Chapter Text
Aldon studied the IPO closely, one finger tapping the edge of the glossy paper. Lam Industries, the primary producer of electro-magical shielding polymers but also the quiet company behind the explosive new Assistive Casting Device, had finally released an initial public offering. That meant they were close.
Soon, Lam Industries would be releasing the ACD onto the public market, where it was poised to make millions. Only a fool couldn’t have seen it—the ACD had made its first appearance on the AIM team in the 1995 Triwizard Games, though Aldon had missed it then. He had missed it, because even if he had been on the Beauxbatons team, they had been in a different pool entirely and he hadn’t had any reason to watch the AIM games. He had been too preoccupied with the strategy for his brother Antoine, always the most combat-oriented of the Rosier siblings, to pay much attention to anything other than their next game.
Anais had mentioned it to him afterwards. Watching from Beauxbatons, she had seen the innovation firsthand, but hadn’t been able to give him many details. He could hardly blame her for it, though—aside from it being completely novel, Anais had only been a third year and she had never been interested in magical theory anyway. She had only raised it because she knew Aldon would be disappointed at missing it, and because it was the duty of younger sisters everywhere to annoy their older brothers.
It didn’t matter—the ACD appeared again in the Triwizard Tournament in 1999, on the arm of Jessa Yuanling Queenscove, and this time the device brought the victory home to Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. That same year, John Jacob Kowalski became the youngest person to ever win an international duelling title with his triple threat of wand, ACD, and Natural Legilimency.
There were whispers, too, that the ACD had found a home on the battlefield. It was said that MACUSA had funded and fully equipped their military Auror force with ACDs by 2001, before invading Afghanistan; the ACD had also found its way into the hands of certain of the factions grappling for control of the former Wizarding Britain.
Aldon took a moment to give thanks for the fact that his parents had seen fit to leave Britain long ago. While Wizarding Ireland and Scotland had claimed their independence more than five years ago, England and Wales itself was still mired in conflict. A resistance government, formerly backed by MACUSA and still supported by Muggle Britain, held the seat of government in London and the surrounding environs, but the remainder of the country had splintered into warring factions. There were warlords dominating the English North and at least a half-dozen groups with different ideologies and goals fighting over the rest. It was bad enough that the French Ministry now had a permanent Auror station in Calais, monitoring the English Channel.
Suffice it to say, the British economy had been destroyed over nearly a decade of war. Whatever wealth and status Maman and Papa had left behind, it would have surely gone up in flames by now.
He looked back down at the IPO. Dry business planning and past statistics hid the sheer genius of the ACD, and he wouldn’t be the first in line to do business with Lam Industries. The Rosier Group would invest in the company, of course, but Aldon couldn’t help a greater curiosity.
Lam Industries was an American company. They would need further assistance to conduct business in France, or even the greater Wizarding Europe. There were bigger contracts on the line, if only Aldon could figure out how to get them.
“Anais!” Aldon stood up from his desk. His sister, also his assistant, poked her head in the room. “I need all the information you can find me on Lam Industries and every past news mention of the ACD and its inventor that you can find. As soon as possible.”
Anais made a face, tucking a loose strand of light brown hair behind an ear. “It’s almost five, Aldon. I’m going drinking with Lucie in Oberkampf—there’s a new bar where the drinks come out on fire, like literal fire. The reservations were hard to get! I’ll get a start on it tomorrow morning, all right?”
Aldon sighed, shutting his eyes in annoyance, and reached for his laptop. It wasn’t all right, but he knew that Anais would take off anyway, so he’d start on the research himself.
A week or so of dedicated research, and Aldon didn’t have much. He had a name behind the invention: Francesca Lam. She had been John Jacob Kowalski’s strategist in the 1995 Triwizard Tournament, a fact that he had found out by digging up his own decade old Triwizard booklet. He hadn’t found a connection to the Queenscoves, but then, the American schools were notoriously close-knit. He supposed she could have met Jessa Queenscove at any North American interschool event.
The key had been a search in the Muggle world—he found a notice that she had won a grant from the American military in 1997 for the development of the ACD. The project description called it the Assistive Comodulation Device, and the blurb underneath said absolutely nothing at all, unless one was a mage and could read right through it. This was the ACD, and Francesca Lam was its inventor.
