Potter opened his eyes and drew a slow breath. The parking lot of the zoo sat where Corvus had told him to build it, asphalt bright and empty inside his head. Lanes marked out. Lamps standing guard. A place to notice footsteps that did not belong.
Corvus watched the boy's focus settle. A small nod. He brushed at Potter's surface thoughts with a feather light touch. The boy stiffened, then shifted his attention to the far corner of the lot the way he had been taught. The mental air smoothed. The touch slid off. His Occlumency was coming along. He exhaled and stood.
A folded parchment appeared in Corvus's hand. He set it on the table between them. "A map. I believe, belonging to your father from a time he roamed the corridors of the castle."
Potter's posture lifted a fraction. He kept his voice steady. "May I ask how you came by it, and why you believe it is his?"
Corvus tapped the parchment once. "A very talkative cousin. Sirius has more stories than sense. He and your father ran in a tight group. They called themselves the Marauders. Pranks everywhere they went. They enjoyed the attention. The bill came due for all of them."
Potter leaned in. The parchment stayed blank. Corvus did not hurry. "You should hear the whole of it," he went on. "James Potter liked to hex for sport. Sirius egged him on. Remus kept his hands clean and let it happen. Peter smiled and followed. Severus Snape was a target more often than not. Handled badly, it curdles into something worse. It did."
A flicker crossed the boy's face. Corvus kept to the facts. "There was a day in their fifth year. Snape lost his temper and used some rather harsh words at your mother. He apologized later to no avail. Their friendship, which started way before their Hogwarts years ended anyway. Before that day, even though she had tried to stop him from time to time, she still stood beside your father. That is the shape of it as Sirius tells it. You should hold it with tongs until you hear it from 'other' sources."
Potter stared at the parchment as if it might answer for him. The silence carried his conflict well enough. Pride in the idea of a father who was brave. Dislike for the idea of a father who bullied. Discomfort that his mother chose a side he did not expect. He swallowed once and nodded for the lesson to continue.
Corvus tapped the parchment again. "It opens with a phrase. I will say it once. You will use it until you can whisper it without thinking, then you will remember to close it every time."
He placed a fingertip on the corner. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
Ink spread like frost. Corridors drew themselves. Stairs shifted. Names bloomed and moved with their owners. Potter's breath caught when he saw his own.
"Watch closely," Corvus added. He stepped back and paced once behind his chair. The map marked only a set of quiet footfalls for him, no name at all.
Potter frowned. "Why are you only a footprint?"
"First of all, I confiscated it from the Weasley Twins. They were using it to plan and conduct their 'pranks'. As for why my name is not there, because I prefer privacy to spectacle." Corvus answered. "The map uses a web of tracking and a homonculous charm. I do like my privacy. You will respect that. You will not have me labeled on the map like the other inhabitants of the castle. You will not try to use it to watch staff. Use it to keep yourself safe."
Potter nodded once. His approach to Pranksters was not different from Heir Black. "Understood."
Corvus drew the map closer and showed the seal. "When you are finished, touch the parchment and clear it. 'Mischief managed'. If you forget, you invite problems you cannot afford."
Potter's eyes moved with the ink. Filch patrolled the third floor. A pair of second years lingered in the courtyard. His own dot marked him in Corvus's office. He traced the route back to Gryffindor in his mind and cleared the parchment under Corvus's hand. "Mischief managed." The ink withdrew like a tide.
Potter's eyes lingered on the names below the parchment. "Who might these aliases be Heir Black?"
Corvus smiled faintly. "Prongs was none other than James Potter, Padfoot is my talkative cousin Sirius Black, Moony is your father's friend Remus Lupin, and lastly Wormtail is the traitor who sold your parents to the dark lord named Voldemort."
Corvus let Potter to settle after he saw the spark in his eyes after naming Pettigrew. It seems Potter was not living under a rock and already learned the truth from the Prophet. He wondered if he should let Potter go for a round on the rat.
"Good," Corvus said. He slid the map across. "Two rules. First, remember what we discussed about Snape. If his manner feels sharp, it is partly old history. It is not about you unless you make it about you. Second, the map is a tool, not a toy. Treat it that way."
Potter tucked the parchment away with care. The zoo lot rose in his mind on habit. Corvus brushed him again with a faint probe. The boy caught it this time at once, eyes narrowing, focus shifting to the far lamps. The probe slipped and died.
A corner of Corvus's mouth moved. "Better." He set a potion within reach. "Drink. Then we test again."
Potter drank. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, remembered himself, and reached for the napkin instead. Corvus nodded slightly. It will take time, but he will make an upstanding heir out of Potter.
His gaze flicked to the empty tabletop and back to Corvus. "Thank you for the map."
"Earn it," Corvus replied. He tipped two fingers toward the boy's eyes. "Feel for the brush. Keep your lot lit. If anyone pushes harder than I just did, you close your eyes and think of something only you know. Make them spend time to find you."
Potter shut his eyes. The lamps in the lot burned white. Footsteps could not cross the line without being seen. He felt the next touch and turned it aside. A breath left him on control, not relief.
Corvus checked the time. "Enough for tonight. Return tomorrow. We will start second year potions."
