Isa's heart was beating rapidly, like a sparrow's, battering against her ribs until she wondered she didn't have internal bruising.  She stood outside  Cináed's door, taking several deep breaths and fingering the medallions: one in each hand.  She'd been clutching them so tightly, her fingers and palms were ridged by the edges.

She transferred them both to the same hand, shifted her weight from foot to foot, and ran a hand through the top of her hair nervously.  Should she knock?  No... just go in.  Knock.  She took another deep breath, then pushed open the door, moving silently and gracefully to stand in front of his desk.

It was the middle of the day.  She'd timed her arrival for when she knew he would be in-- probably pouring over the books.  She stood before him, shifting her weight again guiltily and playing with the ribbon at her waist, waiting for him to look up.

"O My King," she began... A game she played with him, but though it was playful it bore the ring of truth whenever she uttered it-- even when she was teasing him, which she was not, now.  Though not wholly subservient to him,  Cináed was the one person whose approval Iza required... and his success was her main goal in life.  She cared little for whatever other relationship they might share... as long as he turned to her for friendship and companionship.  She considered his friendship her most valuable treasure, irregardless of the hoards of gold her aunt might have hidden away for her in Gringott's.

For that matter, she was prepared to hand that all over to  Cináed, the moment she was confirmed as Nadine's heir.

Though her devotion was imperfect, she loved  Cináed more than life and would follow wherever he led her.

Now, having begun speaking, she faltered.  How would he receive the news that she'd conceived her own conspiracy without his knowledge?  That she was working to form an organization of Witches who had eschewed the WBA but who were nevertheless dedicated to Wizarding Liberation?

She reached forward suddenly, laying out the medallions on his desk: one, two, side-by-side, with two crisp snaps.  One was familiar to him: the bronze disk was imprinted with the WBA emblem and motto: it was dulled with age and worn slightly from having been carried.  The other... was clearly new: its bronze was polished and golden in hue so that the emblem imprinted on its surface was a bit harder to distinguish, in the light.  However, the word, 'LIB' was freshly embossed, raised fully and not worn with age as the other was.  On the flip side, if it was turned over, was the image of a dove, holding an olive branch, but its wings were outstretched, claws grasping as if it were a bird of prey...

She hadn't decided on an acronym for the organization, yet.  Witches for Wizarding Domination?  Too... paternal.  Witch's Liberation League?  Maybe... Liberation was less aggressive, more deceiving, and she rather preferred it.  She knew Muggles had a movement for Women's Rights, and perhaps they'd recruit under the front of fighting for Witch's Rights.  Merlin knew that Wizarding Britain was a male-dominated society, and especially Pureblood women would grasp eagerly at any organization that assured them they were as important as Wizards: that they had something to offer their society besides being brood mares for another generation of Purebloods...

He had about two hours left before he had to slip out of the Black Chimaera and head back to the Bridge House for evening count and curfew.  If everything worked out the way it was supposed to, this would be his last night in that dump.  Tomorrow evening, he'd be returning to the pub, victorious and free while the Auror office - and the whole Ministry - would be reeling after the death of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.  He'd be wandless again - and, despite his alibi, until the investigations settled down, he'd have to remain wandless - but the sacrifice would be worth it.

Cinaed was holed in his office, going through the details of the next day in his head.  Nothing was in writing, of course - he wouldn't risk any sort of paper trail.  Only a choice few were even aware of the pending assassination.  But, the WBA's insignia was going to make a second showing - there was no doubt it was going to attract even more attention.  There would be no question that the WBA had claimed responsibility.

Music played from a record player in the corner and Cinaed sat in a high-backed chair, staring up at the sky through the window, his wool sock-covered feet kicked up through the open window through which the grey smoke of the cigarette propped between his fingers drifted.  There was a short knock on the door and he watched as Izadora slipped into the office. 

Her form of address brought a grin to the corner of his mouth and he nodded her in.  "Hello, my dear," he offered, tilting his chin towards the couch.  But, the woman didn't take a seat.  She approached the desk with a certain anxious excitement that he always associated with attention-seeking students presenting their teacher with a shiny red apple at the start of class.  Clearly, she wanted something from him but he wasn't sure what, exactly - or what more she could want beyond what she already had. 

But, whatever it was it was prompting her to be nervous.  Uneasy.  Her speech interrupted.  His gaze shifted down to the pair of coins set out on the table and he glanced back up, curiosity and a trace of suspicion in his face.  "What is this?" he asked, nodding towards the coins.  He slid the coin with the unfamiliar emblem towards him and picked it up. 

He wasn't pouring over the end-of-month books: good, hopefully that meant she wasn't disturbing him when he might be in a bad mood.  His posture was relaxed, even contemplative.  She hoped he was thinking on tomorrow-- his final freedom, having paid his debt to society.  Inwardly, Iza sneered at the implied insult.  If anything, society owed a debt to Cináed.

She watched with silent eyes as he slid the familiar WBA medallion toward him and picked it up, trying not to be distracted by the music and the cigarette smoke curling out the window from his hand.  She admired the way the light slanted in to catch golden highlights in his hair, then shook her head slightly, a small smile creasing her lips as she relaxed and focused on his question.  "What is this?"

" Cináed--" she began, then paused, perching lightly on the edge of his desk, pushing the other coin toward him with the tip of her middle finger.  "This is an army.  Your army."  She smirked, pleased with herself for finally figuring out precisely why it was that she was here.  Her nerves had been two-fold: first, she was worried that  Cináed might be angry with her for acting independently when their goals were joined.  Second, she hadn't decided precisely what good her little plans would do him, and she was afraid they would seem... childish.

