--A/N
Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. May your days be filled with cheer, your tables with plenty, and your hearts with peace. Here's to cosy firesides, good company, and the joy of the season. Cheers to a splendid year ahead.
--
Alarms tolled once. Entry and exit became impossible. Arcturus stood at the dais while the four apprehended were carried out to the Healers. He lifted his wand. A neat stack of fresh parchment split into a hundred, each sheet gliding to a desk or rail.
"Read," he said. "Mark what you would add. This oath binds service to the realm and forbids treachery to the realm on behalf of Muggles or their states."
The parchment bore tight clauses:
I shall not disclose knowledge of magic, magicals, places, practices, or craft to any Muggle or Muggle authority, whether kin or stranger.
I shall not convey maps, names, records, devices, or proofs by writ, voice, memory, or any art to any Muggle power.
I bind my magic to these terms. Breach shall forfeit wand, office, and freedom.
A ripple came from the progressive benches. "This reads as a net for Muggleborn," one lord muttered.
Greengrass did not bother to lower his voice. "Then it fits. The betrayers were not pureblood," he said. "As usual, Progressives are the first to hunt for an excuse to protect their betrayers."
A "Hear, hear" rolled from the centre and right.
Lord Travers rose. "Make it simple. Every child who enters Hogwarts signs. No signatures. No admittance."
"Seconded," came from Corvus and was echoed by the others.
Arcturus inclined his head. "Motion to extend the oath to all entrants of Hogwarts and its staff."
Tallies flared above the chamber. A sea of green. "Carried," Arcturus said. "Mark your names."
The oath sealed with a faint prickle along every palm. Messengers fanned out. Within minutes, Aurors were walking the floors of each department with copies in hand.
"Sign," an Auror told a file clerk outside Portkey Control.
"I decline," the man said.
He was stunned and in irons before the word died.
An hour later, seven sat in DMLE cells. Three witches. Four wizards. All clerks and runners. All Muggleborn. They were brought up two by two. No one asked for consent to Veritaserum. Refusal of the oath stripped that courtesy.
"Name," Amelia said. "Department. Reason for refusal."
"I cannot perform my duties if I sign," the first said. His pupils widened as the clear drops touched his tongue.
"Describe your duties."
"To carry information from the Ministry."
"What information?"
"Schedules. Names. Floor plans. Roster changes."
"How was it delivered?"
"Dead drops by the river."
Healers stepped in, three of them. They raised their wands and whispered 'Legilimens' and slipped behind eyes. The room turned quiet, save for the slow buzz of charms. The first pair began to scream. Muffling charms dropped like lids. Sweat ran. Knuckles whitened.
"Two streams," the senior Healer said at last. "One to Muggle soldiery. We saw uniforms, tents, range flags, and field codes. One in the civil service. Corridors we do not know. They were near the Thames."
Arcturus watched them for a long breath. His gaze lifted. It found Corvus and held. Norway had been a test. It was now a pattern.
He raised his voice. "Effective now. Each Muggleborn child will be removed from the Muggle world at identification. Family memories will be erased. The child's memories will be set in order where needed. Blood adoption rituals will start for those below the age of two, and for those older than two, the Ministry will open an orphanage and will reeducate them about delicate subjects. At Hogwarts age, each will choose a single life. Muggle or magical. There is no grey. We are under threat of extinction."
He cast the vote before anyone could ride the silence. Wands lifted. No red showed.
"Carried," Arcturus said. "The seven go to the Department of Mysteries for full extraction."
The prisoners were taken. The doors whispered shut.
Amelia rose with a folder stamped AZKABAN. "Urgent reports," she said. "High Security inmates are dying under a Decay curse. Rot while living. It spreads cell to cell. Their screams are faltering the Guards."
Longbottom looked from the folder to Arcturus. His jaw worked once. "I will not sit this in the chair, Minister. My house cannot be neutral where those men are concerned. I ask that we recess this point and elect a Chief Warlock."
Nominations came fast. Selwyn stood, tall and pale, with a dry, flat voice. "I will serve if called." Greengrass offered brief support. The lights turned on. Tallies climbed. Selwyn took the chair with a clear majority.
"We resume," he said. His eyes went to Corvus.
Corvus gave a single slow shake of the head.
Selwyn turned back to Bones. "Director, assign steadier men. The Ministry will not be bent by the death of murderers. Continue containment."
It landed hard. A former Death Eater had drawn the line and left the rest to rot. The message was clear and would travel before the end of the day.
"Next matter," Selwyn said.
Bones opened a green folder. "Bellatrix Black." She spoke the name, and a silence descended over the chamber. Many eyes went to Frank Longbottom. "Marriage contract herewith annulled by fraud and potion work. Consent void. The husband acknowledged his crimes and signed a full confession under oath and fine." She laid both parchments on the clerk's table. "The DMLE confirms the compulsion. Miss Black has been under Healer care."
"Bring her," Selwyn said.
Bellatrix entered on sure feet. The raven hair was tamed. Her robe was black and formal. Colour had returned to her cheeks. She sat. The chains coiled around her wrists and lay there light and ready.
"Will you answer under Veritaserum?" Bones asked.
"Yes," Bellatrix said. Her voice did not tremble.
"State your name and place of birth."
"Bellatrix Black. Born in London."
