a half-mile before it ended. We didn't find a body. By then, we assumed that reinforcements were likely on the way, so we moved on. I cast a passive scrying spell, and it highlighted magical activity through most of south and east Wales. Once we realized we were able to Apparate withing Wales, we Apparated to a few of the hot spots."

Potter stopped her recital, looking blank for a moment, before she continued. "We stopped in a village near Nant-ddu—burned out, much like Ottery St. Catchpole, seventeen dead. From there, another hamlet near Pant-y-dwr, which was also burnt out, nine dead. Finally, we went through Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant, but again—burnt out, and dead. We didn't see survivors, but there were indications of torture at Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant on at least four bodies. Twenty-six dead."

"They toyed with them before they died," Hurst added, his voice stark in its flatness. "With Dementors and vampires at their side… vampires kill in a characteristic way, but in Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant, it was torture. Bones broken, bodies were carved with the Whip Curse or maybe just a blade, saying Mudblood or blood traitor. Burns that aren't consistent with anything except torture."

"Aldon has said that many of Voldemort's followers are unstable. Did you make contact with any Welsh?" Lina asked, her eyes sharp. Potter would have said if she did, Lina thought, but she had to ask.

"No, none." Potter fell silent. "I didn't even think of trying to send a Patronus to anyone in Wales. I only know Cedric, but still—I ought to have. It was nearly noon by the time we realized we could Apparate."

Lina shook her head. "What's done is done. Aldon received an informant's message earlier today, saying that the surviving Welsh would be gathering in Snowdonia. The Irish are providing coastal support—this is an extraction and rescue mission, not a liberation attempt. If you want to fight, you can stay with my group, but your father would want you to return home." She paused. "I am not your father, so I leave the choice to you, but you should know this is a quasi-suicidal mission from here on out. Not all of us will be returning home."

"I'll keep going," Hurst said, too easily. He had the same emptiness in his eyes that Lina saw in Abernathy's. "Harry should return home, though. What's the plan?"

"Potter?"

Potter sighed, glancing at her friend. "If Leo is staying, then I'll stay," she said firmly. "I can go on."

Lina nodded absently, spotting another Patronus coming from the darkness. A white-tailed deer—Diggory's, she hoped. "Wait, then."

The deer paused, seeming to look around before it looked at Lina. "Avery," Diggory said. "I have fifty at Snowdon peak, covered by heavy fog. We're sieged and can't Apparate out—the power well prevents Apparition within a mile of the peak. Please help."

The deer disappeared.

Lina cursed. She had done some fighting near power wells before, and it was always a shitshow. They were places of native power, where the natural magic of the location tended to inhibit Apparition. England was dotted with power wells, such as Stonehenge, the Tower of London, a half-dozen other places she could think of off the top of her head. Outside of England, there was Mount Kilimanjaro, Sri Pada, Istanbul and half the bloody Middle East. She had wondered, when the Riordan girl had called Snowdon peak a place of magical power, but she had hoped she was wrong.

The trick about power wells was that they were easy to Apparate in. In order to Apparate anywhere, one only needed to overcome the latent magical quotient of the departure location, then add the magic needed to cover the distance by some formula that Lina honestly couldn't care enough to remember, and boom, one would be at the arrival location. Power wells simply had so much latent magic that an individual mage couldn't overcome the initial barrier.

There was the drain here, too, Potter had mentioned. Two to three times as much magical power as usual to Apparate. That would leave a heavy impact.

Lina looked at the girl. "I understand you have a large magical core."

"I do."

"Can you Apparate to both your father and to Moody's units, then Side-Along them here? We need to plan. Your father is south of here, crossing near the route to Cardiff, while Moody is to the north, crossing south of Liverpool. We need to plan."

Potter nodded, rising from her rock. "I can do it. Leo? Moody is closer, so if you get him, I'll get Dad."

Hurst nodded as well, his stool disappearing the minute he stood. "South of Liverpool. A trip there and back, though—if I Side-Along him, I'll need at least a few hours to recover."

"We'll have a few hours," Lina replied, turning away. "We won't attack when the vampires will be most active. But I doubt Diggory will be able to hold out that long, so let's get moving."

It wasn't long before Potter reappeared with her father in hand, and Hurst with Alastor. In the meantime, Lina had gotten her camp in something like order—there was a watch rotation, and a sleep rotation, though she doubted that many would be sleeping the night. Still, based on her very rough ideas for a plan, they needed what sleep they could get.

Snowdonia was not too far from her current location—maybe sixty miles, an hour's drive by car, and it was too bad she didn't have one of those to hand. Or, a bus, rather, with a force of thirty. A bus would be very convenient for transportation without dealing with Apparition drain, but they first didn't have a bus, and second, a bus approaching a closed park close to midnight would be too noticeable in any event. They would deal. Snowdonia was also, by her guess, about sixty miles from Moody's location, but more than twice that from where James' unit was staged.

Potter seemed unaffected when she reappeared, her father holding her arm, while Hurst seemed wan. Lina nodded a welcome to the two men, waving them over to the rough map she had carved in the dirt. "Can I assume that both Potter and Hurst have given you a brief report?"

"Yes," James replied, crouching over the diagram and squinting. "What is this supposed to be?"