"The WBA is foundering.  It has been, since its inception: run by backroom revolutionists, old men who prefer sipping brandy and sobbing over what should be.  It's time for them to be something more.  If the old men can't find their balls and act for our future... it's time a young man led them.  Led us."  She tried, with that last, to convey her willingness to join the fight, if it were a fight and not a sob-fest.  She should have joined weeks ago, since she knew the organization was important to  Cináed.  But the implied goals-- Purity-- disgusted her, as much as did the complacent old men.  She would have considered those men women, except that Iza had plans to hand a few worthy women the power to change the world... Women weren't as cowardly as that.  "It should be yours."

She cleared her throat, looked away to cover the almost-religious fervor with which she gazed at him, her face shining eagerly with devotion and... Well, yes, love.  She tried not to show her adoration so openly.  She felt it made her look like a puppy, but at times she couldn't help it.  Now, filled with the certain knowledge that he was their best hope, filled with the conviction that Cináed would succeed where others had failed... her eyes were positively elated.  In their roaming, in her attempt to quell her enthusiasm and idolatry slightly, they fell on the second medallion.

"Your army," she repeated and nodded to it, remembering why she was really here.  Her face lost some of its glow, became serious.  "We live in a paternalistic society, Cin.  Women-- especially Purebloods-- are of little account.  The Death Eaters failed to capitalize fully on their assets.  I should know," she said, with a wry quirk of her lips that might have been a smile, had it not been so bitter.  "The WBA is no better-- at least for now-- because it's filled with the same Pureblood elitists who view women as little better than brood mares.  Oh-- I'm not saying they're all like that," she said quickly, feeling guilty for yet more criticism.  "And women with the balls the old men lack could probably go far in the organization."  She thought of Eudora.  She disliked the woman on principle, but she had an aggressive streak that would serve the WBA well, and she'd surely be rewarded.  She lacked the usual subservience of the Pureblood Wife.  She wouldn't do well, in Iza's organization... except as a lieutenant perhaps, and Iza had no intention of sharing anything with that...

She shook the thought from her head, placing her hands on either side of her on the edge of the desk and pushing to settle herself more comfortably.  "They need respect,  Cináed.  They want what we want.  Don't let them be overlooked again, patronized, ignored like the slaves and cattle without thought to their consent and worthiness."

She was rushing to say her piece.  "And there are plenty of women who aren't wives, but who also aren't men in disguise like Eudora," she finished with a smirk, "Who nevertheless have brass balls.  They deserve a chance to prove themselves without the competition to have to be better than the men to be seen as worthy."

Iza had idolized Bellatrix LeStrange, but she had pitied her.  She saw the lengths to which Bella was forced, to be in the Dark Lord's inner circle.  In truth, there were very few women who had taken the Dark Mark who were allowed to be anything more than maids and servents.  The effort had, eventually, driven Bella insane just as assuredly as her imprisonment in Azkaban had.  Iza knew Bella loved the Dark Lord as completely as Iza herself loved  Cináed.  But the Dark Lord was cruel.   Cináed was... good.  Iza knew that Cin would never punish her severely and that he rewarded diligence.  In the years following the war, she'd had to come to the conclusion that Voldemort-- yes, she could say it, now-- had failed them because he didn't care.   Cináed didn't want power for himself.  He wanted to empower all wizards to take their rightful place in the world...

Nestled into the curve of his index finger, the edge of the WBA coin dug into Cinead's finger as he brushed his thumb over the surface of the coin.  The points of the jagged star curved around the edges of the coin just as the tail of the last "A" did.  Having always been a rather informal affair, it was impossible for anyone to identify when the Wizarding Blood Alliance had experienced its birth.  But, from what Cinaed had heard, it hadn't changed much by the time Cinaed had joined, shortly after his release.  It had been more of a social club than anything - an opportunity for bitter ex-Azzies and for those defeated Death Eaters, who were lost without their martyr, to gripe and complain in relatively safe company.

The group itself had been a leaderless and quiet entity - more akin to grouchy old tea party for old, disgruntled purists than any sort of organized group.  But, over the last year or so, Cinaed had started identifying and recruiting those members who were willing to put actions behind their words.  Mannie and Chris had been the start but, slowly, he'd been finding more and more who were willing to act. 

His dedication and devotion to the group had grown in leaps and bounds since his pep talk with Persephone Grosvenor.  Since then, his determination had redoubled - and his recent successes had only increased his motivations.  What had, initially, been an opportunity to surround himself with like minded people had consumed his life.  Flipping the coin back on the desk, he looked back up at Iza. 

"My army?"  Cinaed arched an eyebrow curiously but, almost as quickly, his eyes narrowed.  The WBA was foundering?  Is that how she saw it?  Mistaking her criticism for doubt, he removed the cigarette from his mouth with his thumb and finger and set it on an ash tray.  In his annoyance, his mind glazed quickly over the majority of her point, as it fixated on the first point.  "I'm sorry to hear it disappoints," he offered, flatly.  He hadn't pegged Iza for one to give up on the groups prospects so easily - the group and its members faced a whole mess of challenges and complications that its members hadn't had to face before.  And, most of its members were reluctant about the prospects of another leader - another indifferent patriarch that would use them as tools for his own vengeance.  But, he was the WBA and the WBA was him.  A criticism of the organization was a criticism of him. 

