Grimmauld Place had grown crowded in a way that felt almost normal and almost dangerous. Aunt Vinda's touch went through rooms like a winter bell, Uncle Grigori filled the corridors with the weight of a retired storm, Sirius drifted between healer visits and loud opinions and Elizaveta moved like a silver knife in velvet. Corvus told himself he could endure the noise because most of it would leave in a few days. He told himself a different thing when he looked at Elizaveta. She was intelligent, had a dry humor and ethereally beautiful; he preferred the house noisy if it meant she was in it.
Days found a pattern. Arcturus rose early, read reports, and underlined points of interest before sending back instructions. Vinda worked on the wards with amazingly sadistic touches and a serene hum, leaving Corvus feeling bad for anyone dumb enough to try them. Grigori taught Kreacher and the elves some Russian dishes that made their stay more pleasent. Sirius grumbled about foul potions and then drank them all while a mind healer asked kind questions and took less than kind notes. Elizaveta sat in the lamplight with a ward book in Old Kyril and did not look up when anyone entered. When others were present she was ice. Perfect curtsy. Cool voice. Polite to the point of warning. When no one else watched, the ice thinned for a heartbeat. A small tilt of the mouth. A Touch to fix his collar. Once, he leaned in for the simplest kiss on the cheek. She stepped aside, placed one finger on his chest, and said, barely above a whisper, letter of intention. The finger withdrew and the ice returned as the door opened and Vinda came in with a tray.
The strangest part of the week was drafting that intention letter.
They chose the drawing room. A low fire. Ink and parchment arranged in military order. Corvus sat with a clean quill and the look of a man about to sign a treaty with four authors.
Arcturus set his palms on the table. "We begin with strength and lineage. Also he is a parselmouth." He added proudly, waited for the scratch of the quill and nodded.
Vinda did not wait. "He is my pupil. He holds certification as a master of Potions and Charms. Write it as you hear it."
Arcturus lifted his chin. "He is an animagus." Corvus wrote it down.
Vinda's eyes grew bright. "He has a talent for crafting creative spells." A small pause. "Some of them are sadistic in concept."
Grigori leaned in from the end of the table. "Do not write sadistic. You can imply talent without frightening." He tapped the parchment. "Say inventive. Say disciplined. Leave the sadistic part."
Elizaveta sat upright at his right with a teacup balanced on one knee. One perfect eyebrow rose at parselmouth. A faint approving look followed master of Potions and Charms. Another eyebrow joined the first at animagus. Both eyebrows nearly met her hairline at sadistic spells. Corvus could not tell if it was shock that pleased her or pleasure that shocked her.
Arcturus cleared his throat. "We will need the approver of the match to be named. Which of her parents holds that role?"
Grigori produced a look of surprise. "As the elder of the house that would be me, of course."
That was the point when wands appeared as if they had been waiting under the table for the moment. Two of Grindelwald's lieutenants smiled the sort of smile that means warm up your shield for a mildly harmful punishment.
Corvus raised Veruscut with a practiced flick, a clean translucent curve that covered him and Elizaveta, and stayed behind it with his teacup. A red spark went past and cracked on Grigori's shoulder. He swore. A blue hex took his feet. A pale bolt clipped his right arm. Grigori sent a Depulso, Vinda's counter hex sang like glass. Arcturus's reply thumped like a hammer on an anvil.
Corvus sipped and gave commentary.
"Seven out of ten for the wrist turn."
"Too much flourish on the second pass."
Elizaveta matched him note for note without looking away from the play. "His right side is open."
"He always forgets his left knee."
They both winced a heartbeat later as a bone breaker landed. Grigori went down with a howl that rattled the tasseled lampshade. Three more of the same spell followed before he hit the floor. The carpet offered its sympathy by not moving away.
The room cooled. Wands lowered. Grigori lay on his back with four limbs that did not agree with the rest of him.
Sirius opened the door at that moment, wand in hand and alarmed. His gaze roamed the room. First to Grigori, afterwards to Arcturus, to Vinda and lastly to Corvus and Elizaveta whom raised their cups to greet him silently. He closed the door slowly under the watchfull eyes of all and vanished.
Arcturus leaned over Grigori with an innocent interest. "He is also good with healing spells. Shall I add that line to the intention letter, or would you prefer that he start with your arm. Your choice."
Grigori glared at the ceiling. "Petty. Fickle. Both of you. Put it on the letter and fix me. In that order." He added something in Russian that made Kreacher clap a hand over his own ear. The elves were quick studies.
Corvus set the quill to the parchment again.
"Parselmouth, master of Potions and Charms, animagus, inventive spellwork, proficient in healing. Courtship conducted under tradition, with the approval of Lord Volkov, and according to the customs of trio of houses." He looked up. "Anything else?"
"Add punctual," Vinda said.
"Add discreet," Arcturus said.
"Remove discreet," Grigori said from the carpet. "No one believes that word when you write it."
Elizaveta placed her empty cup on the sideboard with the softest sound and stood. "Add persistent," she said. She did not look at Corvus when she said it.
He wrote the word and felt it grow warm under his hand.
They signed the draft when Grigori's bones were back where they belonged and Arcturus's smirk had faded to a polite line. Vinda sanded the ink. Corvus sealed the roll and marked it Rosier Black with a steady hand. Elizaveta watched the seal take, then turned her head the smallest degree away as if the sight cost more than she wanted to pay in public.
Later, when the house settled and the candles burned low, Corvus passed her in the corridor. No one else was near. She slowed and looked up. For a heartbeat the ice was gone. He did not ask for a kiss this time. He leaned in and she let him. A smile bloomed on her face as she tilted her head slightly giving him a better angle.