"Did you enter the service of the wizard known as You Know Who of your own free will?"
"No."
"Were you in mastery of your mind and will when crimes were done in that name?"
"No."
Bones lifted the vial with the antidote. The chains slid away. Selwyn stood.
"The vote," he said.
The counters turned. Green filled the arch.
"Bellatrix Black is freed from taint in law," Selwyn declared. "Rights restored. Titles and properties to be heard in due session."
Bellatrix rose. She inclined her head to the chair, then to Arcturus. She did not look at the benches that had whispered.
"Next," Selwyn said.
Bones set down a red folder. "The will of James and Lily Potter. To be opened and read."
The chamber drew a breath and settled. Quills stilled. Eyes turned to the clerk's desk. The seals on the folder glowed.
--
Gareth Glenross capped his pen, slid the finished folio into a heavy brown pouch, and pressed a signet into the wax. The room smelled of stale tea and damp paper. An electric heater clicked and failed to warm his bones. He smiled anyway. Another month, another ledger of rot.
Let those pureblood inbreds preen under their candles, he thought. Her Majesty will have the measure of them. One of the clerks would take it to the drop by Charing Cross. From there, the chain ran clean. They had redundancy; more so, they had reach.
Keeping two Muggleborn clerks in the Ministry of Magic had been his idea. Bribery had opened the first door. Removing the senior clerk later had kept it quiet. No wand could trace a bullet to the head in a flat on the Embankment. No one in their marble corridors suspected a thing.
He flicked through his carbon copies. Bad news bled through every page. A Black as Minister. Not any Black, Arcturus, the one whose name still ran through Grindelwald's files like a stain. Three more Blacks were circling him now. The one he underlined most was Corvus. A young prodigy. Archaic bloodlines wrapped in fresh skin. He did not need to meet the boy to know the type. Wizards were museum pieces that had learned to walk. They should be observed, catalogued and controlled.
He sealed a second pouch and leaned back. A cheap desk fan ticked. "Doomed," he murmured, amused by the word. The wizarding world was a medieval cul de sac grafted onto a modern state. He would be the herald of its end.
What Glenross did not and could not know was that Her Majesty never relied on one stream. Another line had been spun years ago out of her Royal Guards.
-
The captain of the Royal Guards sat in a kitchen in Croydon, boots polished to a mirror, cap on his knee. A young lieutenant stood behind him, hands tight on the chair back. On the table sat a Hogwarts letter, already accepted. The lieutenant's son had gone up last week.
The captain's voice stayed low and dry. "You have seen them. The power they hold over us. He put a report on the table, a report about Paris and a 'curse' named 'Fiendfyre.' You know the truth now. They are not quaint. They are not harmless. They operate outside oversight. We need eyes there. We need loyalty here."
The boy's mother held her cup with both hands. "You want him to spy on his school?"
"I want him to report," the captain answered. "Movements, names, habits and news. Nothing reckless. You will be protected. The Crown takes care of its own."
The visits multiplied in the years to come. Parents, aunties, grandfathers. Quiet talks in terraces and barracks. A few Muggleborn students wrote weekly summaries after their first term. They learned how to hide their reports in their letters, which terms to write down and which to hide in codes. Some of them found other Muggleborns and pulled them in. The work felt easy and clean.
It was not. It was a breach.
The breach ran headlong into law. Since the late seventeenth century, crowns and ICW had lived under mutual accords that mirrored the 1692 International Statute of Secrecy. No crown would pry into wizard affairs. No wizard government would meddle in crown business. Everyone knows what happens when either side cheats: wars follow, wars would follow.
Then the dragnet closed.
Arcturus had ordered audits. The DMLE moved floor by floor, parchment by parchment. Aurors took names at desks, in lifts, at tea carts. The new nondisclosure contract went up on clipboards. Refuse, and you were led to cells. Accept, and you signed in neat ink and walked back to your chair under new rules.
Glenross's junior clerk stared at the table and lied poorly. "I cannot do my duties if I sign it."
"Describe your duties," the mind healer said, their gaze locked.
"Carry information from the Ministry." Her jaw clenched. The rest were blocked by oaths. Legilimency slipped along the surface and then found seams. Grey corridors. River light on glass. In another mind, they found Military slang. The healer set his quill down and nodded to the Aurors.
Across the building, the same picture formed. Two threads. One ran through barracks, uniforms, and the Guards. The other ran through civilian offices by the Thames. Both violated accords that had kept the two worlds from burning each other since muskets and pikes.
-
The countermeasures passed at noon took effect immediately. While the Wizengamot was reading the Potter Will, teams from Records and DMLE pulled school admissions from the last ten decades. Visits began as soon as a list was completed. Some doors opened at once. Some needed keys. Memory specialists explained the choices in plain words at kitchen tables and in tidy sitting rooms.
There would be no double life. Not in Britain. Not in any country where the Acolytes could pull rope.
It was a hard policy. It was also a clean one. The Norway model moved from brief to practice in a day.
Reports crossed Glenross's desk that night anyway. He read them with a tight smile, unaware.
-
The last clerk in DMLE custody lifted her chin and gave her answer one more time. "For the record, I serve my country."
The healer met her eyes and answered in kind. "By betraying mine."
The accords held, this time, because one side finally refused to pretend the old lines could bend forever. It was sad work. It was for the greater good.