Cinaed shook his head, impatiently.  "What should be mine?" he asked, tersely, nudging the coin back in Izadora's direction. 

"I have no problem with women in the WBA - they can be just as effective as men."  Despite his defensiveness, Cinaed knew where he was coming from.  The old sentiments were ripe and healthy in the older members of the WBA.  The ones that believed wives should be chosen for their sons with one primary goal in mind: to improve the reputation and standing of their own family.  It was all about proving their lines more powerful and pure than their neighbors.  When, in the end, they were leading their families to their own demise.  "I'm not a purist," he said, picking his cigarette back up and propping it in his mouth.  Yes - many of his cohorts were - rabidly so.  But, he was not - at least not in the traditional way. 

Cinaed shook his head at her continued lecturing, drawing a long breath off the cigarette.  "You think I don't respect women?"  Cinaed asked, darkly, looking down at the glowing end of the cigarette.  "Are you accusing me of patronizing women like slaves and cattle?"  He'd found these brilliant, beautiful women that had been gracing his pub lately all the more fantastic for their spirit and willingness to fight.  Sure, he saw most of them as a challenge - but not because he saw them as cattle.  On the contrary, it still elated him that he - he - of all people stood a chance with these women.  He marveled at these women - even Kingstreet for all of her frustration. 

Iza blinked, dismayed.  She'd run right over his quiet questions in her intensity to be heard... Now she shrunk, miserable, and dropped her eyes, ashamed at the misunderstanding-- her fault!  she should have paused for breath and heard him speak!-- but she also refused to cower despite the danger in his voice.

" Cináed--" she hesitated.  She could see he was angry, but she was determined to redirect him without answering directly.  She didn't want to discuss his treatment of women... especially as, to her mind, Iza enjoyed the sort of treatment  Cináed gave her.  But then, she didn't aspire to be Cináed's equal.  Just his consort.  But she'd be damned if she'd be treated as a subordinate by the Purists...

"Of course you have no problem with women in the WBA."  You're not listening, but of course she wouldn't say that aloud.  "You value women," even if they don't jiggle.  "But some women..."  She hesitated again, frowning as she weighed her words carefully.  "Some women have a problem fitting in.  The failing is in us."  It rankled, for Iza to say that, to suggest that women were weak-- even women who had been subservient for generations.  They only needed someone to guide them...

When he nudged the coin back to her, she saw it as rejection.  Failure struck at her heart.  He didn't like her gift.  She took a deep breath, misconstruing his anger.  Plucking the coin with the dove from the desk, she closed her fingers lightly around it, drawing her fist to her chest, bowing her head over it and closing her eyes for a moment to gather strength, fighting hard against the tears that threatened because  Cináed was angry with her.

"The WBA should be yours.  You should lead it," she said quietly, eyes still closed against the accusations in his face.  "And I see now that you will, without my help.  But you're right.  You don't need an army... of men or women.  You've been moving to secure our future-- I've seen the changes in that organization, seen the pride with which the younger members carry themselves, now.  You're effective without an army.  They'd follow you even if you didn't claim leadership.  You don't need my help to do it," she finished miserably, but with pride and awe in her voice.

She took a deep, tremulous breath and finally opened her eyes.  "I'll disband them at once."  The statement was somewhat misleading: at the moment, the "army" she'd offered him was little more than a hodgepodge-- a society wife or two, a thief, a child, a shop-owner in Diagon Alley... But with goals and guidance, a few more recruits, they could be an army.  They could have been his army.  Her lower lip trembled so she pursed them before continuing.  "I'll encourage them to join the WBA."

The ring of bright, glowing red shimmered at the end of the coffee brown cigarette that sat, pinched between two fingers.  His line of sight remained fixed on the thin line of burning paper; it wasn't necessary to look up from it to tell that Izadora had fumbled, slightly.  The brief stretch of silence that followed the previous confusing mouthful spoke volumes about the shift in enthusiasm.

Her speaking his name proved to break the unsettled silence.  With the tip of his thumb, Cinaed quickly slid the cigarette up between the first knuckle of his fingers and took a long, deep lungful of smoke before, finally, turning his head to look at Izadora.  He was almost daring her to come back with an affirmative that she believed he had some misconstrued view of women. 

Slowly, Cinaed nodded his head; even in the midst of his annoyance, he could readily see her point.  The demographics of the Wizarding Blood Alliance didn't lend itself to a solid, co-ed membership.  At least, not in the past.  Not unlike the Black Chimaera itself.  Bitter ex-cons, for better or worst, were a largely male population.  Such an assessment on where they've been wasn't an unfair one - but Cinaed hoped, it wouldn't continue to be the case in the future.  But, Cinaed shook his head and waved the hand holding the cigarette, dismissing her hasty attempt to lay the blame on the women.  He didn't care who was to blame - he was more concerned with how to fix it. 

"In what way?" Cinaed asked, tapping the ash loose from the end of the cigarette.  "What about it is keeping them from fitting in?" 

It hadn't been her, directly, he'd been angry at - nor was it, necessarily, a rejection.  The confusion had been thick enough that he was still unaware of the presence of any proposition to accept or reject.  In one breath, she seemed to haven been explaining that the WBA was floundering and that he needed an army.  It was that confusion, fueled by her suspicious combination of doubt towards the Wizarding Blood Alliance and her enthusiasm that had ruffled his feathers. 

