Arcturus let the outer office empty itself in slow, polite waves. Clerks withdrew. Aurors posted at the far end of the corridor. The door sealed with a soft click and a line of silver light settled in the jambs. The fire burned low in the grate. On the inner wall, the portrait screens were shuttered.
Ignatia Travers stood already within, hands folded, chin high. Neat robes. Law braid on her cuff. A faint scent of ink and lilac. Her wand rested on the blotter, tip turned toward herself.
"Your answer," Arcturus asked, eyes on the oath text that lay between them.
She drew a breath, touched the parchment with two fingers, and spoke the words. Ten years beyond his term. Silence on all matters that crossed this desk. Duty to the man, not the office. The magic bit and cooled. A thin line of white wound once around her wrist and sank under the skin.
Corvus watched her face for tells. No flicker. No glassy blankness where a block might sit. He moved his sight over her memories the way a jeweller checks a gem for hairline faults. Clean. A brisk mind. Memory Mapping was showing its value.
"Welcome, Miss Travers." Arcturus closed the folder and slid it to her. "Send in our first petitioners. One at a time. No names to the lobby."
She inclined her head and ghosted out. The door clicked again.
Lord Avery came first. Pale, neat, and sweating at the temples. He bowed to the Minister, then to Corvus, slower than the first bow by a hair.
"State your need." Toned Arcturus.
Avery licked his lip. "I seek relief from encumbrances set by past associations." His eyes did not drift to the left forearm. He kept them on the Minister. Sensible.
"Relief costs," Arcturus replied. He nodded to Corvus.
Corvus set a small iron bowl on the table and tipped three drops of clear potion into it. The room smelled of frost and mint. "An Unbreakable Oath first. Then terms. You will not speak of this meeting. You will neither aid nor shelter the man who styled himself the Dark Lord. You will vote with the Minister's slate for the next twelve sessions."
Avery hesitated only long enough for pride to twitch. He offered his hand. Arcturus bound the oath. Silver cords burned and went out.
"Price," Corvus said. He kept his tone almost friendly. "Your ports. The muggle facing ones. The manifests. The names on the night shifts. I will route certain shipments through your lines. You will ensure no one looks too closely."
Avery swallowed. "For how long."
"Two years. We will review at Beltane of the third."
Another tiny twitch. Then a nod. Corvus slipped a parchment across. Avery signed. Arcturus touched the parchment with the tip of his wand and the ink dried.
"Arm," Arcturus said.
Avery bared it. The mark stared back, dull and old. Corvus leaned in, hissed three short phrases that tasted of copper on his tongue. The serpent writhed once, then flattened, then faded as if leached by moonlight. Skin smoothed.
Avery stared. Relief shook him. He tried to hide it and failed. He bowed again, deeper. Ignatia opened the door and he fled as if the room had thinned the air.
Lord Nott followed. Thinner. Greyer at the edges. He smelled faintly of stale ash. He did not look at Corvus at all.
"You traded land to shorten your stay," Arcturus noted. "You will trade something else to shorten your shame."
Nott's mouth pulled. "I have little left."
"You have lists," Corvus answered. He kept his voice mild. "Old safe houses. Old caches. Old passwords that still open doors in Prague and Lyon. You have cousins in customs who stamp the wrong crates, names and routes. I want them to work for me, additionally you will vote as the Minister asks for the next twelve sessions."
Nott sank an inch. Then he nodded once. Arcturus bound the oath. The cords bit and faded. Nott wrote in a tight, angry hand, line after line. Corvus read as he wrote. Useful names bloomed on the page. When the list ended, the arm came next. Three phrases. A hiss like wet coal. The mark died. Nott's thank was insincere at best, yet Corvus only smiled as after the promised sessions his house might not hold to that seat anymore. He left with the walk of a man who had been taller once.
Lord Yaxley came third. Broad. Careful. The kind of careful that counts exits and fists and the angle of a wand on a desk.