"Persistent," she said quietly, and walked on.
--
A few more soft kisses landed on her lovely lips as the days passed. Elizaveta allowed them the way a queen allows the sun to visit her window. Before she and Grigori departed she asked to speak in private. Corvus tried to steer her toward his chambers. She declined with an elegant tilt of the head. "The duelling room would do," she waited for him to lead the way.
Corvus led her to the desired room with a disappointed look on his face. She asked to see his animagus form. Instead of shifting on the spot he brought the license first. The magical photograph showed a white tiger that blinked once and lifted its head. She studied it, then lifted her gaze. "I prefer proof. Show me your animagus form please." He declined with a small smile. "Not just for the asking but what do I receive in return, Elizaveta?" She touched one finger to the corner of her lips, the same lips he had begun to suspect were a trap laid by the fates. "I will show you mine," was her offer.
That settled it. He shifted. Muscle and bone turned and set. White fur rippled where robes had been. A large tiger stood where the young lord had stood. She stepped close and laid her hand to his neck. He allowed it. Her fingers sank into the thick ruff and moved once, twice. He nudged her lightly with his nose before the third. "Persistent little kitty," she murmured, and shifted.
An Arctic wolf stood before him, pure white with eyes the same glacial blue as the young woman who wore them in daylight. Slighter by nature, quick where he was heavy, she stepped in, pressed her muzzle to his, then bowed her head in acknowledgment. She pressed herself toward his larger frame again. He leaned his head to hers and they breathed together, inhaled each other's scent for a quiet count. They circled once in a slow game that would have been a chase if there had been a field. When they had enough, they shifted back.
The old guard were already moving toward the dining room. They joined them as if they had done nothing more than fetch a book, as if those kisses had never mapped her jawline.
Yule had been a good break for Corvus. He enjoyed it more than he had planned to and he enjoyed Elizaveta more than he liked to admit. Vinda chose to travel with the Volkovs when they left, and Grimmauld Place returned to its usual state, which is to say all Black and all male.
When Corvus returned to Hogwarts the castle felt wide and hollow in the way it always did during the break. He checked the map first. The boy was where he expected him to be.
At eight the faculty gathered for dinner in the Great Hall. With the student body thinned to a few dozen, those who stayed ate at one of the house tables. Corvus noticed the subtle changes in Potter there.
The boy's posture had settled. The book had done its work evidently. Corvus watched him rise and approach.
"Would you prefer Heir Black or Lord Rosier," Potter asked, voice even and correct.
"Either is fine, Heir Potter," Corvus answered. A small shift, but it was a good start.
After dinner Potter asked if Corvus would spare him a little time for some questions. Corvus agreed and informed the boy that he would be in his chambers. By the time Tibby had the tea set ready, the knock came. Corvus told the elf to open the door and bring the boy in. He turned his head toward the glass terrarium and waited.
The lidless green eyes in the terrarium stared toward the door.
Potter stepped inside and paused when he saw Viridith.
--
Dolores Jane Umbridge lived in a cold cell that had learned her name. It soaked the stone, sat in the iron, and settled in her chest like a wet hand. Sometimes she told herself this could not be real. The mind did small kindnesses when it had nothing else to do. Then a Dementor slid past the bars and the kindness ended. Breath went thin. Memories turned brittle and cracked.
Cornelius was in the cell opposite. He had once called her darling in a voice like custard. Now he spent his hours inventing new ways to curse her. He had more imagination than she had credited him with. She did not fault him. He had told her to leave the Blacks alone. She had thought she knew power from behind a desk and a pink quill. She had thought a boy could be managed. She had not met that boy in the right light.
She tried to hold on to what was proper. Senior Undersecretary Dolores Jane Umbridge. A title and a row of plates with cats that purred constantly. Guards had throw in the prohet with the title reading 'Pink Menace'. The headline came lke a slap and curled in the corners of the mind.
She giggled, small and sugary, the way one sweetens tea when it has gone cold. The sound did not travel. It fell at her feet and died there. Really, what could be worse than Azkaban. What could be worse than feeling like an open buffet for things that did not eat food but misery.
A shadow answered. The passage darkened again. The air went stale. Her best memory slipped away like a ribbon pulled out of a child's hair. Kittens on pink paper turned to claws on stone. The teacup fell and broke in the mind, not the hand. She gripped the edge of the cot and waited for the thing to pass.
Across the corridor Cornelius found a new curse and shout it at her as if the words themselves were stones. She almost laughed at that. He could not throw much else. He had tried to lift his weight from the bench when they first brought him and had needed two guards to set him back. Now he shook when the cold came and hated her for being a reason.
She hated others with more care. Amelia Bones with her straight spine and her hard questions. That witch had enjoyed reading the charges, she was sure of it. Malfoy with his silk and his blank eyes, who had slipped out with coin when she had been dragged here. Dumbledore for staying quiet when a word would have helped. The hate kept her warm for a count of ten and then the warmth went away again.
What could be worse shethought again. Cornelius's voice. The press of the sea against the walls. The way hope came in small pieces and left in larger ones. The thought that the Blacks were not finished with her. The thought that they did not need to be.
She closed her eyes and tried to hum the little tune she used when she signed budget memos. It came out thin. The corridor darkened again and the humming stopped.
When the light returned she lay back and stared at the ceiling until the stone blurred. Her cheeks were wet. She had not noticed when that had begun.
She found the giggle again and set it on her tongue like a sweet. What could be worse than this. She found the answer in the chill that followed. Worse than Azkaban was Azkaban with hope. The place ate that first and asked for more.