But, now she'd gone from confusing enthusiasm to a frantic back peddling still without explaining herself fully.  At least not fully enough for him.  She wasn't, however, the first woman to tell him he ought to be leading the group and hearing Iza say it proved just as ego-stroking as when Persephone Grosvenor had.  In another sudden shift, she was dismissing herself and "them."  Whoever 'them' was.  "Who's 'them?'" Cinaed asked.  He could see the emotion tremoring behind her eyes but, for the time being, opted to pursue clarification.  "What are you - what army are you talking about?"

Iza's eyes were drawn to  Cináed's cigarette as he flicked an ash, breaking the spell of despair that had fallen over her, the hush of misery as she waited for the axe to fall.  She watched hopefully as he relaxed his suspicions a trifle-- his body language loosened the tiniest bit, the stern lines of his face smoothed just the tiniest bit...  It was enough, so that the woman who quite possibly knew him best of any women-- knew his softer side, his less-calculating side, the side of him that had shown through when he cajoled a weak and whimpering girl into hope within the bowels of Azkaban-- felt relief.

She toyed with the ribbon on her bodice, rubbing the satin strand against itself between the tips of her fingers, as she did when she thought very hard on a subject.  Her eyes softened and her lip ceased to tremble, as she distracted herself with the need to explain.  The smooth glide of satin was nearly soundless as she concentrated on her explanations.

She focused on the first question, glad to have purpose again, even if ultimately she would be required to cease her subversive activities...

"There are two philosophies," she began, her eyes staring past him as if reading text on the wall, seeking the words she needed to end his confusion.  "Not factions, mind you-- there is no formal organization behind these ways of thinking... mainly because Wizards come to form these convictions from their own, personal, independent experiences."  She shifted her weight, glanced down at the ribbon between her fingers, realized she was fidgeting and let it fall, smoothing it unconsciously against the off-white linen of her dress.  "Dominionists and Liberationists.  Both philosophies embrace the need for Wizards to take a more prominent role in the world.  The Death Eaters were largely Dominionists, in the extreme-- the philosophy that Wizards deserve to rule, and that end should be achieved through domination of the weaker race... including those who were perceived to be tainted by Muggle blood or culture.

"Some people who subscribed to the Liberationist philosophy joined with the Dark Lord."  I was one of them.  "They had their reasons... Mainly, because it appeared that no one else was moving to secure our rightful place in the world.  They didn't rise within the ranks, however-- Liberationists aren't aggressive enough.  They prefer a bloodless coup, to act behind the scenes to effect change, and eschewed the violence the Dark Lord was visiting on other Wizards.  They were viewed with suspicion by the Dominionist faction, but allowed to remain.  I think..."  She cleared her throat, because the next statement was pure speculation-- an opinion she'd never shared with anyone before, as it was quite possibly a sore subject.  "I believe the Liberationist philosophy was the root of why Severus Snape betrayed us."  She looked  Cináed in the eye, now.  "I think the violence... disturbed him.  Ultimately, he was forced to choose between his beliefs that Wizards are a superior race and the Death Eaters were working to establish their dominance over Muggles, and the plain fact that the Dark Lord was hurting people.  Hurting Wizards."

She dropped her eyes again, because now she was retreating from the realm of supposition and approaching the gist of her own philosophy-- the reasoning behind her urge to form an alliance of women, separate from the WBA.  The ribbon was back between her fingers again, rubbing, soothing...  "Though there are Witches who subscribe to Dominionism-- women with ambition, motivation and enough aggression to compete with men, women who want Wizards to dominate, to crush, to... rule over the Muggles-- there are many, many more Liberationists among females.  Witches who privately agree that the Statute of Secrecy is bilgewater, aimed at oppressing magical folk, keeping them from moving freely in the world... who see the separation of Wizard and Muggle worlds as fundamentally wrong, because it means our magic can't be used freely, our superiority is repressed, vilified, ignored..."  In her head, she heard a song, a nursery rhyme, This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine... this little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine... Hide it under a bush?  Oh, no!  I'm gonna let it shine...  "They want to lift the yoke of Muggle oppression, but hate violence.  Some of them are even Muggle-born.  Killing Muggles would be like killing their own parents."  She shuddered.  "Yet Muggle-borns feel the injustice of our system even more keenly than the rest of us: here is something they learn of themselves that makes them uber-mensch and yet they are forbidden to show the very people whose adoration they crave the most."

She'd spoken too much, again.  Rushed to share her thoughts, but it was all important, all a foundation, a pyramid upon which her final statement rested at the apex, a shining crest, the jewel in the crown.  "I am building you an army of Liberationists.  Was."  She faltered, uncertain.

She was standing on the opposite side of his desk - for the most part, standing still.  Other than her long, thin fingers that rested on the front of her bodice.  The thin length of satin slipped between the pads of her fingers against the top of her chest.  It was a strategically located distraction - unabashedly, Cinaed's eyes settled on the movement of her hands. 

His gaze fixated on Iza's hands, Cinaed's eyes narrowed.  With the cigarette propped in the corner of his mouth, he drummed his fingers against the top of the desk as the woman across from him launched into a new phase of lectures. 

Philosophies.  Not factions.  No formal organizations.  Had Izadora always been this much of an over thinker?  She was sounding like a bloody Ravenclaw.  Dominionists and liberationists?  Was she thinking ... did she just see him as some old Death Eater just like the rest of the old men down in that pub room?  Did she see him is some stuck-in-the-past purist who was trying to relive Voldemort's past or something?  Yes - there were, perhaps, many among the WBA who were previous supports - who, perhaps, still qualified as these 'dominionists' she spoke of but they didn't represent the alliance as a whole. 