"The peak." Lina scowled. "Snowdon peak. It's in the middle of a power well, which is probably what Diggory is drawing on for their defense right now, but he won't hold indefinitely. He has fifty there, but I doubt even half that number can fight—we know for a fact that his actual group never numbered more than three dozen. The power well prevents us from Apparating out—not Apparating in, only out. The good news about that is that Voldemort's men won't be Apparating out of it either. We need to pull Voldemort's attention to us, give the Welsh a chance to break away from the peak and head to the shore. Once they're even a few miles away from the peak, they should be able to Apparate the rest of the way. A noon strike, while the sun is high, so Voldemort's followers won't be able to rely on their new vampire allies or on the Dementors."

"Flanking manoeuvre." Moody examined the mess of arrows that she had on the ground. "You want us to strike on the side away from the shoreline, cause a diversion. Diggory strikes from within, this group is pinned, and Voldemort has to bring forces around to assist—then the Welsh can break away towards the shoreline."

"How do we stop Voldemort from going after them once they've broken away?" James tilted his head in a frown. "This manoeuvre only works if they're actually pinned, Lina—once the Welsh break away, there's nothing stopping them from coming down harder on us or chasing after the Welsh."

Lina looked at him, the meaning plain in her eyes, and James' jaw tightened.

"I see," he said, after a long moment.

"Have a better idea?" Lina asked. "They're sieged, up there. We have to break it, and I'm open to new and better ideas."

James crouched down, casting his eyes over the messy diagram. He took his time thinking, his mouth a thin line. "Only a few adjustments. Ideally, we want to draw Voldemort's followers' attentions farther away from the peak if we can. Let's have two or three more decoy targets—we can set fires, or set up magical sparks a little farther away, make it look like we have a larger force than we do. Voldemort has to send groups to look at each one, and if we time it right, then we can pull some forces away and keep them from getting back in time. A quick battle, you're thinking?"

"Under half an hour, ideally," Lina looked back down at her map again. "Once the Welsh are cleared, we retreat. We have to stay towards the edge of the Anti-Apparition zone, so we only need to bolt so far before we can Apparate out. It's a good idea, James. Can your group handle the decoys? Forgive me for saying so, but with the Apparition drain…"

"We're the farthest away from Snowdon peak, the most likely to be suffering from it, and the ones who won't have recovered in time." James nodded. "It's what makes sense."

"Take your daughter and Hurst with you." Lina gestured to their two scouts, hovering just outside their conference. "They've been on their feet and investigating most of the day—they'll be in even less condition for an outright fight than even your unit will be after we make it to the peak."

"Right." James rose from his crouch, glancing at his daughter, who only nodded. "For a noon strike, we'll start setting fires and so on fifteen minutes ahead of time, and we'll stagger them. Hopefully he'll have to send more than one group out to respond. I better get back to Sirius, let him know the plans. You'll contact the Welsh and the Irish with the plans?"

"I'll handle the Irish," Moody said with a wave of one scarred hand. "My unit is closest to them."

"Then I'll pass the word to the Welsh," Lina finished with a sigh, erasing her diagram with scuff of her foot. "Don't get caught before the action starts, and with a hell of a lot of luck, I'll see you all after the fact."

It was the work of several minutes to send her Patronus to Diggory with a very abbreviated version of the plan. Diggory needed to know when and where the strike would happen, and then he needed to know to send his people to the shoreline where the Irish would be waiting with ships and would be providing covering fire for their retreat. Lina didn't add anything unnecessary in her message—Diggory would know. Diggory no doubt already knew.

With leadership came responsibilities. Lina had never been a leader, nor did she want to be one. Not in the way that Aldon's friend Archie was a leader, not even in the way the James Potter or Lord Dumbledore were leaders. With leadership came the hard decisions, and Lina knew without needing to ask what decisions Diggory would be making.

Someone would need to hold down the mountain. Someone would need to keep Voldemort's followers from breaking after the escaping Welsh, someone would need to put pressure on Voldemort's followers, keep drawing fire, while the others got away. Right now, Lina didn't need to ask to know that Diggory was walking a circle around his camp, sorting out the people who would be given a chance at survival and those that wouldn't. And she knew which group Diggory would choose to put himself in—which group that he had no choice but to put himself in, rather, if he wanted the best chance for his people to survive.

When his white-tailed deer came back, the message was brief. "Understood," Diggory said. "Please—remember your promises."

The deer faded into darkness, quicker than normal for any Patronus, but Lina studied the space where it had been for far longer than necessary.

Eleven in the morning found her and her unit standing shoulder to shoulder with Moody's group. They had Apparated in near dawn, a few miles outside the power well, and she had made everyone hike the last five miles towards the peak. The fog was heavy, carpeting the grounds, keeping their scent down. If it wasn't for the passive scrying spell that she had cast every fifteen minutes, she would have been hard-pressed to see where anything or anyone was, and indeed within the power well she couldn't even be sure of her readings. Finally, it was only the noise of certain of Voldemort's followers that alerted her to the fact that they were near enough, and to halt. They were close, almost on top of what had to be the unluckiest of Voldemort's groups.