What he knew about her personally was significantly less than what he could surmise about the ACD itself. Once he found her name, he was able to trace her academic papers in the Wizarding world, but Francesca Lam herself was an unknown. He didn’t even have a picture of her—while they were in the same Triwizard Tournament, Beauxbatons traditionally had little to do with the North American League. Perhaps that had been a missed opportunity to get in on the ground level, but it wasn’t as if he could have known that then.
The name said she was of Chinese descent, so Aldon pictured her slight, with dark hair and eyes. Glasses—most Asians he knew wore glasses or contact lenses, and a genius inventor probably especially so. Jeans and sweatshirts had been the standard uniform of engineering students when he had been at university, so that was what he imagined her in. It wasn’t very flattering, but his experience suggested that Americans generally cared less about their personal appearance than the French.
Well, that didn’t matter. Francesca Lam was too successful for anyone to comment on her personal appearance, and anyway, he wasn’t going to date her. He wanted to do business with her, and for that, she could wear a burlap sack for all he cared.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The Rosier Group, under his advice, had already bought significant shares in Lam Industries, and it was time that he invited Lam Industries to sit down with him to explore other potential business avenues.
Lam Industries agreed.
It took eight weeks to receive a response, and then another four weeks to arrange a meeting at all, but they agreed. Even if bigger companies had to be knocking on their doors, looking for the same opportunities as Aldon, they had chosen The Rosier Group to begin discussions. And to his surprise, Francesca Lam herself would be meeting with him. In Paris, at Aldon’s own offices.
These were all very good signs. He had no doubt that they had researched The Rosier Group as thoroughly as he had researched Lam Industries, and it was excellent that, at least at this stage, they liked what they saw. The Rosier Group could find itself consulting on European business affairs for the American company, or even better, directly involved in the public rollout of the ACD. Either way, this was certainly a multi-million-euro contract, and he intended to treat it as such.
It was nearly four in the afternoon. In April, late afternoon light still streamed through the windows, and the sun wouldn’t set for a few hours yet. That, too, was good and planned—if things went well, Aldon would invite a continuation of the discussion over dinner, and everyone knew that the French had practically invented fine dining.
Being Aldon Étienne Rosier, he had already booked the reservation. For four, because Lam had advised she’d be bringing an associate, and Anais would be present for notes. Whatever his sister’s faults (irresponsibility and lack of ambition being key among them), she had a good memory and would be able to write an accurate memorandum of the meeting the next day.
At four-fifteen, Francesca Lam walked into the boardroom, and Aldon’s brain stopped.
It couldn’t be her. The woman who walked in the door was nothing like Aldon had imagined—she was Asian, yes, with dark hair and eyes, but there were no glasses on her face, and she was certainly not dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Her suit was obviously custom-tailored, and she wore pointed, two-inch heels that showed no sign of scuff marks. Her tights were dark, but nothing could hide her shapely legs, and when Aldon dragged his eyes back up to her face, he was instantly transfixed by the amused expression on her face. Her dark eyes were large, framed with long lashes, and her pink lips were curved into a small smile.
“Francesca Lam,” the woman introduced herself, holding out a hand to shake. Aldon took it, not quite knowing what to say. “With me is my associate, John Kowalski.”
“Er—” Aldon cleared his dry throat. “Aldon Rosier. My assistant, Anais Rosier. I—er—I’m glad to make your acquaintance.”
“I am as well.” The angel smiled wider at him, and Aldon was struck with the need to sit down. Immediately.
He heard a smothered laugh behind him. “Can I get anyone a drink?” Anais offered, gracefully interceding and smacking Aldon on the back where Lam and Kowalski couldn’t see her doing it. “Water? Juice? Soda?”
“Just water will be fine,” Lam replied with another charming smile. Americans, they smiled too much, but Aldon would happily take that where Lam was concerned. “Mr. Rosier, shall we sit down and get to business? I know it is getting late in your work day—thank you for accommodating me. I just flew over today, and only touched down a few hours ago.”
Aldon kicked his addled brain into some semblance of functioning. “It’s no trouble at all,” he replied, turning around and pulling a chair out for her, before he registered her associate’s name and checked his failing Occlumency shields. “Er—John Kowalski, is it? As in … John Jacob Kowalski? The duelling star?”