Pulling his gaze away from her hand, Cinaed plucked the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it in the ashtray before tugging up his sleeve.  He knew, well enough, even if he was marked it was unlikely it'd be showing but the gesture was about the effect.  "I've never been a Death Eater - you think I'm just ... what - what do you think I'm trying to do, here?  We have the same goal in mind - the same desires.  It's all about wizarding liberation, isn't it?" 

Cinaed finally dropped his feet from the windowsill and pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the half-smoked cigarette as he began to pace the room.  "There might be two philosophies but those Ministry thugs that want us to be content with our oppressed state are counting on us believing we're enemies to each other.  Divide and conquer - it's an age-old tactic and we're doing it to ourselves for them.  We can't - we shouldn't make it so easy to them." 

But, as quick as he was to take offense at the WBA being set aside as a simple gathering for old, purist-minded Death Eaters, he recognized some of the mentioned challenges were true.  Yes - they were largely ex-DE but they weren't exclusively ex-DE.  And, they needed to move away from that idea.  The Wizarding Blood Alliance would best serve - in his mind, at least - as a full alliance.  Between halfbloods, purebloods, those wanting liberation and those wanting the old class structure.  They weren't strong enough to simply accept being divided amongst themselves. 

"We should be banding together towards our one goal - not dividing ourselves into factions.  The factions don't exist, like you said - why would we go and divide ourselves for them.  We'll just make their jobs easier.  We need an army - we need people recruiting.  Having ... different specialties within the WBA can strengthen us but ... to divide us.  We've spent ten years fighting and griping amongst ourselves - holding ourselves back because we can't agree on anything.  But - we do agree.  We all want wizarding liberation, right?  We should be encouraging everyone to come together for that goal.  An alliance of armies and groups and individuals working towards the same thing." 
 
Perhaps that's what she was saying.  Except, she was seeing him as being independent of the WBA.  "I want a unified army of witches and wizards, all focused on the same thing.  The same goal.  There can be separate divisions but we all need to be working together."

"I've never been a Death Eater - you think I'm just ... what - what do you think I'm trying to do, here?  We have the same goal in mind - the same desires.  It's all about wizarding liberation, isn't it?"  

 Iza's eyes strayed to his bare arm.  She sat back down on the edge of the desk.  Absently, she rubbed her own forearm, though she knew the Dark Mark was many years gone, just like the Dark Lord.  She reached for his arm, intending to rest it in her lap soothingly but he pushed himself to his feet and paced.  Her eyes tracked him hungrily.  She disliked the knowledge that she caused his irritation, but he was regal in his ire.

"Yes," she whispered.

"We should be banding together towards our one goal - not dividing ourselves into factions.  The factions don't exist, like you said - why would we go and divide ourselves for them...  I want a unified army of witches and wizards, all focused on the same thing.  The same goal.  There can be separate divisions but we all need to be working together."

"I think... it's a noble goal," she agreed, hesitantly.  The ribbon was back between her fingers.  She took a deep breath.  She did see Cinaed as separate from the WBA.  "The factions exist, whether they're formally recognized or not," she reminded him.  "Try to look at it this way," she said soothingly, "We all want the same thing.  Some of us want it for different reasons, and like-minded people will always be drawn to one another."  She hesitated, then plunged on, "Whilst differing-minded people tend to view each other with suspicion.  I'm trying to explain... the divisions you want already exist.  The trick, is taking all the pieces and fitting them together.  Finding the bolts that will tie them and setting them to work.  Separately, they fail.  Separately, they are junk: hunks of iron and nothing more.

"But Cinaed, those pieces are all different.  They have different uses.  They don't all fit together in the same way.  Some of the pieces don't touch one another, even though they tie into the whole..."  She hated Muggle analogies: she didn't really understand "machinery" except that it was a bunch of useless junk that nevertheless somehow was formed into things like chariots that worked as if by magic... except there was no magic at all involved, which was what disturbed her of course.

Then she finally understood.  "You see yourself as part of the WBA!"  Her eyes widened.  "But Cin... don't you see?  The WBA is part of you.  You should wield it as a tool.  Your right hand.  But no one has just one hand..."

It didn't matter to her at all that he hadn't been a Death Eater.  Voldemort had failed.  Voldemort had failed because he insisted that all his followers be of one mind.  His mind.  He didn't tolerate original thought or actions.  He'd had only one hand...  Had the Dark Lord been more flexible, had he been possessed of more charisma and less selfishness, he might have seen that there were others who would allow themselves to be used because they shared his goals, if not his methods.

"An army is all well and good.  But an army needs a general.  A body needs a brain.  A machine needs..." she faltered, squinching up her nose in distaste.  "...Whatever it is machines need.  A driver, I suppose.  The... divisions are divided, despite all of them yearning to perform their functions, despite all eyes on the same prize, without leadership.

"Will you lead them?"

She was twisting his words - even twisting her own words around.  The moment he felt he had a handle on what she was trying to say, she was off and taking the meeting in a new direction.  Intellectually leading him to whatever understanding or realization she was hoping he'd reach.  Like little bread crumbs of thought along a trail, each comment seemed to be trying to lead him, step by step, along some path.  Whether it was her doing or his own, he didn't know - and it seemed largely unimportant.  But, he felt trapped to the ground, only able to see one footstep ahead of him when he would much rather just shift, take flight and just see the whole bloody trail and, more importantly, where the trail ended. 