By eleven-thirty, she had established through a thin, waif-like former Auror named Ella Trenton that there were two groups within striking distance of them, and that they had seven or eight mages each. They were waiting, apparently—Voldemort himself was not there, seeing to something elsewhere. Trenton hadn't heard what had drawn him away, but it didn't matter. Lina sent her back to keep watch and listen for anything interesting.

Voldemort himself was not there, and that was a piece of luck that Lina couldn't have anticipated. Maybe more of them would survive than she had anticipated. If she could, she would accelerate their schedule, but instead, she had to hope that whatever his task was, he wouldn't return for some time yet.

At eleven-forty-five, she heard the clap of Apparition. Or rather, the clap of many Apparitions, enough that it sounded like a sizeable, but not unrealistic, army. She heard murmurs from Voldemort's camp, a few rustles from that direction, but it didn't seem as if anyone were moving. Not yet.

At eleven-fifty, she heard firecrackers—firecrackers, and the distant multi-coloured lights barely broke through the mist and fog. The same direction as the earlier sounds, and a second later, there was a replying shower of red sparks the opposite direction. Lina privately marvelled at the ingenuity of the plan—rather than setting decoys at several locations, which would look more like a diversion, James' group was making it look like two allied groups, newly Apparated in and who were now communicating with each other in the fog. It was well done, and even Lina would have sent scouts to investigate.

Eleven-fifty-four, and Trenton came up to whisper to her that, after a hurried conference, two other groups were being sent to look into the noise and the sparks. Not bad. Two groups were some fifteen mages that she wouldn't need to contend with. She nodded and motioned for Trenton to rejoin the remainder of her troops.

At eleven-fifty-seven that morning, she turned to her unit. Trenton was paler even than she normally was, while Abernathy's eyes were entirely focused. He was the exception.

"Remember," she said, "the moment you see blue sparks, we're done. Break and run, and it is on you to make it the distance you need to Apparate home. I won't be able to drag each of you back. You will all kill today, or you will do your best to kill. I don't care if you used to sit across from them at the DMLE—I don't care if you used to have lunch with them once week, if they bought you donuts, if they married your bloody fucking cousin. Once the fighting starts, we are here to give the Welsh a fighting chance at survival, and then we're gone."

She met the eyes of each of her unit members, fixing them in her mind, then saluted them, wand in hand. "Alea iacta est, feliciter velim."

Then, it was noon. The fog blasted away, and the sun was blinding. Lina had a gun in one hand, dropping five bullets into the first wizard who rose from his seat, taken aback by the surprise, and then she and her troops were in the maw of battle.

She didn't recognize the man who stepped forward to engage her, though she knew from the gun he had drawn that he wasn't a British wizard. She didn't need to see the ring on his finger, or the tattoos hidden by his jacket, to know him for what he was.

"Zajac, or Ozturk, then?" she snarled, dropping to the ground and summoning a shield. Not a Protego or even a Fortis, but a large sheet of metal that she hurled, with the strength of an overpowered Banishing Charm, into his face. "Vengeance, or Resistance?"

"Caution," the man snarled back, dodging the sheet of metal, before Lina was on him, her own gun now sheathed. They were too close for gun combat now, which was her intent, and her free hand flew in the pattern for a Blasting Rune, which she focused behind him. She didn't want anyone coming to his assistance.

He hadn't dignified her question with a reply, but from his broad nose, light brown hair, and the fact that he was now murmuring a spell in old Slavic, she would guess Zajac over Ozturk. His spellwork looked Durmstrang-bred, from the sharp way that he stabbed his wand at her, and he wasn't bothering to make his spellwork non-verbal. He didn't need to—she dodged a red flash of light that had to be a curse of some kind, sending a Petrificus Totalus curse back at him.

There were no Killing Curses fired between the two of them. They didn't need Killing Curses to try to murder each other, nor was there enough breath and focus for them to be able to summon the spell at all. Instead, the exchange was painfully brutal in banality: Flame Hexes, Blasting Curses, Bombardment Spells, Body Binds of several types, Vertigo Hexes, Slowing and Quickening spells, Stinging Hexes, Slashing Curses, Severing Charms and Cutting Hexes. They were seeking time—they were seeking a breath of distraction, that moment of confusion or hesitation on the other side that would give them the space to cast something more devastating on the other.

Zajac was too good for complicated spellwork. He was also faster than she was, which was no surprise considering that the man was, based on her information, some ten or fifteen years her junior. She took a Stinging Hex to one shoulder and ignored the intense burn it bred as she turned it back with a Blinding Curse. A lesser Stormwing than she might have been worried, but Lina Avery had been thirty years a mercenary, and what she might have lacked in age and speed, she made up with experience and cunning. She dodged a spell, launching back a Reductor Curse in response.

If she kept Zajac occupied, he wouldn't be giving orders to Voldemort's followers, so she set herself to that task with a will. But Zajac, too, required her full attention—she could not afford to look behind her. She could not afford to see how her own troops were faring, and she hoped that whatever else was happening, they were taking her words to heart, or that Abernathy, the most senior of the former Aurors in her group, had taken them in hand. The sound of yelled hexes and screaming were distant behind her, and she only saw the gouts of flame going up around them from the corner of her eye.

