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August 1997
“You’ll be all right,” Maman said, and even if it was a statement, Neal heard the question lodged inside. Heathrow Aeroport was bustling, and while Terminal M was indeed open, wizarding flights hadn’t yet been re-established. It was less than six weeks after the end of the war.
“Yes, Maman,” Neal replied, suppressing the roll of his eyes. Papa, Graeme, and Kel had gone home weeks ago; most of the rest of the units at Queenscove had followed shortly thereafter. They had homes to go to, a country to build or rebuild, as the case may be. Only Yuki had stayed behind with him. “I’m just clearing up a few things. I haven’t really left Queenscove since—well, since before the war, and I’ll need to test whether I can. But as soon as I can, Maman, I’m coming home.”
“Hmm.” His mother, a full head shorter than him, looked up with consideration.
“What is it?”
Maman was silent for a minute or so, mulling over her thoughts. “It would not be so bad if you did not,” she said slowly. “This is—this is a country that you have fought for, Yuanren, and that is no small thing. Having fought for it, you should consider keeping what you have won.”
“What have I won?” Neal spread his hands helplessly. “I didn’t want this, Maman. I want to be home in Montreal—not a Lord, not anything. I’m just going to stay here long enough to make sure the peace lasts, make sure that all of the people who fought with us at Queenscove are well-settled, that the borders for both Queenscove and between England and Scotland are secured, and that no one assassinates the provisional government before they really get settled in to work.”
Maman smiled, a little amused. “Stormwing Avery was recently named the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—I hardly think you have to worry about any plots, Yuanren. They are her responsibility, not yours, and she is well-equipped to find them.”
“Still. I want to make sure everyone who fought with us are fine before I come home,” Neal said firmly. “Most of them were American-trained, and they want positions in the Ministry, with the Aurors, at the hospital… I think we have a responsibility to make sure they’re fine before we leave. Before I leave.”
“If you say so,” Maman said agreeably, before reaching up to him for a hug. “I love you. Do come home—when you can.”
“I will,” Neal promised. “Soon.”
December 1998
Yuki’s eyes were fixed on a Healing textbook, the way that they had been every day for the last week. She already had her Healing licence from Mahoutokoro, with a specialty in Magical Disease, so Neal had no idea why she was studying. But she had a stack of Neal’s old textbooks piled on the table beside her, while she took careful notes from them in a neat hand in a notebook.
“What are you doing?” Neal asked eventually, stopping to rest one hand on her shoulder. Yuki was—well, he knew what he’d like her to be, but there was time for that later. They were still young, and he wasn’t in a rush. It could wait until they were home, in Montreal.
“Refreshing my Healing knowledge,” Yuki said, after a pause to find the right words. “The Healer’s Guild Requalification Tests are sitting in January, and I would like to work. Hopefully they will process the results quickly, but I should be able to get a job at St. Mungo’s or your new hospital while waiting for the results.”
“You don’t have to,” Neal replied, frowning and feeling very awkward. “I can get you a job at the Queenscove Hospital. The gods know you’ve earned it, what with your work during the war.”
He hadn’t intended on opening a hospital, but there hadn’t been one in Scotland and there was a need after the war. Most of the Queenscove Healers from the war had been American-trained, and St. Mungo’s was proving to be extraordinarily recalcitrant about hiring any foreign-trained Healers. Most of the last year and a half had been advocating with the Healer’s Guild for a satisfactory requalification process, plus building and opening the new hospital for Northern England and Scotland.
He had money. It was important work, so he did it. He hadn’t really wanted it named after him, much preferring The Magical Hospital of Northern England and Scotland, but he’d been voted down.
“I don’t want people saying I got the job simply because you are my boyfriend, Neal,” Yuki chided with a small smile. “It is better that I go through the official channels and requalify to practice Healing here, than to rely on nepotism.”
“Yes, but…”
“But?”
Neal sighed. “Just—I don’t you going to extra trouble, Yuki. We’re not going to be here forever. Just another year or so, make sure everything with the Healer’s Guild and the new hospital is going fine, then we’ll go back home to Montreal. You’d have to requalify in Canada too, so it seems like a lot of trouble for a year’s work that I can just get you because of the extraordinary circumstances.”
“Mmhmm.” Yuki shot him an amused look. “Well, it’s my trouble, and the review will be good for requalifying in Canada as well. And I’ll be able to work properly in the meantime, until you’re ready to leave.”
“All right.” Neal smiled and let it go, favouring her with a kiss on the cheek. “But if you change your mind, let me know.”
August 2000
Incoming Portkey transit, Queenscove informed him, as Neal finished his morning exercises in the training yard. From Rosier Place.
Let him in, Neal thought absently at his castle. There were others who transited into Queenscove from Rosier Place, Francesca in the summers and Stormwing Avery from time to time, but most of the time it was Aldon. Send him to the Great Hall with a pot of coffee and a plate of tea biscuits or something, I’ll be there after I wash up.
When he walked into his Great Hall, his hair still damp and falling into his eyes, Aldon was examining his tapestry. Despite all his efforts to the contrary, Queenscove and the house-elves refused to take it down, merely reappearing it any time Neal managed to banish it; to his horror, figures that were recognizably Maman, Kel, Yuki, Archie, and Aldon were starting to appear in it.
“Does it really have to portray me like that?” Aldon asked, gesturing critically to the woven thread image of himself. The tapestry Aldon had his arms crossed, no wand in sight, with a distinctly angry expression on his face. “I’m not sure I like it.”
“Join the club.” Neal yawned, having long since given up thinking the tapestry was anything except himself and his friends. “How can I help you, Aldon?“
Aldon had never been one for beating around the bush—at least, not unless it had anything to do with Francesca. “I need you to take my proxy at the Wizengamot. I’ve been accepted to the Institute for Magical Theory for an Advanced Mastery program—it’s in upstate New York.”
“Upstate New York.” Neal raised an eyebrow. Upstate New York was well within Apparition distance of Montreal. “And Francesca…”
“It’s a surprise, of course,” Aldon said blithely. “I’m sure she’ll be delighted.”
Knowing Francesca, she probably would be delighted, too. Neal sighed. “How long?”
He and Aldon did trade proxies relatively often—it kept him sane, knowing that if he really couldn’t sit through a day’s deliberations, Aldon would simply handle it and say everything he knew Neal would say. Neal hated politics. But each of those times had been one-offs, one or another of them busy or just unable to make it that day for whatever reason, not for a prolonged period of time.
“Two years.” Aldon looked away slightly. “Normally the program is only a year, but since I don’t have my Mastery—it wasn’t offered at Hogwarts—my program will be two.”
Neal winced. “I mean—two years… I'm going back to Montreal, you know. Yuki and I both. We’re just clearing up some things, making sure everything is settled—”
Aldon snorted. “Neal, stop lying to yourself. You’ve been putting off going home for five years now. You haven’t left because you’ve settled in. You fought a war, opened a hospital, and now you play in politics, and all of it here in England. It’s time to stop making excuses, my friend—this is your home.”
Neal opened his mouth to argue. Just another year, he was going to say, or maybe two—and then he realized that he’d said the same thing a year ago, and he was no closer to going home now than he was then.
“Tabernak,” he swore. “I’m going to need to get a bloody television in this place.”