Hadn't she been, moments before, explaining how there were no factions within the WBA?  He continued to pace the room, his woolen socks hardly making any noise against the wooden floor as he moved.  A large part of him knew she was right - that there were differences of opinions and beliefs that were keeping them right where they were - disorganized, slightly lost and hopeless against the foundation and solid foothold the Ministry and its minions held.  But, had he really become that blindingly optimistic in the few years since he'd been with the WBA?  Stubbornly believing that they'd, eventually, be able to unify as a single front.  Wizarding blood allied against the weaker class.

The stubbornness, however, was continuing to hold fast - what was, ultimately, at the root of that stubbornness, he hadn't yet identified.  Was it pure loyalty to the Wizarding Blood Alliance?  He shook his head and stopped behind his desk, pulling a bottle and a couple of glasses from a top drawer.  "How are our reasons different?" Cinaed asked, his attention fixed on pouring a measure of the charcoal, black contents of the bottle into one of the tumblers.  He left the other for her to fill - not for a lack of chivalry but more out of an uncertainty as to whether or not she'd tried the pub's signature and namesake drink.  The chimera's blood, especially when paired with the hard liquor's packed an impressive punch - and wasn't for everyone's.  "Don't we all want it so that our kids don't have to live in oppression?" 

Our kids 

Once Blond Auror had been placed under the imperious, most of his attention and focus had shifted to keeping the imperious strong on both of his victims and taking care of the last bit of planning in place.  That little side point - holding the child - his child - had fallen, out of necessity, to the back of his mind.  But, now, his mind suddenly fixated on that point and he stared at the swirling dull black in his glass without properly seeing it.  Yes, the job at hand had kept him from thinking about it but, on some level, he had also avoided thinking about it.  Saying it.  Hearing those words would make them, somehow, real.  Right now, they just existed in thought - no more or less than veela brothels existed in his thoughts. 

He lifted the glass and drained half of it in a single gulp.  As the mixture of alcohol and chimera blood slid down his gullet, he laughed, hoarsely, and shook his head.  "I have a son."  A son.   And, he'd held the child.  He followed the confession with the other half of his drink and refilled it before sitting down on the couch.  The drink, the confession and the drink seeming to reset his mind. 

"Of course, I do," Cinaed answered, readily, shaking his head.  Of course, he was part of the WBA.  It seemed, at least between them, that should be common knowledge.  And to assume leadership of a group that, for years, held some collective fear of having a leader - did they even need a leader?  "The WBA isn't mine to assume control of - who am I to assume I should be the one to do so?  Who am I to assume it's my tool?  There's a room full of men down there - at least half of them members - most of them still recovering from being used like chattle by their last 'self-proclaimed leader.'  Who's to say any of them want to be led." 

Cinaed took a small, slow sip of his drink, reclining back against the back of the couch, regarding the woman who'd perched herself at her desk.  "I suppose you can say Mannie chooses to follow - Chris chose to follow me until he got a better offer.  You -"  His eyebrows arched briefly, curiously, before narrowing in thought as he considered Izadora a moment.  She, clearly, chose to follow him.  Persephone had come to him.  Even Landis had followed his lead when Cinaed had encouraged him to apply at Hogwarts.  But, leading those that chose to follow was one thing - assuming leadership of the group was another.  And, as the conversation was starting to come full circle in his head, even taking leadership of a second group. 

"And, you think, I'm that general  Why?" Cinaed asked, lifting an eyebrow.  In mixed company, it wouldn't have been a question he would have posed.  However, given the seriousness with which she'd approached the conversation and the confidence he held in Izadora allowed for it. 

"Kids?" She laughed ruefully, mirthlessly, and opened her mouth to refute that she had any such altruistic intentions.  What did she care about children?  She never intended to have any, herself: she planned to be the dead-end of the Franti clan.  It would serve auntie Nadine right.  No, she was thinking of herself, her own goals, her friends...

He fixed a drink and downed it.  "I have a son."

Iza's mouth, parted to speak, dropped further.  Her mind froze.  Cinaed had a son?  With whom?  Like Hera, Iza's heart screamed with fury but she forced herself to seem calm.  Serenely, she poured herself a drink from the bottle Cinaed had produced, since he'd thoughtfully supplied two glasses.  Had he realized she'd need a drink, after his confession?  Heedless of his example, Iza knocked back the entire contents.

She was pouring herself another before she even realized her throat was on fire, she couldn't breathe, and her eyes were watering.   He'd already continued, brushing her suggestion aside, explaining why he shouldn't lead.  She shook her head vehemently in denial.


"And, you think, I'm that general  Why?"

She wiped her tearing eyes and sniffed.  She felt light-headed, still stuck on, Cinaed has a son.  "Thou Are God," she whispered, obviously quoting, but her words held the ring of conviction.  She closed her eyes briefly, rubbing her forehead wearily with the side of her hand.  She leaned forward earnestly.  "Cin, imagine that the WBA has a leader.  One of those men in the back room.  And Lib, too.  A woman... someone besides me.  And the others, each with its own head.  You want to bring these people together into one organization?  How many heads can a beast have, before it falls over dead?"  She sighed.  "One head.  Two hands, two legs, one heart."  You could be the head.  Perhaps I'm the heart-- the one to show you the way.  She fixed him with an intent stare, grey eyes honest and beseeching. "Do you ask the old men what you should do, when you have an idea?" she asked.  "Or do you just do it, because you know it's right?  And... does your idea succeed?  Don't you think that's a sign of a good leader?"