Dementors. There were Dementors surrounding them, chilly, misty fingers of dread and horror and fear reaching into their minds, and Lina didn't have the time or focus to spare to cast a Patronus. Instead, she ignored them—ignored her parents' voices, disappointed as they discussed yet another failed match for her, ignored the blank feeling of futility that came out of a hundred conversations about how she never wanted to marry, ignored the feeling of being less and wrong and somehow defective because she didn't want to marry, didn't want children, didn't want anyone in the way that she was supposed to want someone. She ignored Étienne's voice as he yelled for her to run; she ignored years of feeling small.

If there was one thing that Stormwing training was good for, it was ignoring things when they were inconvenient. The sun was high, thankfully, the bright warm beams of light keeping the Dementors' powers at bay. She saw silver flashes—her own troops, she hoped, casting Patronuses.

There was a howl in the distance, and there was a breath—Zajac stopped, his eyes flicking behind him to the peak, and Lina risked a glance.

It was Voldemort, descending on the peak. He was flying, without the need for a broom or any other seeming support. It was a gross waste of power, a show of strength, and even if she was disgusted by it, Lina was unwillingly impressed. She didn't have that power at hand, and neither did anyone of her acquaintance.

Zajac fired another curse at her, and she dodged, spotting a tree that had been felled by an earlier Blasting Curse, split into several pieces. It was the work of a second for her to pick it all up and hurl it at him. One of the larger pieces, which she set on fire for good measure, caught Zajac around the head.

She chanced another look at the peak. The sun shone brightly, and she caught a view of Diggory—Diggory who was no older than her own Aldon, who was facing down a wizard powerful enough to fly unaided. She couldn't see the expression on Diggory's face from this distance, but she saw the rain of blue sparks from the peak. Not wand magic, but traditional magic, and she understood.

This was it. Diggory had gotten out everyone he could, and that meant it was time to go.

She took two steps back, fired a cascade of blue sparks from her wand, once, twice, thrice. She saw others take up the signal, then she cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself, grabbed Ella Trenton, still somehow alive and in her path, and ran for it.

XXX

Aldon was waiting at Peverell Hall. It was not a place where he was comfortable, nor was it a place where he thought anyone was comfortable with him being present. The Lady Potter was solicitous, though she said little to him, while Harry's younger sister, Adriana, hid behind her mother's robes. Lady Potter, with only a few perfunctory, polite, words, seated him in their kitchen with a pot of too-hot tea, too much sugar and too much milk, before asking if he would be all right on his own and if she could excuse herself to an errand.

He didn't blame her. Her husband and her eldest daughter were in Wales, and she had to be worried. Instead, he had only nodded his thanks, assuring her that he would be fine and that he had no intention of going anywhere. She had smiled in relief and disappeared, leaving him alone with the tea.

It was weak, tasteless on his tongue, and by its colour he could see that it had not steeped nearly long enough for his usual tastes. He glanced around the kitchen, seeking distraction.

Peverell Hall was too homey. The furnishings were too soft, the light in the kitchens too warm and cheerful. Aldon didn't belong here, among soft furnishings and kind light and warm fires. Every soft furnishing felt like it was tempting him into an illusion, lying to him, and he wished he could be waiting at home, at Rosier Place.

But the post-battle rendez-vous point was here, and Peverell Hall would be where the Lina and the others would return afterwards if they survived. And he wanted—or, he needed—to know what happened as it happened, and that meant waiting at Peverell Hall, uncomfortable as it might be.

It was a relief when Archie and his girlfriend showed up. Archie had greeted the Lady Potter with a tight grin, throwing his arms around her and kneeling to chat to his young cousin, before he sat down at the table.

"Anything?" he asked, expectant, but Aldon shook his head.

"Unless you consider a garbled message from Cedric that's hours out of date just saying that they're at Snowdon peak and need help to be something."

Archie shook his head. "No." A pause. "Do you want a book to read? Or we could play chess, or Exploding Snap, or… I don't know."

"I likely could not concentrate enough to read a book." Aldon sighed, looking away. "Nor do any games interest me."

Archie shrugged. "I could probably find you something. Chess' romance novels don't take any brainpower to read—"

"Just a lot of suspension of disbelief." Hermione snorted. "Did she make you read the one with the ghost in it?"

"I thought that one was cute," Archie protested lightly, reaching for the pot of tea. Aldon shot Hermione a look—there were times when he thought Archie's girlfriend understood him better than most, as infuriating as the woman otherwise could be. This was one of those times.

"Not the time, Archie." Hermione shook her head sternly. "Not the time."

They waited in silence—not that Aldon had any idea what they had planned, once they arrived in Wales. He knew only that Lina had planned on a daytime strike, and that time was of the essence. The details, she had said it would depend on what happened once they got there.

Well, they were there. They had been there all night, near fifteen hours, and all Aldon could do was wait to see if anything happened. It might not be today, he reminded himself. It could be tomorrow, or even the day after, depending on what Lina found. But he had already tried to work this morning at Rosier Place and had gotten exactly nowhere.

He didn't have the focus to read more about warding. A sound here or there, a stray thought, and he would be back at the beginning. He had pulled a book on magical theory, hoping to lose himself in something he enjoyed, but there was no luck there either. He had stopped in the library, but even Francesca was unable to distract him sufficiently from the Welsh problem. The third time she caught his attention wandering as she tried to catch him up on ACD developments, she had frowned at him and gently suggested that perhaps another time might be better.