The man smirked at him—six feet tall, there was a laugh in his voice that said that he had read perfectly Aldon’s thoughts in the few minutes when Aldon’s Occlumency shields had faltered. “That’s right,” he said agreeably, pulling out his own chair and sitting down beside Lam. “Though I have a day job, too, with MACUSA’s delegation in Geneva.”
“Not with Lam Industries?” Aldon frowned slightly.
“That’s my fault.” Lam’s voice as apologetic. “John is really more of a sibling to me than anything else, and coming into Europe… well, with my public stance in the Wizarding British conflict, I’ve received threats. I don’t normally travel with a guard, but when I’m going places I’m not familiar with, I have to take precautions. Since this is just a preliminary meeting, I didn’t think it would be a problem. My apologies.”
“If you have a lunchroom or something, I can hang out there if you want.” John smiled wryly.
“It’s no trouble, none at all,” Aldon replied, waving a hand. It was unorthodox, but the chances they would get into serious business negotiations here were unlikely. As Lam had said, this was a preliminary meeting—indeed, if Lam liked The Rosier Group, formal contracts would be drawn up by their lawyers, not by them. Anais had come back in the interim, setting a pitcher of water on the table with four glasses. “Please. How can the Rosier Group help you?”
The beautiful woman laughed. “Well, considering it was you that reached out to us, I thought you might want to give us a presentation of how you think you can help us?”
Aldon smiled back, reaching for a remote on the table to turn on his powerpoint. Of course, he had prepared a presentation—he had simply hoped that she would lay out what she was looking for, and then he’d be able to tailor his presentation towards her needs. But it didn’t matter, because he already had some guesses.
“The Rosier Group has its foundations as an investment company in the wizarding world. However, in the past twenty years, we have been at the forefront of integrating into the Muggle world, with Muggle investments alongside wizarding ones, and we have done very well. We have a limited line in venture capitalism, particularly with wizarding innovations, and in the last five years we’ve expanded into business consulting.”
“This office here is the headquarters of the consulting branch, isn’t it?” Lam asked, though the expression on her face said she knew the answer to that. She, too, had done her research. “You’re the head of the consulting group?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’d like to know what other projects you’ve worked on in the past,” Lam said, giving the powerpoint a cursory glance. It was the profit margins the company had brought in over the last five years. “And more about your experience in magical innovations.”
“Of course,” Aldon replied, and he skipped ahead to his major accomplishments with his company in the last five years. Since his graduation from Beauxbatons, he had made it into the Montpellier Business School, practically a ticket into any consulting or financial services firm he wanted. But rather than working for anyone else, he had opened the Paris office of The Rosier Group. He considered himself very good at his work, but the consulting department of The Rosier Group was only about five years old. He couldn’t boast of the successes larger companies could.
That was, of course, one reason why he wanted this contract so badly. To win a Lam Industries contract would open doors to more contracts.
He could see that she was interested, her dark eyes following his every gesture as she listened to his words. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but be distracted; every minute shift in her expression made him want to stop and re-examine her face all over again. Her golden skin was flawless, her eyebrows carefully manicured. Her eyes seemed to hold some secret amusement, especially when they flickered periodically to Kowalski’s, when her lips would also twitch as if she were suppressing a smile.
Aldon could only hope that his words still made sense, because his head was spinning at every tiny hint of a smile.
“That’s all very good,” Lam said, when he had finished with a recounting of The Rosier Group’s work with other new magitech companies. Her voice was soft, but there was an undercurrent of iron strength to it that called to him and made him pay attention. “And what is your interest in the ACD specifically?”
“It’s a stunning magical development,” Aldon replied clumsily, casting about for something else to say. That was such a bland and typical answer, but what else was he to say? Was he to point out exactly how much money she held in her hands, or the future benefit to The Rosier Group? “I’ve long been interested in the ACD—I studied a concentration in magical theory when I was at Beauxbatons, and I was in the 1995 Triwizard Tournament when it was first showcased. I’ve been following the developments since.”
His core bristled a little bit—he hadn’t lied outright, only come close, but he hadn’t been following very strictly and his core let him know it. There was a twitch of Kowalski’s eyebrow, and another glance between Kowalski and Lam.