She drew her hand down the side of her face.  She felt odd.  Perhaps this was why she normally drank ginger ale.  She hopped down from the desk, picking up the freshened drink though she hesitated to drink it.  Crossing to the couch, she sat down next to him, reclining against him, cradling her drink in her hands.  "If we're to secure a future for our... kids," she said, trying to keep the rancor from her voice, attempting to sound reasonable, encouraging.  "Someone will have to show them how to work together.  Someone has to lead the team to victory."  She nuzzled her head against his shoulder.  "Do you think I could do it?" she asked, amused.  A faint sheen of perspiration had broken out on her forehead and neck and she experienced an uncomfortable vertigo.

Unusual.  Typically, alcohol took much longer than this to affect Iza.  But she... still felt odd.  Distant.  Too warm.  Perhaps it was just the... incongruous combination of topics: children and war.

She laughed, initially.  A response he might have given, himself, not a few weeks ago.  He wasn't sure he would have ever considered himself as father material.  After all, it hadn't been his intention for this bout of fatherhood to have come to fruition.  For all practical purposes, he still wasn't - or rather, he was merely a father in purely biological terms.  But - the reality still remained.  He still had a son. 

Cinaed lifted his glass and took a sip of his drink as Izadora worked her way through catching the mental curve ball he'd tossed her way.  He remained quiet as he finished the rest of his drink in small sips, shifting from ruminating over his confession to listening to Izadora's insistence that he should take the lead.  He knew, well enough, that he was no God, despite her whispered statements.  The breath of loyalty, however, was surprising.  And, strangely, satisfying though, largely, because of its source.  Had Mannie or any of the other blokes declared him a god, it would have just been strange. 

And, again, there was logic in her words.  The stubbornness was, also, fading from the forefront of his mind.  He had been taking the lead - at least with those that volunteered to be more active.  And, there had been more of those - mostly among the younger members.  Morgan, Colburn, Izadora.  Was that a sign of a good leader?  Perhaps she was right.  "I'll admit, I haven't had much in the way of good leaders to model after.  But, I think I see your point." 

He set his empty glass on the table at the end of the couch as she settled herself on the couch next to him.  He slipped an arm over her shoulder and rested it against her, drawing her closer, taking care not to upset the drink cradled in her hands.  Slowly, subtly, he nodded though, as she was sitting, the gesture might well have gone unnoticed.  "I don't doubt your abilities, if you decided to lead," Cinaed voiced, resting his face gently against her head.  "But, ..." 

He closed his eyes - his thoughts turning inward.  Visions of the boy he'd held in his hands, of Chris Colburn, leaving the Black Chimaera several weeks back to take his place in the Ministry and of Morgan's successful infiltration of the school.  Of those young faces in the Slytherin Common room - a potential third army.  The pieces had been falling in place for some time now. 

"So, this army of mine.  What role would it serve?"  He asked.  "You said they were mostly society women?" A curious niche.  One with a fair amount of potential. 

Part of what made Iza love Cinaed-- he might question her assumption that he should lead, or even that they needed a leader... but he never chided her when she said odd things like, 'Thou Art God.'  Almost as if he realized that she spoke from her head for the latter and her heart for the former, and knew it was a necessary part of who she was.  Maybe, in a small way, he recognized it was her way of saying, 'I love you,' without all the messiness that involved... except that it was more than that.  He wasn't just a man and she didn't love him precisely, only, as a woman loves a man... he was her savior, her angel, so to her, calling him God rather than avowing her love was fitting.

The saying itself, she lifted from a book.  It meant more than, 'You are a god.'  It meant, more specifically, 'We are gods together...' 

She felt particularly light-hearted when he affirmed her, said she could lead if she decided to, and rested his face against the top of her head.  She might have, might have attempted to fill the vacancy, if he refused.  Never without his agreement, however: she would have asked him, if he didn't want to do it, if he minded terribly if she gave it a try...  His telling her now, that he didn't doubt her abilities to lead, made her feel as if perhaps she might succeed, if she absolutely had to do it...

She sighed, raising her glass to take a careful sip, this time taking heed of how Cinaed was nursing his drink, and the fact that she now had first-hand experience with what would happen if she knocked it back suddenly.  She could taste the flavor, this time, and it wasn't unpleasant.  It didn't burn as she swallowed, and her eyes didn't water.  Maybe she was getting the hang of it.  She nestled down more securely against him, dropping her slippers and drawing her legs up onto the couch.

"An army," she laughed lightly, imagining her motley crew as a battalion.  "Perhaps I exaggerated, but one day we might be."  For a bunch of pacifists.  "Two Pureblood women who aren't allowed by their husbands to join the WBA or have any interests outside of raising their Pureblood children.  Two Muggleborns, who would prefer to return to their hometowns and run for mayor or something."  She frowned.  She was downplaying their roles.  Actually, their feelings went much deeper-- they felt cheated, having been rejected by their societies and forbidden by their new culture to show their newfound superiority to the people who rejected them.  "A... couple of friends, perhaps a child."  Would he know she intended Dilly to join her little army?  "For now, we're only a group of women.  Only," she laughed ruefully and took another sip of liquor.  "Except... I think you'll agree that even the stoutest-hearted man finds a woman's... logic... difficult to resist."  She ran her free hand down his thigh, to illustrate her point.

