Vinda did not raise her voice. That made it worse.
She stood at the edge of her ruined doorway and looked down the stairs as if they had personally offended her. The third floor corridor still smelled faintly of burned stone and hot metal, the sort of smell that stayed in the back of the throat even after the flames were gone.
Corvus kept his hands behind his back. He held his posture in place, neat and still, like he could iron the last hour out of existence by refusing to move.
Vinda tapped the broken threshold with the tip of her wand. The splintered frame gave a soft crack under the touch.
"I will say this one more time," Vinda started. She took one step into the corridor and let her gaze settle on him. "You are important."
"Not because you can bend a Conclave to your will.
"Not because you have masteries.
"Not because you keep both worlds moving while everyone else pants behind you.
"Because you are my heir. Because you matter." She paused. "And because you broke my castle, you are going to fix it. Start with my door. Then the stairs. Then you work outward. I want the wards to be clean when you are done. Not patched, not hidden. Clean."
Her eyes flicked down to his hands.
Corvus inclined his head. "Understood, Headmistress."
"Aunt," she corrected, then let the word hang. She did not soften.
Corvus took a breath through his nose. It tasted like dust and old charmwork.
He stepped to the doorway and drew his wand.
The first repair was not a grand sweep. It was a careful removal. He stripped the damaged wood out in thin layers, easing it free from the masonry without cracking the stone around it. The old wards clung to the splinters like cobwebs, stubborn and offended.
He peeled them; it would have been faster to burn them away. He did not.
Vinda watched from the side, arms folded, like a judge who had already reached a verdict but wanted to see if the accused could at least walk in a straight line.
Corvus rebuilt the frame with oak Tibby brought from ...somewhere, then transfigured the grain until it matched the rest. He set the hinges, aligned them by a hair, then sank runes into the wood with his wand. The runes sank and vanished, leaving the door plain to the eye and heavy to the hand.
Vinda moved to the stairs without a word.
The stairwell had taken the worst of it. The locking wards Vinda had used on his chambers had drawn power through the castle like a siphon. His answer had cut that line. The backlash had ripped a seam through the third floor ward lattice and all the way up to her office.
He traced the seam with his sight; he hated the position he put himself in.
Two hours later, the third floor sat quiet again. The air held no alarm hum. The wards lay flat and layered, like clean sheets.
Corvus leaned his shoulder against the wall for a moment, eyes half shut.
He had not lost control of Fiendfyre. He had lost control of himself.
That bothered him more.
He had written and read enough about the Dark Arts to know the lies people told themselves. Dark Arts were not rage. Rage was sloppy. Dark Arts were a discipline. Detachment. A mind that did not flinch.
He had flinched.
He rolled the thought around, then set it down like a stone.
A year earlier, he would have called it a small thing and moved on. Now he could see the pattern. Small things became habits. Habits became a stance. A stance became a man.
He exhaled, straightened, and went back to work until the last hairline crack in the stair stone vanished.
Vinda did not praise him when he finished. She only nodded once.
That was enough.
-
Days passed with the sort of calm that meant everyone was too busy to panic properly.
The Nest ran on layers of wardwork and routine. Druids drifted through the corridors. House elves moved faster than thought, carrying trays, linens and sealed vials.
In the lab, time did the strange thing it always did under a Temporal ward.
Outside, the air barely changed.
Inside, the week bent.
Corvus stood at the edge of the Temporal bubble and watched the work as if he were staring through thick glass at another world.
Wilmut was hunched over a bank of instruments, eyes bloodshot, hair refusing to sit down. Campbell moved between stations with a clipped pace and a jaw set hard enough to grind stone.
Rookwood waited beside Corvus, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes stayed on the bubble. He did not fidget.
"One to twenty," Rookwood murmured as he watched the frantic movement inside the wards.
Corvus nodded once. An hour out was twenty in.
He stepped into the bubble.
Heat and pressure wrapped around him, subtle but immediate. The air smelled of antiseptic, warm metal, and old parchment. A druid in green and bone beads crossed the room with a bowl of water that shimmered with wards.