Oddly, Lam nodded, then turned back to Aldon. “Lam Industries is a smaller company than people normally expect. Our primary line in the last few years has been magical shielding polymers, and while we do ship worldwide, I have very little by way of a distribution network in Europe. I am looking to collaborate with a company that will manage the distribution contracts throughout France, and on a long-term basis. However, as you no doubt know, my company is not without controversy. I strongly support the English Republic in the Wizarding British conflict, and I do supply their armed forces with ACDs. My support of the English Republic is… an issue that is close to my heart. Anyone I work with in Europe must respect this, and must be able to respond to any questions on this in a way that is consistent with my public stance.”
“That is no issue,” Aldon assured her, spotting the line she was drawing in the sand. The English Republic was one of the many factions warring over control of the former Wizarding Britain, and held control over Manchester, Liverpool, and part of northern Wales. As he understood it, the English Republic was made up largely of halfbloods and Muggleborns educated abroad under the discriminatory policies of the former Wizarding Britain. No doubt Lam had school friends who were on that side of the conflict, making it personal.
Aldon had always considered himself French, though he was British by birth. He didn’t follow the events in the former Wizarding Britain closely, though Maman and Papa did. Maman supported the aims of the English Republic, while Papa was more strongly inclined towards the central government. The central government was, as he put it, mainly what he called “Light-sided” nobles who at least had experience in governance, and who had generally been opposed to the blood discrimination policies of the former Wizarding Britain.
Aldon couldn’t say he had an excellent understanding of the current state of Wizarding England, but that didn’t stop him from using what he did have to his advantage.
“I was born in Wizarding Britain, actually,” he started with a smile. “But since my mother is a Muggleborn, my father moved us to France when I was very young, at great personal cost. We’re very sympathetic to the aims of the English Republic.”
“The Rosier Group as a whole?” Lam tilted her head, her expression serious. “Not just you and your family?”
“The Rosier Group remains a family-controlled firm,” Aldon replied. “l am confident in my ability to handle any questions about your stance on the Wizarding British conflict in a way that you would approve.”
“I see.” Lam smiled again, and it felt a kick to his chest. Aldon swallowed, hoping that it would go unnoticed. “Family is important to me, and that’s very much a draw. I’m glad to have spoken with you, and I’m sure John and I have kept you beyond your working hours. I will certainly consider your firm carefully.”
“Er—” Aldon cleared his throat, checking the time on the clock on the wall. It was indeed after five, but he had timed their meeting well. “If I may invite you and Mr. Kowalski to dinner? Paris is a lovely city, and my sister and I know some wonderful spots.”
Lam tilted her head at Kowalski, who shrugged slightly.
“Well, why not?” Lam turned back to look at him with another one of those heart-stopping smiles. “Lead the way.”
There had been wine at dinner.
Aldon liked wine. He liked the free, easy confidence that wine gave him, and there was also something to be said about the classiness of wine. He was in business, and he aimed for the upper echelons of his profession, so of course there was wine.
Wine, however, did not like him. He was never messy when he was drunk—one would never say that he overindulged, especially at a business dinner, but that self-same free and easy confidence tended to lead him on paths that, in retrospect, might not have been a good idea.
Such as, for example, an invitation to a family dinner in Montpellier, to ensure that Lam was fully assured of his family’s position on the Wizarding British issue and to build her confidence that The Rosier Group would be able to work on her affairs with professionalism, skill, and competence. This weekend.
She had been taken aback. And then, wine glass in hand, she had accepted.
Kowalski, who said he could simply be called John, looked as though he was choking back a laugh, and Anais didn’t look much different.
“But you’re not going to back down now, are you?” Anais asked the next morning, a mischievous smile on her face. “You never do.”
“No, of course not,” Aldon had replied, with a firm shake of his head. Papa was still the head of the Rosier Group, with its head offices in Marseille. Lam, or Francesca, as she asked to be called, would have had to meet Papa eventually anyway. The fact that it was in unorthodox circumstances was fine, absolutely fine. Aldon would make it work.
“Antoine’s off this weekend,” Anais volunteered.
Aldon cursed. His brother was the only member of the family who didn’t work for the family business, instead declaring at sixteen that business gave him headaches and that he would be entering the Auror Training Academy immediately after finishing at Beauxbatons. Antoine was also commonly considered the handsomest of the Rosier siblings; he had nearly half a foot on Aldon and broad shoulders that girls at Beauxbatons had routinely sighed over, and his light brown curls, bright gold eyes, and easy smile had led to a flood of cards every Valentine’s Day. It was a shock that it hadn’t all gone to his head.
“What, you don’t want Francesca meeting Antoine?”