Near eleven in the morning, he had gone to Queenscove, looking for someone to distract him in the lists. None of that group had volunteered for the trip to Wales—they were formally on standby in case Wales was a diversion, with the equivalent of a complete unit ready for deployment to either Grimmauld Place or Rosier Place if a warning signal came.

But his own distraction worked against him there, too. He was used to losing, but not so brutally, nor so quickly. Neal's older brother, Graeme Queenscove, had picked him up out of the dirt and told him, quite kindly, that he was doing himself no favours by taking a beating and that he ought to come back when he could bring his best fight.

And all of that led Aldon here, staring into a barely steeped cup of black tea as if it held the answers to the future.

It was near two-thirty in the afternoon when the front door opened.

"Sirius!" he heard the Lady Potter gasp, and Archie was out the kitchen door. A second later, and Harry Potter was helping the Sirius into the kitchen, blood streaming from a wound in his shoulder. Archie already had his wand out, checking the wound for infection.

"Light hex," Sirius muttered. "It burns like goddamn fucking fire."

"I couldn't lift it," Harry said, glancing apologetically at Archie. "I don't understand hexes on this level, and everything I did—I tried to break it, but I couldn't, so I just gave him a Blood Replenisher and bandaged it, but he keeps bleeding through it."

"What happened?" Aldon demanded, too sharp, as Archie started casting diagnostic spells at Sirius' shoulder. Harry gave him a look, her green eyes despairing, before Sirius spoke.

"Pandora Parkinson happened," he growled. "The decoy was successful—drew two units away from the main flank. Parkinson's caught up with us, and that girl—"

"I'm sure there's an explanation," Harry interrupted, though by her voice, she sounded less than sure. "She's not—she was never—"

"It's a Light curse," Archie interrupted, his expression serious, though he glanced at Harry with mixed anger and worry. "She's essentially given Dad a case of haemophilia. I can't Heal him until the curse is broken, and I need someone with an Erlich rating of five or higher for this."

Aldon stood up. It best to head off any discussion about Swallow—she needed to be left where she was, and it was best if no one, especially Voldemort, could question her loyalty—and there was a clear distraction available. "I am not a Healer," he said, walking around the table, "but I am an Erlich five and have a little experience in Curse-breaking. What do you need me to do?"

By the time Aldon had finished breaking the curse on the wound and Archie set to Healing it, the Lord Potter, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Lionel Hurst and several others had reappeared, Apparating in at safe distance from the walls and sneaking onto the Potter grounds. The Lord Potter looked exceptionally grim.

"We weren't on the main attacking force," he said, pulling out a list of names and setting it on the table. There was already a neat row of checkmarks, marking those that had survived. "Sirius and I were the decoy units—we were drawing fire away from the peak while Lina and Moody's groups handled the main assault, pulling Voldemort's units away from the peak long enough for the Welsh to escape. They know to meet here."

People trickled into Peverell Hall all afternoon—some under their own power, others being helped along. Names were checked off the lists, and a silver bull appeared in the mid-afternoon with a message from Riordan that they had successfully rescued twenty-three Welsh and were on the way back to Ireland. No names were provided. Alastor Moody hobbled in, pulling two of his unit members after him, near four in the afternoon, and Lina didn't reappear for near a half-hour after him, pale with magical drain, shoving another woman before her.

Aldon gave her a brief nod, leaning over to check her name off the list with a sense of relief. More than half of people had checked in, a little under two thirds. With her and her companion, that left nine names outstanding.

"So?" she rasped, holding her hand out for the list. "What's the butcher's bill, then?"

"Nine," Aldon replied. "Nine outstanding."

Lina let out a slow breath, shutting her eyes. "At this hour, we might expect one or two more, but it's unlikely. The only reason I didn't make it back earlier is that I was drained—needed to take cover for a few hours and take a Pepper-Up before I could Apparate the rest of the way. Nine is … not bad."

"What happened, Lina, Alastor?" The Lord Potter asked, pouring her a mug of tea. "You were both on the ground—how did it go?"

Lina broke into a grim sort of laughter. "How do you think it went? I came up against Zajac—he's one of Voldemort's hired Stormwings, sworn to Vengeance. Young fellow, fast and sharp. I didn't see much of what else happened behind me. But we were lucky, very lucky. I don't think that Voldemort anticipated that we would be trekking through the heavy fog to lay the assault, nor am I sure that Voldemort understood the fog to be under the control of the Welsh. He was, fortunately, away when we struck. I only saw him at the end."

"It was much the same for me," Moody added. "Once the fighting started, it was a melee. Dementors came to the aid of Voldemort's followers, though they weren't able to gain much control with the sun high."

"Voldemort flew in at the end—without a broom or anything, mind. What a waste of fucking power." Lina sighed, looking into her mug with a frown of distaste. "Didn't matter, though. Cedric Diggory is dead. Do you have anything stronger?"