"You sat on two committees that concern the sea trade," Arcturus said, voice flat. "You will sit them still. You will send their schedules to this office. You will second motions as directed for one year's worth of sessions."
Yaxley weighed the room. "In return?"
Corvus tapped the bowl. "In return the stain that marks you as cattle goes. In return you will deed your manor in France to me."
Yaxley took longer than the others. He signed with a hand that did not tremble. The oath bound. The mark died. He flexed his fingers, stared at the pale skin like a man seeing his wrist for the first time, and left without a wasted word.
Lord Travers entered last. He greeted Ignatia with a glance that flicked from niece to secretary and back. Then he bowed to Arcturus with smooth grace. Corvus watched the play of family on his face and filed it.
"You come of your own will," Arcturus observed.
"I come because the weather has turned," Travers replied. Soft voice. Very careful. "I intend to be dry when the rain stops."
Corvus smiled with no warmth. "Then you will bring a coat. The parcel that kisses the northern wall of Black Manor. Deed and seal."
Travers lifted a brow. "That ground is old."
"And better tended in Black hands."
A long breath followed by a shorter one. "Consider us in accord, with two conditions." He lifted two fingers. "One. My niece serves this office without fear of sudden change. Two. Any inquiry into my house's conduct will route through me before it reaches the press. Skeeter is a menace upon this realm. A menace that sings your praises more often then not."
"The first you already secured with her oath," Arcturus said. "The second I can grant in part. You will receive notice. You will not receive veto."
Travers considered. Then he inclined his head. The oath bound. The parchment changed hands. Corvus removed the mark with the same clean, efficient hiss. Travers watched the skin clear and did not look away. He left with his spine straight and a smile on his face. Corvus used Memory Mapping on each and every one of these so called lords.
The door shut. Silence returned. Ink and lilac again. The fire moved on a low log.
Arcturus reached into the locked drawer and brought out a thick roll of parchment tied in green silk. He weighed it once in his palm, as if feeling the stone behind the words.
"For you."
Corvus took it and unrolled the top inch. Wax. The Lestrange seal. The neat hand of a Ministry registrar. Wiltshire. Fields. A river line. The manor itself.
One brow rose. "I did not expect it so soon."
"There are benefits to being the Minister," Arcturus answered, mouth quirking. "There are greater benefits to being a Black. We do not wait for other men to remember their duty."
Corvus let the paper roll itself up and slid the deed into his inner pocket. The weight sat well there. He stood. "I will be at Hogwarts by supper."
Arcturus nodded once. "Mind your pace. You are becoming the storm these men watch."
Corvus smiled at that, brief and bright. "Then let them bring better boats."
He set his palm to the door. The silver warding line went cool under his skin. Outside, the corridor hummed with the quiet of a Ministry that pretended to know nothing. Ignatia glanced up from her desk and nodded respectfully. He returned the nod and was gone, the deed warm against his ribs and the afternoon waiting to be used.
--
Days passed at Hogwarts in their usual rhythm. Potter was coming along well. Corvus noticed the boy's new friendship with the Longbottom heir and approved it.
On Friday, when their lesson under the guise of detention ended, Potter stood and said he felt ready to face the hand behind the note with compulsion. Corvus agreed with a faint smile and lent him the cloak. Potter donned it and slipped out.
Corvus let the door swing shut and watched the ink lines gather. The map breathed the castle in thin strokes. Footprints drifted like dust. One set crossed a staircase, sure and quick. Potter.
He tapped a corner and felt the hush of a ward trip. A fresh signature flared from the fifth floor, glided to the fourth, then stilled in an unused hall. Albus Dumbledore. The old man moved like a habit. Corvus settled back, one finger tapping the margin.
Tibby set a fresh cup on the desk. Corvus did not look up. On the map, Potter's prints paused outside the door, then slid in. The second set followed at a polite distance and stopped behind him. Corvus wondered if the boy would still feel safe with the old bastard at his back if he knew his orientation.