“He’s not involved in the business.” Aldon wrinkled his nose. “This is still business, Anais. Even if it’s unorthodox.”
“Antoine still owns a voting share of the Rosier Group,” Anais pointed out with a shrug. “Enough to cause you problems if he wants.”
Aldon frowned at her—aside from her words, which were true and not at all concerning since Antoine had never taken an interest in the business, Anais was hiding something. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t what she was thinking. “What else is on your mind, Anais?”
Anais smirked. “I just wonder if business is the only reason this dinner is happening.”
Aldon scowled. “What else would it be?”
“What else, indeed?"
“It is my vacation, Aldon,” Antoine said, glaring down at Aldon. “I am not wearing a tie on my vacation. I hate ties, and I’ve spent the last five days in uniform. Tonight, I’m wearing sweatshirt and sweatpants.”
“This is an incredibly important meeting,” Aldon insisted, gesturing at the suit in Antoine’s closet. “A Lam Industries contract will expand The Rosier Group like you wouldn’t believe, and you do still have an interest in the business. Wouldn’t you like to buy an apartment of your own instead of renting with your friends?”
“Not really.” Antoine shrugged. “It’s not like I’m in the apartment a lot anyway—it’s just a place to sleep between shifts, since I Portkey home when I’m off for more than a day anyway. And I can afford the Portkey trips on my current income.”
“Well, what about the future, then?” Aldon gestured vaguely around him. “You’ll want a place of your own eventually. Or anything else. Money spends, Antoine.”
“And I have enough of it that I want.” Antoine sighed. “I’m not like you, Aldon—I’m generally happy with what I have, I’m not always looking to the next thing. Why is this happening here anyway? Why not in Marseille at a restaurant?”
“Because Francesca said that family was important to her,” Aldon hissed, even if his core burned. “It was a strategic decision!”
“Uh-huh.” Antoine’s eyes were knowing. “Or you were drinking.”
“Just put on something nicer than your sweatpants and sweatshirt,” Aldon snapped, giving up on the suit issue. It had been long enough since Antoine had to wear a suit that it probably wouldn’t fit him very well anymore anyway. “Please.”
Antoine sighed again. “You’ll owe me for this,” he said. “I’ll put on something presentable. Go on, go fuss at someone else.”
“I do not fuss,” Aldon replied with a scowl, just because he had to have the last word. Antoine’s laughter followed him out.
Anais was being surprisingly compliant, and had Aldon been less worried about the dinner itself, he would have wondered. Anais was not normally given to compliance, or rather—she tended to comply in a way that told Aldon exactly that she thought, which usually wasn’t very complimentary.
The scent of ras el hanout lingered in the dining room. Aldon breathed deeply, picking out the scents of cumin, cinnamon, coriander, paprika, and a dozen other spices. Maman had pulled out the tajine, and a sneak peek revealed tajin zitoun, a chicken and olives dish with couscous. A nearly-full bottle of olive oil sat on the table, beside a dish piled high with flatbread and a bowl of fresh hummus. Plates of dolma and bourek were also there, and Aldon knew that Maman would be keeping a pot of harira warm on the stove.
Aldon loved Algerian food; it smelled like home. He hoped Francesca would like it, too.
“Mediterranean?” she asked when she arrived, and Aldon took her coat. She wasn’t wearing the formal suit that she had been in for his meeting, but rather a creamy knit dress that hugged her body in all the right ways. She didn’t need instructions to remove her boots, doing it without being asked. “I smell Mediterranean.”
“Algerian,” Aldon corrected with a smile. “My paternal grandmother was Algerian. She died before I was born, but Maman learned to cook the food for Papa.”
“That’s very romantic,” Francesca replied, with a smile of her own.
“A gift,” John added, handing over a bag. “You didn’t say what type of wine you preferred, and we’re sure that you’re used to French wines—so we brought two from California.”
“Much appreciated,” Aldon said, taking a glance at the bottles. He wasn’t familiar with these wines, though the labels said they were from the Sonoma Valley. He’d uncork them and set them on the table, along with the required wine glasses.
When he entered the dining room, he was unpleasantly surprised. Not by his parents, who had already engaged John in what appeared to be a free-flowing conversation at the table, but by Antoine.