Aldon blinked, and took a deep breath, pushing the slow rushing in his ears away to listen to the rest of the discussion. Twenty-three Welsh saved by the Irish ships, which was not a bad number considering that Cedric had had fifty at Snowdon peak. Cedric had probably kept the strongest fighters with him on the peak—that's what Lina and Moody would have done—to keep Voldemort's attention. Lina had seen Voldemort, young and powerful, and faced off against one of his two hired Stormwings. Moody had run up against Bellatrix Lestrange and had managed to mark her across the face with a Slashing Hex that he hoped would scar. The Lord Potter had faced off against the other of the Stormwings, though he hadn't known it at the time. He had gotten away because they were both Light wizards, and their spells had nearly cancelled each other out.

When they turned to him and to what came next, Aldon forced himself to pay attention. Yes, Aldon had an informant at the Ministry who would be able to access to census records. He would have the total number of recorded Welsh residents for Archie within a day, he promised, though that would be an underestimate because not every wizarding household was registered. Sirius, his shoulder patched up even if he still winced to move, would clean up a statement to be released by Lady Malfoy at the ICW. Recruitment would need to be stepped up yet again, and instructions were handed out for everyone to consider how that might be done, especially from the British expatriate community. Lina said something to him about raising counter-intelligence efforts—with greater recruitment efforts, Voldemort would have an easier time slipping a spy into their organization. As their resident Truth-Speaker, Aldon would need to interview everyone, both old members and new ones.

Aldon nodded agreeably, if a little absently. These were all important details, and he stamped them, rote and routine, into his brain. They were cut and dry, a neat list of things that needed to be done. Tasks, pieced out into bite-sized portions, made everything easier. He just needed to focus on each of these tiny, incremental steps, fix them in his mind so that he remembered them. He needed to remember these fine details, so that he didn't remember other things.

That lasted until he went home, until Lina cited exhaustion and disappeared into her rooms, leaving the patrols of the Rosier Place grounds in the hands of her trainees. That lasted until he was alone, seated on the sofa in his own parlour, with nothing but his thoughts and a list of tasks that he couldn't seem to think his way through, that he probably couldn't make a start on until the next day anyway.

In his rooms, he put his head in his hands. He hadn't known Cedric Diggory very well. Until the Triwizard Tournament, he had just been a classmate to Aldon—a familiar face that had shared Transfiguration and Charms with him most years, Magical Theory, and Curse-breaking. Cedric was friendly, always with an extra quill or spare bit of parchment if someone needed one, and he had invited Aldon more than once to a Magical Theory study group. Aldon had always declined, but there had been no hard feelings about it. He was an affable classmate, popular both inside his House and outside of it, and that was all.

In the Tournament, he had seen more of Cedric. Even when they had no bloody idea what was going on, Cedric had always been practical, working hard and uncomplaining. He had stood firm in Alex's most tyrant-like moments, when Alex had asked them for too much, and he had been the only one to do so—Harry was far too likely to consider the request reasonable, Angelina too stubborn to ever admit that that she could not keep up.

And afterwards, when they were out in the world and forming Bridge, Cedric had been among the first to join. He had been a quiet voice with information from inside the Improper Use of Magic Office, and a faithful ally working from next to nothing to bring the Welsh together.

Cedric had wanted children. Cedric had wanted to resurrect Welsh wizarding culture, to spark a new renaissance of the people that he loved, and that Wizarding Britain had all but stamped out. He had wanted to speak Welsh in the open every day, he had wanted to send his children to Welsh Muggle schools where they would speak Welsh every day. He had pictured a future of Welsh witches and wizards as powerful as Saoirse Riordan, High Priestess of the Tuatha Dé. Cedric had dared to imagine a free future for himself, and for his people, one where they could practice their traditions and pass them down with pride.

"Fuck it," Aldon whispered, standing up from the sofa. He couldn't handle these thoughts, not without a drink in hand, and while he knew perfectly well that Neal was periodically running through his manor looking for drugs, Neal hadn't touched his father's port and brandy collection. It was perhaps a little too fine for him to get drunk on, but it wasn't as if he had anything else to hand. And it wasn't as if he didn't have enough galleons to resupply himself later.

It was the work of a few silent moments for him to slip down to his father's old chambers and pick out a barely opened bottle of brandy and find a glass. It was only a few minutes more for him to return to his rooms, pour himself half a glass, and to toss it back.

XXX

Francesca was lingering in her sitting room over a book, her body angled towards the file. Ummi, who seemed to have taken a particular shine to her, had seen to it that there was a roaring fire in her grate every evening. She loved watching the flames dance against the brick in her fireplace, and she never had to worry about cleaning up the ashes afterwards. Somehow, the elves just handled it.

She only wished she had more to read. It wasn't that she didn't have enough to do. Her days were spent working with the ACD, and with Aldon as busy as he was, she had taken over most of the drafting for the papers she needed to publish for AIM credit. After that, there was also her No-Maj curriculum to keep up with—she needed grades of some kind to get into college—and she would need to get into London at some point to write her SATs. But sometimes, in the evenings, she just wanted to relax by her lovely fire with a romance novel. She had a few with her, her favourites, but by now she had read them over a hundred times.

There was a pop, and Francesca turned to see Ummi in her sitting room.

"Ummi apologizes for the interruption," the elf squeaked, proper. "But Miss's help is needed."