Potter stood. He glanced at the snake in the terrarium, then at the man who kept it. "Good night, Heir Black. Thank you for your time." He hesitated as if to add more, thought better of it, and left with his shoulders square.
--
Bellatrix opened her eyes to quiet and warmth. No wet stone. No iron stink. No cold that pressed through bone into the seat of thought. The silence startled her more than chains ever had. She lay still and waited for the familiar rampage in her skull, the other voice that laughed and clawed and dragged her to heel.
Nothing came. A faint pressure lingered, weak as a guttering candle. She drew a breath that did not taste of mold and rot and exhaled slowly, only then realizing she had held it.
Memory tried to sort itself. Scrimgeour's face swam up from the fog. Keys. Cuffs. A corridor without Dementors. Her eyelids fluttered again. The ceiling above her was clean plaster. Soft fabric brushed her wrists. Not rags. A proper sleeping robe, laundered and warm.
She swung her legs over the cot and nearly toppled. Hunger had pared her to wire and splinters. Hands braced on her knees, she waited for the room to steady. The door opened on a measured hinge.
A witch in healer greens paused just inside the threshold and gave Bellatrix the mercy of a moment to notice her. A clipboard floated to her side and settled. The witch stepped forward with clear eyes and an unhurried voice.
"I am Thalassa Penrose, Healer from the Janus Thickey Ward at St Mungo's. You are in a DMLE holding cell prepared for treatment and safety, Miss Black."
"Lestrange," slipped out by habit, the reflex of a leash.
A small shake of the healer's head. "Black. The contract was nullified. Heir Black met with Rodolphus Lestrange. The parchment is canceled and recorded."
Shock tried to throw her upright. Her knees failed again and the healer's hand found her elbow before she fell. Breath burned up her throat. Tears came hot and unbidden. She blinked them away and pressed her palm flat to the blanket, anchoring herself in the simple fact of a bed that did not freeze.
"If you wish, I will explain your condition," Healer Penrose went on, voice even, hands calm. "A second construct has occupied your mind. The stressors were layered. Contract magic. Coercion. Repeated trauma. You walled off a portion of the self and named it survival. We are unwinding that wall. Healer Oswin Thornevale and I are isolating memories that trigger the construct, then severing the cords that tie those memories to fear and compulsion. The memories will remain as a distant nightmare. The bindings will not."
Bellatrix watched the healer's face as one might watch a wand tip. The words filtered through. A corner of her mind, long starved, tried to stretch.
"We are also treating the body," Penrose continued. "Nutrient potions. Bone restoratives. Calming draughts measured to hours, not days. Dreamless sleep when ordered and only then. When you are steady on your feet, a regimen of work to rebuild what Azkaban took. Stairs. Breathing. Balance. No wands. No stimulants. You will be monitored."
A nod answered before she could stop it. The other presence flickered again and guttered. Relief broke over her in a wave so sudden she laughed once, sharp and raw.
"Your questions," Penrose prompted, as if they had both agreed there would be time for them now.
"House Black," formed on the tongue. "Who remains. My sisters."
"The Minister is Arcturus Black," came in the same steady cadence. "He is well. Heir Corvus Black holds also the lordship of Rosier. Your cousin Sirius Black has been cleared by wizengamot and I highly suspect under a strict regimen similar to yours. As to your sisters, Narcissa Malfoy and Andromeda Tonks are the names I know of, nothing more. I have no further information on their households."
The names struck with the old barbs. A spineless blond came to mind, all lacquer and preen. She remembered Lucius and his lickspittle mannerism to gain the favor of that monster. As for Andy, a muggleborn surname sat in her mouth like ash. Her lip curled before she mastered it. That battle could wait. The room was warm. The cot cradled bone instead of bruising it. The air did not shiver with the press of Dementors and that feeling was serene and realxing.
Free. The word felt reckless. She tried it again in thought and did not shatter. Free and alive. Safe, for the moment, behind Ministry wards.
"Good," Penrose marked, reading the change in her breath more than any expression. "We will begin with broth. Then a restorative. Then a walk, three lengths, hand to the rail. When you tire, you sit. When you are confused, you breathe. You are not alone in this."
A thin laugh rose and died. Not alone. The other half had always been a crowd of one. She closed her eyes and found that dark corner where the truer self had crouched for years. The door there was no longer barred. She imagined stepping through and the image held.
"Miss Black," the healer added, gathering the hovering clipboard, "there will be visits when you are stable. I can only say you are safe here. For now, you rest. You mend. We will do the work together."
Fingers tightened in the blanket. The old fear tried one last time to coil. Rodolphus's commanding voice had lived in her marrow. Now it sounded thin, as if shouted across a field.
"Broth first," Penrose repeated, moving to the tray at the corner of the cell with a professional grace. "Then the draught. Then we walk."
Bellatrix nodded again. The spoon kissed the rim of the bowl. Steam touched her face. She lifted it with both hands and swallowed something that was not despair. The healer watched without crowding. A breath came easier. Another followed. Somewhere past the warded door the world kept its noise. Inside the room, someone was getting reborn from her ashes.