Wilmut looked up at Corvus like he had been waiting for him and resented that fact.
"The first batch of births happened," Wilmut started. He did not bother with a greeting. He never did, not when his mind was on the work.
Corvus walked to the nearest station. Ten pods sat in a row, each warded and marked, each with a web of runes and wire around it. The pods pulsed, faint and steady.
"Numbers," Corvus said.
"Thirty five zygotes," Campbell answered from the next table. Twenty eight live births. Seven failures."
Wilmut's hands shook once, then steadied. "The seven did not last for even a couple of hours. Some had organ failures we could see. Some did not make sense at all."
Corvus watched a tiny chest rise and fall under a thin charm field. The infant was small, red faced, loud in the way new life always was. It kicked, then settled when an elf brushed its cheek with a soft cloth.
"This one," Corvus said, pointing.
"Healthy," Campbell answered.
"And the other the twenty eight." Corvus moved along the row.
Wilmut followed him, voice lower now. "They are stable. We are watching everything. The patterns. The growth. The blood."
Corvus glanced at the druid carrying the shimmering water.
"No wards are bleeding into them," Corvus said.
The druid did not take offence. He only shook his head once.
"The channels are clean, and the arrays are checked twice." The druid answered.
Corvus kept walking.
He reached the far side, where a separate space had been carved out by stone and wards. A curtain of runes stood there like a door made of light.
"The other births," Corvus said, and kept his voice flat.
Wilmut's gaze flicked to the rune curtain, then away. "Those are also holding. The mothers are stable. We are taking every measurement we can without stressing them."
Corvus did not ask for names. These were the witches sent by Sigibert and Grigori. They were serving a better purpose now. One way or another, they were decaying in prisons. At least now they were decaying for a cause.
"Second and third batches," Corvus said.
Campbell pulled a folder from a tray and slid it across. "Second batch is wizard fathers and Muggle mothers. The third batch is magical parents, but you insisted on the cross bloodlines. Pureblood mothers, Muggleborn fathers."
Corvus opened the folder and scanned it.
"Good," he said.
Wilmut's eyes tightened. "Good is not the word I would use."
Corvus met his gaze.
"Then make sure the results are what we need," Corvus answered.
Wilmut held the look for a beat, then let out a breath.
"It is working," Wilmut said. "And it is terrifying."
"Yes," Corvus answered. "Keep going. Find why seven failed. Fix it."
Wilmut gave a short nod and returned to his station. "I need medical Magicals."
Corvus nodded silently. The healers of the Alliance will do. After heavy contracts, of course.
He stepped back toward the bubble edge. He stopped once, watched an elf cradle a newborn with a gentleness that made the whole project feel less like a machine.
He forced himself to hold that image.
War was coming. He could feel it in the way the Bloc moved. He could see it in the numbers and the maps. He could hear it in the quiet gaps between reports.
If he failed to build a future before the war arrived, there would be no future to argue about.
He especially stayed away from the newborns. He was not sure if he could be stone hearthed as he is now if he would feel the warmth of even one of them. "For the greater good," he murmured and returned to read the reports about the failed seven.
-
Tibby arrived like a small explosion.
The elf popped out near the lab doorway, then bounced on the spot as if the floor were hot.
Rookwood watched for a moment, head tilted.
Tibby pointed at the bubble with both hands. "Master. Master inside. Tibby needs to talk."
Rookwood kept his voice calm. "He will come out when he is done."
Tibby shook his head so hard his ears flapped. "Dark Vinda calls. Urgent urgent."
Rookwood frowned. "Why twice?"
"Because Dark Vinda says urgent," Tibby answered, like it was obvious.
Rookwood closed his eyes for a heartbeat.
He entered the time bubble without hurry and walked straight to Corvus.
"Headmistress Rosier is calling for you," Rookwood said. "The elf claims it is urgent. Twice."
Corvus looked up from the chart he had been reading.
He stepped out of the bubble and let the time pressure peel off his skin.
"Fine," Corvus said. "Take over. If anything shifts, send for me."
Rookwood nodded once.
Corvus left.