Francesca blinked, taken aback. "I'm sorry?" she asked, sitting up, but Ummi only caught her by the hand and Apparated.

Francesca stifled a yelp as she landed heavily in a new room. It was dark, not one that she had seen before. One wall was lined with bookshelves, stuffed to overflowing, while a side table held an elegant chess set themed with dragons. It was cold, with no fire burning in the fireplace, and she pulled her wool cardigan a little tighter around her shoulders.

A few steps to the closest window, where she could just see a bit of light bleeding into the room. Below her, lit by several light globes, she could just make out the familiar shapes of the Rosier sculpture garden and a few other identifying features of the manor. She was still at Rosier Place, at least, only in a part of it she hadn't seen before—most likely the family quarters.

There was a rustle behind her, the sound of ice cubes clinking in a glass, and she whipped around. Ummi was nowhere to be seen and she realized that the lump in the darkness, seated at one end of the sofa, was Aldon. He didn't seem to have noticed her entrance via house-elf.

She hesitated, looking around again, before she drew the rune for light in the air and flicked it onto the ceiling. Most of the lights in Rosier Place were not easily coded for her use, and even if her light was a little weak, it was better than nothing.

The amber in his glass was something strong, she knew that much from the scent floating through the air. And Aldon had had a little too much of it, she guessed, from the fact that the bottle was half-empty.

She approached him carefully. He hadn't moved, hadn't given any indication that he knew that she was there.

With no little trepidation, she leaned down beside him.

He was still handsome—his hair was mussed, his eyes bloodshot, and his hands were trembling, but his skin was even and flawless and nothing could obscure the delicate gold of his eyes. His arms had bulked a little over the last year as he had gotten more in shape, but he would never have the broad shoulders that John had. He was slender, built more for speed than he was for strength.

She reached for the glass, prying his fingers from the cold crystal. It was a pretty tumbler, mostly empty, and she put it down on the coffee table just out of reach.

"Aldon," she murmured, trying to work out what she was supposed to do. This wasn't something she had ever learned how to do—Archie and Hermione, as far as she could tell, never drank to excess and the few times she had seen John drunk, he had been very much a happy drunk, and Gerry had been there to look after him. Faleron was practically a teetotaller, mentioning something once about how he had cared for enough drunk people as a class monitor that he simply wasn't interested in the experience.

Faleron was good at taking care of people. John was good at taking care of people. Archie and Hermione, passionate Healers both, were good at taking care of people. Francesca was decidedly not, and she had next to no idea what she was supposed to do.

Aldon hadn't moved from his position, so she rested one hand on his arm. "Aldon."

He stirred, blinking. "Francesca," he muttered. "You shouldn't be here."

She didn't know how to respond to that. She chose to ignore it.

"How much, um, have you had to drink?" She picked up the bottle of brandy beside her, though she had no idea what she was looking at. 45% alcohol content by volume, though the bottle itself didn't seem to be very big.

"Not enough." Aldon sighed, a deep and heavy outtake of breath, reaching for the half-empty glass that Francesca quickly nudged further out of his reach. "You shouldn't be here, Francesca. Rather, I am doubtful that you are. Why would you be in my rooms, at this hour? It is enough—more than enough—that you are here at Rosier Place. And you shouldn't be."

Aldon didn't slur his words, but Francesca knew he was drunk anyway. He moved too slowly, like he was underwater, and his voice had a despondent, hopeless quality that she had never heard before. As long as she had known him, he had always had spirit. Aldon looked forward, with a tunnel-like focus, towards the world he wanted.

When he spoke, Aldon was sharp. His words were bright notes in the air, said in a musical cadence that Francesca wasn't sure anyone else heard. If he was intrigued, pleased, or even happy, his words danced in the air, as sure as Francesca's feet in a competition—if he was angry or upset, his words became daggers, mocking barbs that dug into his opponent and stuck. These words were too flat, too monotone, one note when Francesca was used to hearing a symphony.

He was still talking.

"You should be somewhere safe. Somewhere in America, maybe, with that other man, the one that Neal said was good at duelling. Or maybe you should be in Switzerland, with John—or at least, you should be at Queenscove with Neal and his family. They would be able to protect you. They have spelled walls. I don't have walls, and I can't protect you. I can't protect anyone. With all the information I hear, I still can't use it to make a difference. I hear about things, but they're always too late—always too late. And I don't have the skill to go out and fight. I don't even know if I can hold Rosier Place. I certainly couldn't without my mother, and Moody, and the trainees."

Francesca paused. She didn't know if there was any point in trying to reason with Aldon now, but she wasn't sure what else where was to do. It couldn't hurt, in any case.

"You could always ask for help," she said, resting one hand on his arm. "Every—the other safehouses all have at least one unit stationed there. Queenscove has two units assigned to them. Even Grimmauld Place has one. It's not—it's not weakness to ask for help, Aldon."

"As if they wouldn't turn on me," Aldon muttered rudely. "They all hate me anyway. Too Dark, too much a traditional pureblood, too much SOW Party. Too many connections to the other side. As if I didn't throw that entire future away, my closest friends with it, when I channelled Justice for Archie's bloody trial. And now I have to do counter-intelligence work along with everything else, and I can't even keep my promises to write those papers with you and help with the ACD. Bloody wonderful."