Antoine, who had refused the suit and promised to be presentable. Antoine, who had fished out a forest-green, knit pullover, one that his brother knew damn well showed off his best features. Antoine, who had now taken the seat beside Francesca, and it didn’t take much to see that he was working hard at charming her silly.
Antoine didn’t even do charm. Not really.
“I am a, what you call it? An Auror, yes,” his brother was saying, pulling a smile that showed his dimple in great relief. “Now, I am stationed in Calais, at ze refugee camp zere… do you know Calais? Very close to Normandy, where zere is ze famous Mont-St-Michel. ‘Ave you been?”
The fake accent burned in Aldon’s core. It was a good accent, very accurate but—he and his siblings all spoke excellent English, a product of the fact that it was their first language.
“I haven’t,” Francesca admitted, with an embarrassed sort of smile. “It’s a walled city, isn’t it? I’d love to see it. I love castles and medieval history.”
“I would love to show you,” Antoine replied, still affecting that ridiculous accent. “I am free ze next two days. We may take ze Portkey to Rouen—”
“Cut it out,” Aldon snapped, smacking his brother on the back of the head on his way to the only remaining seat at the table, with was farther away from Francesca than he wanted. “Your fake accent is so bad that it hurts.”
“It’s not even believable,” Anais added, rolling her eyes. “Not when the rest of us speak English fine.”
Antoine smirked. “Ouais, mais l’accent français, it is le sexy, non?”
Much to Aldon’s annoyance, Francesca laughed.
If that were the only thing to have happened all dinner, Aldon would have left feeling quite satisfied. Maman interceded as the soup levitated out of the kitchen onto the table, asking questions about the ACD, and everything seemed to be going quite well. He and Maman showed genuine interest and technical, if theoretical, knowledge about the ACD, he and Papa demonstrated extensive business knowledge, Antoine and Anais didn’t talk much at all, and if they could have ended with that Aldon thought they’d have a contract signed within the next few months.
He hadn’t counted on Tante Line.
The front door slammed open with a bang, her distinctive voice ringing out through the front hallway into the dining room. “Mission ended sooner than expected—I would have thought a Red Serenity kingpin would have something like reasonable security, but apparently not.”
Tante Line stormed into the dining room, a vaguely disgusted look on her face, pulling out the empty chair beside Antoine. Maman already had a plate levitating towards her, along with a bowl of soup.
“I take it your mission went well then?” she asked mildly, while Aldon was mentally cursing. Not that he didn’t love Tante Line, but he would have preferred to keep his family’s association with a dangerous warmage quiet when they had business guests.
“Only a half-dozen guards, and they died fast,” Tante Line replied, glancing around the table. “Oh, guests?”
“Business,” Aldon gritted out. “Tante Line, please meet my business guests, Francesca Lam and John Kowalski. Francesca, John, my aunt, Lina Ducharme. She works as a mercenary.”
“Oh, Lam, like the ACD.” Tante Lina said with a friendly nod at Aldon’s guests. “Aldon’s been fascinated with the invention almost since it came out on the Triwizard circuit—does this mean there will be a publicly available ACD soon? I’d love to try one, though I’d really love to try one of the ones equipped on the American army mages—saw those used to great effect in Afghanistan and Iraq.”
Francesca laughed a little. “Unfortunately, those are American army issue only. The terms of the contract are clear. I can’t really speak about anything else right now.”
“Right now?” Tante Line smiled. “Then I’ll wait for the official announcements.”
“Which kingpin?” Antoine asked, leaning across the table towards Tante Line. “Don’t tell me it was Sejanus—”
“It was.”
Antoine winced. “He’s been supplying the Calais refugee camp with Red Serenity.”
“Good riddance then, right?” Tante Line reached over for a slice of flatbread. “You can’t like Red Serenity, Antoine—”
“I hear the high is pretty good,” Anais chipped in idly.
“Anais, if you ever touch Red Serenity, even your parents will not be able to save you from the hell you’ll get from me.” Tante Line’s statement was matter of fact, and Aldon’s glance at his parents showed that they were frowning at Anais as well.
“I don’t think this is appropriate dinner—” Aldon tried to interrupt, but Antoine spoke over him.
“I don’t like Red Serenity in the camps, Tante,” Antoine said with a sigh. “But you know what will happen if there isn’t any Red Serenity to be had. If there's no magic heroin, then they look for regular heroin, and if they can’t find or pay for that, then Krokodil. And then their flesh will be rotting off their bones, and the infections to be had—we don’t have enough Healers for that!”