Dust motes hung in a pale beam. An old sheet slumped over a tall shape. Potter lifted a corner and pulled. The cloth fell in a soft rush and settled at his feet.
The mirror took the light and threw it back wrong. Along the frame the carving ran in reversed letters, tight and cramped: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. Potter mouthed the phrase once, brow creased, then looked into the glass.
A man in black robes stood straighter than the real one. His hair lay combed, his shoulders squared. A ring glinted on the right hand. Behind him a desk of dark wood. To one side a woman waited with her face turned to light and no features to hold it.
The door hinges did not speak. Still, Potter's neck prickled. Warm breath touched the air behind him, and a voice came soft and pleased.
"Ah. I see you have found what many others have."
He turned and his gaze clashed with the headmaster. A brush of cold tickled the rim of his thoughts. He bowed his head and turned again to the mirror, gaze fixed on the frame.
"The Mirror of Erised," Dumbledore went on, the words gentle, the steps quiet. "Most unusual. Tell me, my boy, have you worked out its purpose?"
"It shows desires," Potter answered, not moving his eyes from the gilt leaf.
"Not desires," the voice corrected, closer now. "The deepest and most desperate desire of our hearts."
"Tell me what you see," Dumbledore offered, as if giving a sweet. "I may help you make sense of it."
Potter let a beat pass. Two. He let his shoulders hitch like he was caught by a prefect.
"Girls," he murmured. "Loads of them. All over. I think I am supposed to laugh?"
A small silence. The chuckle that followed was too careful by half.
"At your age, very natural."
"What about you, Professor?" Potter tilted his head, still looking at the frame. "What do you see?"
The old man's shoes did not move. The air behind Potter drew in and let out slowly.
"I see myself," Dumbledore said at last, with a thin weight in it, "holding a pair of thick, woolen socks."
Potter made a soft sound, almost a laugh, almost a cough.
"Oh. I did not notice your gold troubles were that bad after the ministry made you pay for Sirius Black. I can lend you galleons if you need, Professor."
The warmth in the room slipped. Behind him, the smile changed shape.
"That is kind," Dumbledore said, mild again by force. "But unnecessary. The mirror will be moved. It does not do to dwell on dreams. You will not come looking for it again."
"I will not," Potter said, and meant it. He tugged the sheet back over the glass, smoothed a fold with one quick sweep, and stepped away.
On the map, two sets of prints parted like threads cut by a knife. One drifted toward the moving staircase and went down. The other held a while longer, then slid off toward the Headmaster's tower. Corvus closed the map. Tea had gone cold.
In the corridor, the castle's breath was steady. Potter took five steps, then six, then pressed his back to the stone. He kept his eyes on the floor. He lifted the cloak and wrapped it across his arm like a shawl, then walked on, quiet and quick.
Back in the room, Dumbledore looked at the shrouded shape and saw himself, not with socks, but with his family. Ariana especially was mouthing 'I forgive you.' The admission had been a trick he had long practiced. It tasted stale on his tongue. He rubbed his thumb against his palm and felt nothing change.
Corvus set the map aside and let the quiet sit. The boy had somehow passed the night's challenge. The old bastard had pressed where he always pressed.
Down on the fourth floor, the mirror waited in the dark. The sheet rustled once as the room breathed. A whisper of chalk lifted from the flagstones and settled again.
In Corvus's chambers, the candles hummed low. Tibby returned with a fresh pot. Corvus let the steam gather. The map lay open to a blank grid. He traced one corner of the parchment with a nail and considered the next move. The Headmaster would shift the mirror by morning. Good. The bait had been tasted. The hook held.
Footsteps passed under his window. Filch and Mrs Norris prowled, the old dance of the school. Corvus shut the map and slid it into the drawer. He would get the cloak from the boy at breakfast and set the next lesson.