"I don't—I understand that you're busy, Aldon," Francesca tried, even less sure that Aldon understood that she was really in his rooms, trying to make sense of this situation. He bounced from topic to topic in a way that only he could understand. "Don't you think, um, it might be time for you to go to bed? You can, um, think through these things in the morning."

"I don't want to go to bed," Aldon complained. "I want to drink. I want to keep my promises. I want Cedric to be alive so that he can have all the children he wanted, and they can all go to those Muggle Welsh public schools he told me about. I want this war to be over, and I want to mean something. I want my existence to mean something. I want to be something, so that I can look at you and be someone you'd want, and you might love me. You're so beautiful, Francesca, and you're brilliant, and you—you're like me. You want."

Francesca had no idea what to say to that. The beauty and brilliance, that was one thing—Francesca expected that. People said she was beautiful all the time, people had whispered about it at AIM, and the comments about brilliance had come often enough after the ACD was showcased in the Tournament. Faleron had always called her beautiful and brilliant too, but it was Aldon's last few words that stuck in her mind, buzzing.

She was like him. She wanted. And everyone wanted, but she knew without having to think about it exactly what Aldon meant.

"You want to belong, the way I want somewhere to belong. You have one foot in the Muggle world, one in the magical world, the way I have one foot in pureblood Society and another in… something else. You and I, we don't belong anywhere and… and I thought—I hoped—we might belong together, that I might be enough—but I'm not." Aldon took a deep breath. "Everything here—it's not enough. I don't even know if I want it to be enough, because if you were drawn to something like my wealth, that wouldn't be… But I want to be able to give you everything. The best of everything—"

He stopped rambling, but only because Francesca had leaned forward and pressed her lips against his.

He tasted bitter, a mix of heady, pungent brandy and salt tears. Even so, his lips were soft and warm, and she felt his hand tighten around her waist. She stumbled, falling onto him, but her outstretched hands didn't catch on the back of the sofa as she had intended. Instead, even inebriated, he caught her and pulled her flush against him, and her arms looped around his neck instead.

His skin was hot, almost fevered, and he returned her kiss with a desperation that Francesca should have found terrifying. Instead, her arms around his neck tightened. They broke apart for a single breath, but Aldon's lips were on hers again, rough and heated and needy as if he couldn't be so lucky again in life and she found herself responding with the same fervour that had so gripped him. A second kiss led to a third, led to a fourth and a fifth, and her fingers were clumsy in the back of his hair. Only Aldon's fingers against her bare skin, from where he had slipped a hand just under the hem of her nightgown, brushing her thighs, brought her back to herself.

She shouldn't be doing this. He was drunk. He was very, very drunk and no doubt he was only doing this because he was drunk, and he didn't think she was real. She pulled herself away, panting and praying that Aldon was far too inebriated to notice the deep flush coming across her face.

"Bed," she choked out, hurriedly straightening her gown and tugging her cardigan back in place. "Please, Aldon. Bed. Things will look better in the morning, and—and you're enough. You're—you'll always be enough, so please. Bed."

He blinked at her, a slow blink that made her wonder if he, for perhaps the first time, realized that she was really there. He coughed, a blush spreading over his cheeks. "Er—yes. Perhaps—perhaps that is wise."

There was an awkward pause, as Francesca waited for him to make good on his word. Instead, for one heart-pounding moment, he simply stared at her, his eyes focusing on her bare legs. She cleared her throat pointedly, and he stood up so quickly he staggered. Without thinking about it, she caught his arm and steadied him, then nodded in the direction of a doorway that she guessed was his bedroom.

"I'm going," he muttered, casting his eyes away from her. "I'm—I'm going."

And he did, only stumbling a few steps along the way, to collapse face-first onto his unmade bed.

Francesca made to shut the door behind him, then thought better of it and left it open. She shouldn't stay, but she knew what John and Faleron would have said about that. Aldon was drunk enough that someone needed to keep an eye on him. It wasn't likely that she would get a glass of water into him now, as much as he needed it, but someone would need to make sure he didn't roll over in his sleep, that he stayed on his side so that if he threw up, he wouldn't choke on it.

Sighing, she turned around to the low-lying table, on which sat the bottle of brandy and the half empty glass. She considered it for a moment, not sure what to do, then shook her head and clapped her hands twice.

Ummi appeared. "Yes, Miss?"

Francesca frowned at the creature, who had Apparated her here and then effectively abandoned her to deal with Aldon alone. The house-elf's expression, though, carried nothing in it other than mild concern and bland professionalism, so Francesca simply pointed at the bottle and glass. "Would you—please."

"Of course, Miss." Ummi collected the bottle and glass. "Is there anything else Ummi may do for Miss?"

"Um." Francesca glanced back at the bedroom door, ajar, and sighed again. "A pillow, blanket and a roaring fire, please."

XXX

AN: What a fun chapter! Thanks very much to meek_bookworm, who helped me clean up the Saoirse bits a lot, and then gave me Actually Good Latin to use because I don't know any Actually Good Latin. Leave me a comment or a review-they are the fuel that feeds more, and each one of them inspires me to keep that buffer strong so that chapters come out on time!