“How are the refugee camps?” John cut in, looking interested. “Calais is the largest one in France, isn’t it? MACUSA has taken in a lot of Wizarding British refugees, but given the history, almost all of them assimilated into American society quickly.”
Antoine snorted derisively. “Because MACUSA and most of the other countries took in the refugees that were easiest to integrate, most of whom were educated in America anyway. You’re not handling people who don’t know how the basics of modern Muggle society. Merde, we have people who still insist on wearing their old, shabby robes, even if we’ve provided new clothing, just because the clothing is Muggle in style. And that’s nothing to say about the cultural gap. We have this young man in the camp that insists that he is a Lord, a Lord Nott, who keeps raging about poor treatment and having to eat with the masses—”
“The Notts are noble,” Papa cut in mildly. “Book of Silver.”
Antoine snorted again, showing exactly what he thought of that.
“You could show a little more compassion, Antoine,” Maman added with a frown. “Had your father and I not emigrated from Britain, it could have been us in there.”
“Oh, when did you leave?” Francesca asked, tilting her head slightly. “Aldon had mentioned being British by birth, and that the civil war was an issue of concern to you, but he didn’t give many details?”
There was a pause, as Maman and Papa exchanged a glance, but it was Tante Line that replied.
“1978,” she said, dipping another piece of flatbread into olive oil. “Bravest thing Evan ever did was leave Wizarding Britain and everything in it behind. Awful place, and with the scandal…”
“Lina.” Papa’s voice carried a note of warning.
“The scandal?” Francesca asked curiously.
“We were noble,” Anais said, with a bright smile. “Can you imagine that? With a grand wizarding manor and everything! One of us could still go back and claim it—”
“Anais!” Papa snapped, and Aldon winced. It was a lecture they had each gotten, and him and Antoine a second time after the war began—none of them were to go to the former Wizarding Britain, not for any reason, and especially not to look for their old manor. The time of the noble Rosiers was dead and closed, and they were not to reopen it.
“Wizarding England is a wildfire, one that burns everyone and everything in its path,” Papa was snarling. “Being noble is meaningless and in this war, worse than meaningless. Most of the nobles are dead, do you understand me? They were targets, and they died for it. There is nothing in that country for us.”
“There is the manor,” Anais muttered, looking away.
“A manor in Kent.” Evan looked at John. “Mr. Kowalski, from your work at the ICW, do you know who holds Kent presently?”
John shrugged. “Last I heard, it was the Save Our World Party—the one revived under Dawlish, I mean. But the offshoots under Travers and Mulciber have been gaining some traction lately, and of course the Lestrange fringe is as unpredictable as ever, so I can’t say they still hold it. Kent is a good staging ground for an assault on the Light government in London, so it’s hotly contested. Changes week by week, sometimes.”
“And what’s the status of the Light government right now?” Evan asked, though it sounded more like a demand. “How long can they hold out?”
John shook his head. “I’m not a war analyst. I couldn’t tell you—though I know the financial backing of both the No-Maj British state and MACUSA is propping them up.”
“Depends on the rest of the situation.” Tante Line added, taking a drink from her wine glass. “Fortunately for Lord Potter and his government, Voldemort’s remnants are mostly jostling for position against each other right now. No one wants the Lestrange fringe, but they’re being backed by the Russians who love chaos, and of course there’s the power struggle between Dawlish, Travers and Mulciber. Dawlish has widespread popular support, plus French financial backing—”
At that, Maman and Papa grimaced, and Aldon felt like grimacing himself.
“Well, the idea of bringing back Riddle’s government has more appeal when you consider they’ve been at war for years,” Tante Line said practically, rolling her eyes. “And the French Ministry of Magic wants stability, whoever wins, and they don’t believe the Light government or the English Republic can bring stability. I suppose the good news for you is that the English Republic’s hold in the north is strong; between their widespread international support and their defensive pacts with the northern border lords, Scotland, and Ireland, the Republic should hold out even if London falls. But they don’t have the strength to take the whole country, not without seriously overextending their forces. The only question is where their borders end up being. My guess is that it would probably end up near Birmingham.”
“Not that helpful,” Antoine grumbled. “Judging from the comments I get, half the refugees wouldn’t want to live in a state where Muggleborns and halfbloods have equal rights anyway.”