Leading the WBA.  Playing general to an army.  Balancing - organizing - utilizing the two.  The thought was, at the same time, daunting and invigorating - exciting.  Tomorrow evening, he'd be coming home, free from the continual supervision of the Ministry and riding the high of a successful assassination.   Cináed leaned his head back against the back of the couch and gently stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers as she settled herself against his side. 

The glass perched in his other hand,  Cináed took a long, slow sip.  His eyebrows lifted at the mention of muggleborns but he refrained from commenting.  He wasn't a strict purist - he didn't believe an entirely pure family was necessarily better or stronger than a tainted one.  While an individual halfblood's blood status was hardly the fault of that individual, he would always question the taste of one who chose to enter a relationship with a muggle.  If wizards made wise and appropriate choices when it came to selecting mates, the question of blood status wouldn't exist.  They could restrengthen all of their bloodlines. 

But, muggleborns - that was a trickier topic.  Yes, they were better than their muggle counterparts.  Yes, they were witches and wizards.  But,  Cináed had to shake his head - they would always prove to be the weakness of the wizarding community.  Not because of their blood status but because of their upbringing.  They were raised as muggles - they thought as muggles.  If they could be identified at a young age and removed from their families to be raised properly - away from the influence of the muggle class, perhaps they wouldn't pose the same threat.  But, unless that happened, they'd always represent muggle culture trespassing on the higher class.  It was illegal immigration and no matter how much as mudbloods recognized the superiority of their new culture, they'd always identify with their old culture. 

"A child?"   Cináed repeated.  "You mean Dilly?" he asked.  It was a guess - mostly based off the fact that that was the only child  Cináed had seen her around.  "And this group you're gathering - what would you say their strengths would be?"  Gathering information seemed the most likely - especially in the case of the muggleborns as they'd raise fewer suspicions.  Generally, any tasks that required a bit more finesse.  Subtly.  "I need to meet them," he concluded.  He trusted her judgment, of course, but he also needed to feel them out.  Get a sense of where they'd be best used. 

Her hand on his thigh, indeed, proved her point.   Cináed grinned to himself and nodded.  That, indeed, was an advantage worthy of being taken into account.  "Indeed, my dear."

Iza's "friends" would have agreed with Cinaed's assessment of Muggleborns-- as would she-- if they'd heard him say so.  Despite growing up in the Muggle culture, they had always felt disassociated from it, even at a young age: odd things happened when they were around, the other children shunned them, their own parents punished them severely for things that hadn't been their faults.  They would have agreed wholeheartedly that being taken from their families and placed with loving, accepting Wizarding families would have been their best chance at a better life, and the fact that they'd been forced to return to those families over the Hols-- to be treated with suspicion, fear and contempt-- had embittered them.  Had they been allowed to fully take part in Wizarding culture, even from the moment they entered school, their lives would have been much improved.

Iza-- and her friends, as well-- suspected that their origins were less Muggle than they seemed.  After all, two horses don't mate and give birth to a zebra.  There has to be zebra somewhere in their genetic pasts-- both genetic pasts-- for the chromosomes to come together just right.  Evolutionarily speaking, it was impossible for two pure Muggles to mate and create a Wizard offspring.

Though Iza didn't think highly of Squibs-- lacking the ability to use a wand made them retarded in her mind-- they were Wizarding Blood.  She highly disagreed with the practice of Squibs joining the Muggle culture, despite their inferiority.  She believed that this diaspora was to blame for so-called "Muggleborn" Wizards.  The practice itself-- a Wizarding child joining the Muggles, even if he was born with no magic-- was an abomination and resulted in the creation of more Abomination.

It was the foundation of her association with these specific "Muggleborns"-- that she gave them a logical, rational explanation for the injustice of their lives.  Her perspective gave them hope, purpose and loyalty to the cause.  Once Wizards ran things, once there was no need for secrecy, no more Squibs would be outcast, no more children would be forced to grow up in the wrong culture, those with Wizarding talents would be lifted above their peers at a young age, shown superior, and given the acceptance necessary to fully develop as human beings and Wizards.

She didn't mention any of this, because he didn't ask and because she'd given him enough philosophy for one day.  But it was the foundation for her statement that all of them had their own, private reasons for being drawn to The Cause.

She smiled happily when he stroked her cheek and leaned her face slightly into his hand.  Her pulse quickened as it always did in his proximity.  Cinaed was quite possibly the only man who could excite her simply by looking at her... but she knew self-restraint and practiced it now.  Getting worked up would cloud her reason.

"Yes, Dilly," she sighed, a faint tinge of pink creeping up her neck despite her determination for self-control.  She ignored it and focused on the topic, instead.  "Dilly will be particularly useful, if she can be convinced."  She licked her lips and continued.  "Diversionaries.  Spies.  Recruitment.  Sexual coercion.  Blackmail.  Infiltration."  She ticked off her points one by one by walking her fingers up his chest.  Of course, Dilly and her friends would only be useful for the first three, but the group as a whole could carry out any of those tactics.

She ran a pleased finger from his chin to his adam's apple, smiling softly.  If he wanted to meet them, he was considering her proposal-- and her logic-- that not everyone useful was welcomed in the WBA... and that they should still be used and encouraged.  She felt complete and utter relief.  Perhaps he wouldn't declare himself overtly as leader, but he would move more aggressively, assert his leadership.  It was enough.

"When you're ready, I'll call them together," she told him.