Vinda's office looked whole again. He had done the repairs too well.
Vinda rose the moment he entered. She left her desk and moved around it, then tapped the chair opposite hers.
Corvus sat.
Vinda poured the tea herself. That was always a sign.
"It has been ten days," Vinda said. Her tone was light. Her eyes were not. "You are missed."
Corvus accepted the cup with a small nod. It smelled of mint and something sharp underneath.
"I was busy," Corvus answered.
"I know," Vinda replied. "I also know you are using busy as a wall."
Corvus took a sip.
"First births happened," Corvus said. He kept it simple. "Thirty five. Twenty eight healthy. Seven died within hours. Wilmut is working on the causes."
Vinda did not react as most people would. No shock, no hand to mouth. Only a slow blink.
"Second and third batches are already in motion," Corvus added.
"And you," Vinda said, voice quiet now. "Are you sleeping?"
Corvus held her gaze.
"I'm sleeping enough, Aunt Vinda," he answered.
Vinda did not look convinced.
She waited until their cups were empty, then reached to her desk and pulled an envelope. The parchment was thick. The seal was old.
She slid it towards Corvus.
"This arrived today," Vinda said. "I suspect you will not be in England for the next month."
Corvus did not touch it at first. He stared at the seal. Even sealed, it carried a weight.
He finally took the envelope, turned it once in his fingers, then glanced up.
"Flamel," Corvus said.
Vinda's mouth curved, sharp and pleased.
"Nicolas Flamel," Vinda confirmed.
Corvus broke the seal. The wax gave with a soft snap. He unfolded the letter and read the first line. The room went quiet around him.
Even the castle seemed to hold its breath.
The wax seal carried a simple mark, a hand and a flame within a circle, pressed hard enough to leave a shallow ridge on the paper. Vinda had placed it between them like a chess piece.
Inside, a blue ribbon lay folded with care. Alongside it, a letter, written in a narrow hand.
He unfolded the parchment and read.
To Corvus Black,
A promise given is a promise kept.
You did not make your agreement with Albus Dumbledore; he was the mediator, and I accepted the proposal. The state of the mediator does not change the state of the pact.
You will have your month.
I expect you to arrive as soon as you receive this letter. Do not dress it as courtesy, do not delay it as logistics.
The Portkey is the blue ribbon enclosed. The activation phrase is Alchemy.
Bring only your daily necessities. If you believe you require more than that, you have already misunderstood the nature of this month.
Nicolas Flamel
Corvus refolded the letter and set it on the desk. The ribbon vanished into his pocket, flat against his thigh.
He slid the parchment toward Vinda.
Vinda took the letter, read it without expression. Her eyes lifted again. Corvus rose first.
"I need to see my grandfather. Then I need to brief the Nest."
"I will have you tested upon your return."
Corvus waited.
"Keep in mind that there is no committee for Dark Arts Masters," Vinda continued. "No polite panel of elders, no parchment to stamp. If you want that mastery, you will have to convince me of your mastery."
Corvus gave a small nod.
Vinda's mouth tightened.
"Your last tantrum was a glaring failure."
He kept his eyes on hers.
Vinda leaned forward a fraction. The room felt colder for it.
"Do not forget, Corvus. Dark Arts is control. No emotion, no drifting instinct, no indulgence. You will not excuse yourself with power. You will not hide behind results."
Corvus breathed out through his nose, slowly.
"You will be representing Rosier and Black lines when you are with Flamel."
He almost smiled at that. Almost.
"Make us proud."
The last words landed like a command and a warning at once.
Vinda turned away from him and returned to her work, quill already in hand. The dismissal was clean.
He stepped to the centre of the office where the grate sat, and he threw a pinch of powder. The green fire swallowed him.
Arcturus's office held more wards than furniture. Even the windows had a weight to them.
Arcturus looked up from a stack of files and stopped as soon as Corvus stepped out of the hearth.
His grandfather's eyes flicked to the soot on Corvus's sleeve, then to Corvus's face.
"You have that look."
Corvus closed the distance to the desk and placed Flamel's letter in front of him.