“That’s not true, Antoine.” Maman sighed. “I’m sure most of the people in the refugee camp are willing to adapt, but they’ve been through a lot. Don’t take it personally.”
“Hard not to take it personally when people are screaming Mudblood at you.” Antoine scowled, but he turned back to his plate and let it go.
“We shouldn’t discuss politics at the table,” Aldon said, capitalizing on the opportunity to divert the attention from the war across the channel. “What is it that people say? Don’t discuss politics or religion at the table?”
“Works for me,” Anais said quickly, shooting Aldon an evil grin. “Say, Aldon, how’s that dry spell coming along?”
Aldon choked. “Excuse me?”
“How long has that been now?” Antoine asked, sounding for all the world as if he was just curious. “There was Pauline at Beauxbatons, though you’re uptight enough I doubt you slept with her, then Héloise when you were at business school…”
“I kind of liked her,” Anais said reflectively. “She cried for weeks when you dumped her to move to Paris, you know. She thought you were the one. And since then, nothing. It’s been five years, and you don’t go out, you don’t meet anyone—”
“Maybe he hires escorts,” Antoine suggested, reaching for his wine glass. “It seems like the kind of thing Aldon would do, it keeps the everything business—”
“I most certainly do not hire escorts!” Aldon burst out, feeling his face flaming bright red. “I’ve simply been busy! Getting a consulting business up and running takes time!”
“But you have been taking time for yourself, right?” Maman asked, sounding more concerned than anything else. “Life is about more than just working, Aldon, you’re only young once, and I worry about you working so hard and so far away...”
“I’m perfectly fine, Maman,” Aldon tried, with a panicked glance over at his guests. Both Francesca and John looked entertained, and he could feel the Lam Industries contract slipping away from his grasp. “I do take time to relax, to meet people—”
“He doesn’t,” Anais objected. “When was the last time you went home before ten at night? I’ve been to his apartment, Maman, he lives off takeaway and I’ve never seen any evidence of a girl. Never.”
“You’re not getting any younger, Aldon,” Papa added with a small frown. “I never approved of the tradition of arranging marriages among nobles, but I have to say that I would have liked some grandchildren by now.”
“I haven’t had time!” Aldon insisted, by now hoping that this whole dinner was a dream, and that he would wake up shortly and discover that it was still Saturday morning. “When the business is going smoothly—”
“I mean, if it’s really been five years since his last, you know,” Anais said thoughtfully, “it would explain why he has a stick up his butt all the time at work.”
“I do not have a stick up my butt!”
“You define stick up your butt.” Antoine rolled his eyes.
“Come on, everyone,” John interceded with a small laugh. “He doesn’t need to be seeing anyone to have a complete life, you know.”
It was salvation from an unlikely quarter, and Aldon grabbed at it. “Exactly, and—”
“A hand does perfectly fine.”
Aldon wilted.
The rest of the dinner was a lost cause. Anais spoke about the latest bars and clubs she had gone to in Paris, and Papa lectured her on her behaviour; Antoine, John, and Tante Line talked about the latest duelling circuit events, while Francesca and Maman discussed other magitech developments. Aldon had some small measure of revenge by revealing that Anais had been seeing someone, though she had shrugged and said it was a casual thing for now, but he wasn’t lucky enough to pin Antoine on anything at all despite prodigious use of his gift.
It was embarrassing enough that he felt the need to apologize, walking Francesca out the door at the end of the night. John had been held back, discussing something about physical training regimens with Antoine, and for a blessed, blessed moment, Aldon and Francesca were alone.
“I’m deeply sorry about tonight,” Aldon said, letting an embarrassed smile slip onto his face. “It… did not go as I’d planned.”
“Oh, I enjoyed myself well enough,” Francesca reassured him. She was, however, exceptionally polite, and Aldon thought she would have said that no matter what happened.
“I do hope you’ll continue to keep The Rosier Group in mind for your future expansions of Lam Industries,” Aldon replied, somewhat listless since he had no real hope that she would. “Despite tonight, we are an excellent firm, and I remain open to any questions you might have.”
“Of course,” Francesca said with a nod. “I do have a question, actually.”
“Ask.”
“Was this supposed to be a business dinner, or a date?” Francesca’s smile turned mischievous. “And if it was a business dinner, when were you planning on asking me on a date?”