Arcturus did not touch it at first. He read the name at the bottom and let out a short breath that might have been a laugh if he had less pride.
"The Immortal Alchemist kept his word."
"It seems so," Corvus answered and took the seat across the desk.
Arcturus finally took the parchment, scanned it, and pushed it back. "Flamel does not write to be ignored. If he wants you now, he wants you now."
Corvus nodded, showing his understanding.
Arcturus's gaze sharpened. "And you will remember what you are."
"Heir to House Black."
"And Lord of House Rosier. You can add the title you snatched from the ferret." Arcturus added, his face was serious, his tone, on the other hand, was amused. After so many months, he was still enjoying the control they had on the Malfoy seat.
Then, because he could not help himself, he added, "Try not to insult the old man. He is older than most insults."
Corvus's expression softened for a heartbeat. "No promises."
"That is the correct answer," Arcturus replied, dry as old bone.
Corvus turned and left without another word.
The Nest greeted him with its usual contradiction. Silence, then noise. Cold stone, then warm air from the time chambers. Clean scents of sterilised cloth mixed with the copper bite of blood samples.
Rookwood met him at the corridor's bend, already holding a clipboard that had never existed in the Department of Mysteries.
"Heir Black."
Corvus walked beside him. "Status."
Rookwood did not waste breath. "The second Temporal array is stable. We are keeping the same ratio of one to twenty. The infants remain viable. There are no new deaths."
They reached the bubble. The air shimmered at its edge, a thin line that made Corvus's skin prickle when he stepped through.
Inside, the world moved faster. Voices overlapped. Footsteps came sharply. A clock on the wall ticked like a weapon.
Wilmut looked up from a row of glass cradles, eyes red from strain, jaw set as if sleep were a personal insult.
Corvus did not soften his voice. "You are leaving the lab for six hours. Now."
Wilmut's stare held. "We have a window."
Corvus leaned in slightly, close enough that the scientist could see he meant it. "If you collapse, your window closes. Rookwood will carry you out if you make this difficult."
Wilmut's nostrils flared. His hands trembled, just a little, from exhaustion he refused to name.
Campbell stepped in, a hand on Wilmut's shoulder. "Ian. Go. You can not continue like that. You will burn or break."
Wilmut's jaw worked. Then he gave a curt nod and walked away without looking back.
Corvus watched him go. The man had ambition, yes, and pride, plenty of it. Underneath, there was something else now. Awe, sharpened into obsession.
Corvus turned to Campbell. "I will be absent for one month."
Campbell's eyes flicked to the bubble wall. She understood the unspoken arithmetic.
"One month outside," Campbell said.
"Is twenty inside the array. I hope I'll return to see many toddlers, Dr Campbell."
Corvus continued. "You will follow the schedule. No improvisation, no ego contests. If you require a decision, you ask Rookwood. If Rookwood cannot decide, you will wait for my return."
Campbell did not like that, yet she still nodded.
Back outside the array, time slowed again, like a hand releasing a throat.
Corvus returned to his study in the Nest and wrote until his fingers cramped. Instructions. Contingencies. The kind of notes that stopped projects from drifting into disaster.
Then he wrote a second letter to Elizaveta.
Romance was not his strong suit, hence he kept it to a minimum. He explained his schedule with Flamel and the fact that he would be off the board for a month. He added a single line at the end that he would like see her upon his return.
Umbra waited on the perch by the window, feathers black as spilt ink, eyes too intelligent to be comfortable.
Corvus tied the letter to the bird's leg with a practised motion.
"Take this to Arcturus," Corvus muttered. "If he delays, remind him."
Umbra clicked his beak once, then launched into the air.
Corvus packed without ceremony. Spare robes. Personal necessities and the Philosopher's Stone. Everything slid into the mokeskin pouch.
He checked his pocket. The ribbon was still there, cool and smooth.
War crept closer in quiet ways. Not with banners or speeches. Just work that had to be done before the first clean strike landed.
Corvus lifted the ribbon into his hand.
The blue looked almost gentle. He closed his fingers around it.
"Alchemy."